Irene had barely stepped out of Sophia's study, her pink hair still dripping, not even fully toweled off, before she plunged headlong back into her beloved alchemical domain.
For this Chief Inventor, inspiration was like a chick breaking free of its shell — if you didn't catch it the instant it hatched, it would flutter away into the lazy air and be gone forever.
"Everyone, get moving! Stop polishing those useless glass vials!"
Irene shoved open the laboratory door and hollered at the dozen-odd girls bustling inside.
Most of these girls had been personally selected by Sophia from among the territory's people — resilient in character and fanatically devoted to Her Majesty.
Within this female-led hierarchy of precision and power, they formed a singular, vibrant thread in its tapestry.
In their eyes, Irene was not merely the mad genius who regularly blew up the laboratory — she was an extension of Her Majesty's will.
One look at Irene's whirlwind expression was all it took. The girls, who normally looked out for one another with great warmth, immediately set down whatever they were doing.
They knew: whenever Irene got that look in her eyes, it meant another miracle was about to take root in Mason's soil.
"Nora, bring the logbook! Susan, bring the measuring rods! We're heading to the storeroom — Her Majesty has granted us Black Rose access privileges!"
Making an umbrella required exceptional timber — flexible enough to endure repeated opening and closing, yet sturdy enough to withstand a downpour.
Irene led her bright-eyed brigade of assistants along the damp stone path, heading straight into the deeper wing of the Palace.
That was Mason's most vital resource reserve. Before its heavy iron-plated doors stood four fully armed Royal Guard soldiers.
"Restricted storeroom. No entry without authorization."
The soldiers' halberds crossed, flashing a bone-chilling glint through the dim curtain of rain.
Irene didn't waste a breath. Those slender fingers of hers — still dotted with mud — shot into her coat and yanked out a black-gold metal token, its center engraved with a blooming Black Rose in exquisite relief.
The instant that token appeared, the expressions of those soldiers — who had been as cold and still as stone carvings — erupted with startling heat and reverence.
Clack!
All four snapped their halberds back in perfect unison, right fists slamming against their chest plates with a deep, resonant thud.
"Third Squad of the Royal Guards, greetings to the Chief Inventor! Long may the Black Rose endure!"
The lead soldier even stepped forward personally to push open the heavy iron door, his tone brimming with undisguised respect:
"Lord Irene, Her Majesty gave oral instructions long ago: any materials within the storeroom required for your research are yours to claim with priority. What type do you need? Shall we assist with the carrying?"
Watching these iron-blooded soldiers — men who wouldn't necessarily give even Chancellor Valery the time of day — now bowing so humbly before her, Irene felt as though someone had poured a spoonful of the sweetest honey straight into her heart.
She understood perfectly well that this respect was not meant for her — it was meant for the one behind that token.
It was Her Majesty who had given her the right to walk sideways through this palace. It was Her Majesty who had placed the future of this entire territory into her hands.
That feeling of being trusted, of being given a mission — it made her heart pound harder than any alchemical reaction.
Under the adoring gazes of her assistants, Irene held her chin high and strode into the storeroom.
"I want that batch of Flexible Wind Wood — the ones felled from the rear hills and soaked in the special solution."
Irene pointed at the neatly stacked rows of premium timber.
The wood gleamed faintly under the storeroom's lights, every piece curved with near-perfect arc. This material was not only lightweight but exceptionally pliable — the undisputed ideal for crafting umbrella ribs.
Irene ran a rapid mental calculation through the structural load and tension layout of the ribs, then spun around and waved her hand at the assistants:
"Move it! Three days from now, I want this umbrella holding up the entire rainy sky over Mason!"
Come morning, the laboratory at the top of the West Tower was roused by a brisk, rhythmic tapping.
The Flexible Wind Wood, now transported back, lay quietly on the broad worktable. The solution that had been brushed onto its surface had dried, leaving it a matte, dark luster that radiated hidden toughness.
Irene had changed into a trim, short-sleeved work robe. Her pink hair was tied up loosely into two pigtails, with a few wayward strands dangling at the corners of her eyes, swaying gently with each downward movement of her head as she cut.
"Listen up — we're not making some gorgeous piece of art. We're making rain armor that every single person in the territory can actually hold over their head."
Irene pressed a shaved, slender strip of wood down with her left hand and gripped a sharp carving knife with her right, her focus so intense it could have struck sparks.
Her fingertips moved nimbly along the grain, and wood shavings fell like snowflakes.
The rounded Flexible Wind Wood was split with precision into thirty-two umbrella ribs of perfectly identical thickness.
The tip of each rib had to be carved into a tiny rounded arc — to ensure it would never puncture the fragile canopy.
