But now, he had the exact opposite goal. He needed to be noticed, to be envied. Which meant he couldn’t afford to be careless about it. Today’s incident aside, Eugene felt that he needed a bit more information about high society and thorough etiquette training — if not for the present, then at least for what lay ahead.
Ivan agreed with Eugene’s request. However, bringing in a tutor from outside still posed a problem.
“I’ll do it myself. This is a good opportunity for you to learn how to put on airs, too. From what I saw today, you seem to have a talent for it.”
“Aren’t you too busy with your plan to sell yourself at a high price to a wealthy fiancée?”
Ivan shot back cheekily, and Eugene laughed and gave him a firm poke. Ivan looked after Eugene every day, but that didn’t mean he stayed in the townhouse all day long. He kept himself busy with club activities and socializing with his peers, and would only come to check on Eugene in the afternoons after finishing his own schedule. When Eugene asked with his eyes whether this would really be all right, Ivan stroked his now-bare chin.
“I can’t go anywhere looking like this anyway.”
He wasn’t wrong. The way Ivan looked now, he’d be a laughingstock wherever he went. Perhaps once Lucian had become more active and word had spread through high society to some degree, things might be different.
Either way, it had been something close to forced, so Eugene felt guilty about it. He wasn’t unsympathetic to how Ivan must be feeling. Embarrassed, Eugene deliberately played it off with a brazen air of indifference. It wasn’t as though he could glue the beard back on, and objectively speaking, this genuinely looked much better.
“By any objective standard of beauty, this is a significant improvement.”
“Sure, sure. Of course you’d say that.”
Ivan’s shoulders slumped at Eugene’s firm response. He had pushed ahead and seen things through, but now, belatedly, he found himself worrying about Ivan. Still, there was no other way, and Eugene furrowed his brow.
“You said you’d watch over me.”
“What on earth does my beard and sideburns have to do with your plan?”
“I’m asking you to just watch over me.”
“A hidden card only works when you save it for the right moment. If you play it too freely, it loses its effect.”
Eugene, too, wanted to lay everything out clearly and get it all off his chest. But for now, it couldn’t be helped — as Ivan had said, he had no choice but to keep playing the hidden card so freely until it was no longer a hidden card. For now, what he needed was time. Time for people’s perceptions to shift, starting with Ivan.
The world would change slowly, but Eugene had to change quickly. More precisely — now that his goal was set, he needed to adapt to this world with great speed and thoroughness.
He had no way of knowing when Lucian Highwinter might summon him, so he needed to equip himself with etiquette and common sense as swiftly as possible — enough that he’d manage even without Ivan. Just thinking about it made his heart feel urgent. Eugene lifted himself up from where he’d been leaning against the sofa, straightened his posture, and pressed Ivan.
“When do we start the etiquette lessons?”
“Rest first.”
Ivan waved a hand as if exhausted.
“Eugene, you’re still a patient. Being thorough is fine, but think of your body too. That’s enough for today.”
Eugene’s head was throbbing and he was tired, but sitting still wasn’t in his nature. Park Yujin was the kind of person who, when there was something that needed doing, had to do it right away without delay — otherwise he couldn’t settle. Rather than fretting and worrying anxiously, it was easier for him to just move.
Even as a child, that was the very spirit with which he’d stood before his mother and older sister. And of course, it was that same disposition that had carried him through every hardship he’d faced. The teacher had no desire to teach today, but the student couldn’t exactly force a lesson — so Eugene looked for something else to occupy himself with.
“Then, Ivan. About the artists you sponsored through the bet…”
“Rest. Eugene!”
The moment Eugene opened his mouth, Ivan shook his head in exasperation. But Eugene pressed on undeterred. It wasn’t as though it required any strenuous activity.
“Would there be something like a list or a ledger? I didn’t see anything like that in my room. I’d also like to check on the people who sent their regards while I was ill — who should I ask?”
“My dear little sibling, please, let’s just rest for today. Expenditures go to the head butler, and for lists or letters, the gallery.”
“Thank you.”
Eugene thanked Ivan — who, despite acting as though he wouldn’t say a word, had told him everything readily — and got up from his seat. There was something he wanted to check. Just as Eugene turned to make his way toward the gallery, Ivan caught him.
“I told you to rest for now. Don’t go collapsing from dizziness.”
“I’m really fine now.”
“Being eager is all well and good, but if you don’t take care of yourself, I’m sending a letter to Father. I’ll write that you’re a gravely ill patient who needs to be sent back to the Earldom — Social Season, marriage, all of it be damned!”
“Yes, thank you.”
Ivan threatened to send him back to the country house, but Eugene knew he wouldn’t actually do it. Eugene patted Ivan’s shoulder soothingly, as if to reassure him, and turned away briskly. As long as he didn’t pick at the wound on his head, nothing particularly bothered him.
Above all, Eugene felt more alive in his body than he ever had before. It would be a lie to say he wasn’t anxious about what lay ahead — but at the same time, he felt a flutter of excitement.
Leaving Ivan’s nagging behind, Eugene strode forward with purpose. He walked down the corridor that had become familiar to him and stopped in front of the family portrait. Before a painting that had once only drawn his admiration, Eugene paused for a moment and took in the image of the family depicted within it.