At the one-third mark of each rib, an extremely fine hole was drilled — the critical point for mounting the support linkage rods.
The workshop girls watched Lord Irene like this and exchanged furtive glances, not daring to breathe too loudly.
In their eyes, those ordinary strips of wood seemed to come alive in Irene's hands.
The concept of defying a downpour through nothing but the wood's own natural resilience — without any magic formation whatsoever — was a complete dismantling of traditional alchemy from a higher dimension.
My Lord must be teaching us to return to the fundamental nature of things.
Every stroke of the blade is as precise as if it were measured by a ruler. This isn't making an umbrella — this is rewriting the rules of the world itself!
Crack!
A sharp, clean snapping sound rang out jarringly in the quiet laboratory.
The tension in Irene's small face collapsed instantly. She stared at the prototype umbrella in her hands — half-assembled and already dead, buckled under excessive pressure at the pivot point — and puffed out her cheeks in frustration, then, out of pure habit, rubbed the tip of her nose with her wood-shaving-covered hand, leaving behind a dusty grey smudge.
"Tch. Got greedy."
Irene fixed her gaze on the break point and sank into thought.
"I keep unconsciously designing this thing using the load-bearing structure of a heavy crossbow — but what ordinary person has the arm strength to handle that kind of recoil? Too rigid and the ribs snap. Too flexible and they won't hold open. And this locking joint...the cost is too high. The blacksmiths can't mass-produce it."
Like a tiny madwoman, she seized her pen and scrawled furiously across the drafting paper. Then, suddenly, it came to her — the exact force with which Sophia had flicked her on the forehead earlier.
Yielding within firmness. Flow with the force, don't fight it.
"I've got it! No locking clasp needed — just a mortise groove that uses the wood's own spring-back tension!"
Over the next several hours, a peculiar fragrance began to fill the laboratory.
In pursuit of low-cost production, Irene abandoned those expensive alchemical preservative oils and instead set her sights on some odds and ends of byproduct recently produced in the animal pens.
Coarsely pressed wild mountain walnut oil, mixed with alchemy residue oil that carried no strong odor, blended with a small amount of beeswax.
Then she soaked sheets of thick, tough bark-paper in the warm oil mixture.
The paper, saturated with the fat blend, took on a translucent amber hue. What had once been a slightly rough texture became remarkably fine and smooth — water droplets hitting the surface would roll right off in an instant, leaving not a trace of moisture behind.
Irene looked at that shimmering sheet of oiled paper, and the corners of her mouth finally curled into that signature smile of hers — the one with just a hint of smug satisfaction.
"Susan, hold down the edge of the canopy! Nora, get ready with the securing cord!"
Irene drew a deep breath and began assembly once more.
This time, her movements became extraordinarily delicate — as though she were coaxing a freshly hatched chick.
As the final thread was pulled tight, Irene slowly closed her hand around the smooth wooden handle. Her fingertip found the newly designed mortise groove and gave it a gentle push —
Click!
A crisp, clean, satisfying sound — full of industrial precision.
The amber oiled-paper umbrella burst open in the laboratory. Thirty-two ribs spread wide like the petals of a blooming black flower, stretching the taut canopy into a surface as smooth and flat as a mirror.
The warm, dim lamplight fell across the canopy and cast a soft, honeyed halo.
"It worked!"
Irene bounced three times on the spot, her two pigtails whipping wildly.
"Susan! Quick, bring the watering can! We're doing a live test!"
Water cascaded down. It hit the canopy and burst into glistening droplets, then slid smoothly along the edge and fell away — leaving not a single wet mark on the surface.
"Mwahahaha! We did it!"
Late that night.
The soft patter of spring rain was the only sound outside the window.
By now Sophia had shed her heavy formal robes and changed into a soft ivory silk sleeping gown.
Her silver hair cascaded like a waterfall over her shoulders. In the warm glow of the fireplace, the ruler's characteristic coldness had eased, replaced by a warmth as gentle as moonlight.
"Your Majesty! Your Majesty!! It's done! It's a triumph!"
Accompanied by a frantic clatter of footsteps — like a startled fawn — Irene flung open the door with zero warning.
Willow and Delilah, standing guard at the entrance, hadn't managed to stop her — or rather, they knew Her Majesty would see her regardless, so they simply let her through.
Irene clutched a long, slender cloth package tightly in her hands. Her pink pigtails were slightly disheveled from running, and her sapphire-blue eyes were practically overflowing with starlight.
"Didn't I tell you to go wash up and get some rest?"
Sophia set down her book with a helpless sigh, watching the pink cannonball crash straight into her arms.
Irene hadn't heard a word of the scolding. She plopped herself down on the carpet at Sophia's feet, wrapped both arms around Sophia's knees, and nuzzled against them like a cat begging for scraps, her voice dripping with sweetness:
"Your Majesty, just look! This is Mason's very first Sky Guardian! I finished it and ran straight to show you — I haven't even dried my hair yet."
With that, she unwrapped the cloth package with all the pride of presenting a great treasure, revealing that dark, Flexible-Wind-Wood-scented oiled-paper umbrella.
"So this is that... folding umbrella."
Sophia reached out a fingertip and lightly touched the smooth handle.
It did resemble an umbrella, after a fashion — a rough prototype of an oiled-paper umbrella.
"Hehe, just watch!"
Irene sprang to her feet and pulled Sophia to stand in the center of the study.
She drew a deep breath, fingertip finding the delicate groove, and gave it a gentle push —
Click!
The amber canopy burst open in the warm golden firelight. Thirty-two fine ribs spread like a perfect net, enveloping both girls in a ring of soft, honeyed radiance.
"Isn't it beautiful? Your Majesty, from under this umbrella, your silver hair is literally glowing!"
Irene held the umbrella open and grinned up at Sophia.
Standing so close, the faint scent of walnut oil wafted gently between them.
Perhaps it was the loosening that comes with triumph — but the strange little thoughts Irene had been suppressing suddenly came bubbling up.
"Oh! Right, Your Majesty, I just remembered something!"
Irene suddenly dropped her voice, leaned theatrically close to Sophia's ear, and whispered with exaggerated mystery:
"Back where I come from, there's actually a superstition that's been around for ages."
Sophia glanced down slightly:
"Oh? What superstition?"
"The elders all say — if you open an umbrella indoors, you'll stop growing!"
Irene finished her sentence and stuck her tongue out playfully, eyes curving into crescents with her grin.
The moment those words left her mouth, the warm, cozy study plunged into a silence as deep as death.
At this particular moment, beneath that amber canopy, stood side by side the two cores of Mason's power.
Irene: a sixteen-year-old girl, already on the petite side even among her peers.
Sophia: also a sixteen-year-old girl-ruler still in her growing years — and while her aura measured a towering two-point-eight meters, her actual height... well, standing next to long-legged generals like Delilah, it was fair to say she skewed toward the elegantly compact end of the scale.
Willow, who had been standing quietly to the side and was just about to hand over a hot towel, froze with the motion suspended in mid-air.
Her sharp eyes instinctively compared the two heads beneath the umbrella, then glanced at her own long, willowy frame. The elegant curve at the corner of her mouth began to tremble — violently.
No... Willow, you are Her Majesty's Chief Steward. You have received professional training.
No matter how funny this is, you absolutely cannot laugh out loud — pfft.
Irene, you dense little fool — are you trying to publicly execute Her Majesty's dignity?
'You'll stop growing' — for a sovereign who has to look up at her own subjects every single day, those words are a curse more vicious than a declaration of war from the Orr Empire!
Willow snapped her head sharply toward the window and pretended to be in deep, earnest study of the rainfall outside — but her violently heaving shoulders had already betrayed her completely.
Delilah, standing at the doorway, had turned into something resembling a stone statue struck by lightning.
Those hands of hers — steadied by years of gripping a sword hilt — were now clamped in a death-grip around the ruby-hilted longsword, knuckles bleached white from the sheer force.
Stop... stop growing?
Irene, do you even know what you just said?
Her Majesty works herself to the bone for Mason's Order — she hasn't had time to grow because she's been conserving energy to think about affairs of state!
Gods, I truly cannot laugh.
If I laugh, every last shred of dignity I have as a Royal Guard General will crumble to dust.
But... looking at how stunned Her Majesty looks under that umbrella... it really is... so adorable!
That silent anguish of 'My kingdom is expanding, so why isn't my height?' is practically radiating out of her like Holy Light!
Delilah pressed her head down as low as it would go — and you could actually hear a muffled, thunderous rumbling emanating from inside her chest plate, produced entirely by the effort of holding back laughter.
Sophia was silent for three full seconds. Those pale-gold pupils shifted, ever so slightly, to land on Irene's still-smiling face.
That gaze — cool and clear, carrying just a trace of are you actually serious right now — finally made Irene belatedly realize what she had done.
Irene's smile stiffened instantly. She rotated her neck like a mechanical doll, looked at Sophia beside her, then looked at her own small hand holding the umbrella.
"Ah! No no no! That's not what I — Your Majesty! I misspoke!"
Irene let out a shriek of horror. The oiled-paper umbrella nearly flew straight out of her hand. She immediately pressed her palms together in frantic supplication, her whole body practically collapsing at Sophia's skirts.