Don’t worry.
Whether those words were directed at the Eugene within the portrait, or at Ivan and the rest of the family, or perhaps at Park Yujin himself — the line between them was blurry. Eugene straightened his slightly disheveled clothes and walked past the portrait, coming to a stop in front of the gallery. He had passed by this door a few times before, but this was the first time he’d actually go inside.
All of the Primrose household’s staff had said that Eugene spent entire days in the gallery. It would hold far more traces of Eugene Primrose than the room that had served only for sleeping. He turned the gold handle, and a space as wide as a drawing room or parlor revealed itself.
His first impression, given the sheer size of it, was — this is practically a private art museum, isn’t it?
Having imagined something more like a studio, Eugene quieted his surprise and took a slow, careful look around the gallery.
The gallery was hall-shaped, lined with beautifully arched windows, and carried the feeling of being simultaneously organized and not — all the more so because canvases of various sizes, framed works, sculptures, and books were scattered throughout.
Works large and small were displayed on either side of a marble fireplace that anchored the hall, split evenly to its left and right. Rather than the name “gallery,” it would have suited something more like a secret vault belonging to a black-market antiquities collector.
At the center of the gallery stood a gilded bureau plat, and Eugene strode toward it with the ease of someone who had always belonged there.
The drawer handles gleamed so brightly that Eugene thought, surely these aren’t actually gold? — and opened one carefully. Inside the drawer were sealed letter envelopes alongside several sheets of paper covered densely in writing. Eugene pulled out a chair, settled himself in, and began reading through papers that hadn’t been touched in some time.
Without even needing to call for a butler, the papers listed the names of the many artists Eugene had sponsored over the years. And more than that — small notes on their recent circumstances, gleaned through the letters they’d exchanged, were jotted down as well. For instance, after the name of a sculptor named Benjamin, there was a note reading that he had injured his hand, and to send three extra gold coins to aid his recovery.
Whatever Ivan might have said about his younger sibling’s personality, toward the artists he sponsored, Eugene had been quite a warm patron indeed. Eugene rifled through the ledger and narrowed down a shortlist of painters whose names appeared most frequently. As preparation for winning Lucian over to his side, what Eugene needed right now was someone who could paint in his place.
Park Yujin had little formal education, and as he’d said time and again, he was neither particularly talented nor quick-witted. He had never learned anything professionally, and up until his transformation, had only ever done physical labor.
The only weapon he had was simply this: whatever the situation called for, he would throw himself into it wholeheartedly. He had no pointless pride to stand on. It might look like a life of mere compliance and adaptation — but this was the one and only advantage that had kept Park Yujin alive.
And yet, by that same token, for anything he couldn’t solve on his own, he had to take the long way around. Park Yujin knew his own limits. He knew that no matter how hard he struggled with something beyond his ability, it was no use.
Eugene was not a designer, nor did he know how to make clothes. He was not a professional stylist, nor had he ever formally learned makeup. The modern Park Yujin had gotten where he was through sheer trial and error — countless attempts, stumbling forward — but Eugene Primrose couldn’t afford to do that.
Unlike the ordinary Park Yujin, who had had nothing to lose even if he stumbled, Eugene Primrose had everything to lose, given the weight of his background. Moreover, unlike the modern world — where he could try out countless products on the market, compare them, and find what suited him — what Eugene was trying to do now were things that didn’t yet exist in this world.
He’d been rambling. The point was: Eugene was in a position where he had to present Lucian, this investor, with products that didn’t yet exist in the world, and aggressively pitch himself as someone worth investing in.
What does a modern person prepare for a moment like this? Without a doubt — a presentation. And a presentation, by its very nature, has to look good. Showing one striking concept illustration, one compelling image, communicates far more than dozens of words of explanation.
In short, he needed a portfolio. And as he’d said time and again, Eugene was an ordinary person with no particular talent of his own — which meant that, in modern terms, he needed to outsource.
[Short-term / Help Wanted] The Primrose Household is seeking a concept illustration designer. (Fashion designers especially welcome)
Contact: Primrose Townhouse
Submission method: Carrier pigeon or hand delivery
Required documents: Portfolio / Resume (please be sure to include your name or pen name)
Job description: — Detailed figure illustration work capturing costume design to client specifications (those with an interest in fashion or experience in clothing production especially welcome) — Strong communication skills, with a particular passion for menswear
How much easier it would have been if, like in the modern world, a single post like this could attract quality applicants on its own. Of course, it wasn’t entirely impossible. But Eugene simply didn’t have the time to screen and test applicants one by one. Lucian might invite him to the estate as early as tomorrow.
Fortunately enough, in Eugene Primrose’s hands were the names of already somewhat vetted painters, along with the means to contact them. What’s more, he didn’t even need to collect portfolios separately — works were already organized by artist throughout the gallery. The misunderstood tastes of Eugene Primrose worked perfectly for Park Yujin. The young lord had more progressive taste than he’d expected.
Looking through the letters, some pieces had been purchased separately by Eugene himself, but the majority had been sent by the artists as tokens of gratitude. The sheer number of painters he had sponsored over the years, however, was staggering — so narrowing them down to someone who fit his needs was a task in itself.