"That's just a superstition from back home! It's a lie! They were all talking nonsense! When I'm old I'll talk nonsense too. Your Majesty, you are gallant and magnificently gifted — you'll definitely grow to... to two meters! No wait, two-point-two meters! No no no, I'm the one who won't grow! I, Irene, am willing to freeze at this one-point-five meters for the rest of my life for the sake of Your Majesty's height!"
"This subject has sinned! This subject is putting away this blind, offensive umbrella right now! Please, Your Majesty, don't hang me on the flagpole to dry ahhhh!"
Watching Irene fumble about in absolute panic — unable to even keep a proper grip on the umbrella handle — Sophia's tightly pressed lips finally gave way. A smile broke through: part indulgence, part exasperation.
"Alright, put it away."
Sophia gave Irene a light pat on the head.
"If Mason's prosperity can grow a little taller, it matters not if I come up short by two inches."
"Long live Your Majesty! Your Majesty is the greatest, most magnificent Queen on the entire continent!"
Irene folded the umbrella away in frantic haste and shouted as if she had just been granted a royal pardon.
Willow and Delilah exchanged a glance. And then, on that damp and drizzly night, both of them let out the same sound in unison — a bright, breathy, thoroughly suppressed laugh.
The spring rain, far from letting up, grew denser as the clouds rolled on, weaving into a vast grey net that wrapped the entire Mason Royal City in a moist, hazy stillness.
At the far end of Mason's main thoroughfare stood the Black Rose Flagship Store — personally named by Sophia, the crown jewel of the territory's commerce — its silhouette solemn and grand through the curtain of rain.
Despite the foul weather, the streets on both sides had drawn large crowds of subjects — some huddled under tattered cloaks, some with nothing more than a cold, wet sack over their heads.
They were all waiting. Waiting for the young sovereign who had given them reason to live.
With a clear whinny, a luxury carriage bearing the Black Rose royal crest rolled to a smooth stop at the foot of the stone steps before the flagship store.
Its wheels rolled through a shallow puddle, sending up a neat ring of water.
In that instant, the noisy street fell into an eerie silence. Several thousand pairs of eyes locked onto the carriage's closed door.
It's raining this hard, and the carriage can't drive right into the shop. If that moonlit silver hair gets even a single strand touched by this filthy rain — that would be a failing of every one of us subjects.
They're still sheltering under grass hats, yet Her Majesty is the god of this land. How does she cross this heaven-sent mud without losing an iota of the dignity that belongs only to a sovereign?
The carriage door slowly opened. The first thing to emerge was a hand — wearing a white silk glove, slender and steady.
Then Willow, waiting at the carriage door, reached gracefully into her sleeve and drew out a long, slender object that no one had ever seen before.
It was fashioned entirely from darkwood, its tip wound with golden thread.
Willow gave a slight bow. Her fingertip found the groove on the handle and gave it a light flick —
Click!
That crisp, clean, mechanically satisfying sound pierced miraculously through the heavy drumming of rain and reached every waiting subject's ears.
Before a crowd of pupils shrinking wide with shock, a massive amber flower detonated open right at the carriage door!
It was Irene's all-night masterpiece — the Black Rose Type I Oiled-Paper Umbrella.
Sophia bent and stepped out of the carriage. That silver hair — flowing like moonlight, like a river of stars — stunned the entire street the moment it emerged from shadow.
She stepped onto the damp stone stairs in her custom leather boots, steady and unhurried.
Beneath the shelter of the amber canopy, every gust and every drop seemed to be cut off by an invisible barrier.
Fat raindrops hammering the oil-treated bark-paper did not produce that dull, soaking thud.
Instead, like tiny glistening pearls, they bounced merrily across the translucent canopy surface before gathering along the graceful rib edges into threads of silver, sliding smoothly to the ground.
In the dim rainy light, the special walnut oil coating made the umbrella's canopy above Sophia's head radiate a warm, honeyed glow — bathing her silver hair in a light so sacred it looked untouched by the world.
Gods... what is that?
Is that a sky you can carry with you?
Look — those raindrops, the moment they touch Her Majesty's umbrella, they flee as though in reverence.
Her Majesty can even catch the tears of the heavens!
Standing before a miracle like this, we — huddled here under sacks, cowering beneath eaves — are as insignificant as grubs in the mud.
This is not just a tool for keeping off the rain. This is Her Majesty telling us: as long as the Black Rose blooms, not even this raging spring rain will dare touch a single corner of a Mason subject's clothes!
Walking a half-step behind Sophia, Irene held her own slightly smaller cyan oiled-paper umbrella, and she was so overcome with emotion she nearly cried out loud.
Watching Sophia's back — upright, elegant, not a drop touching her even in a downpour — the pride of being an inventor swelled inside Irene until it burst.
Do you see it?! Do you see it!!
This is my, Irene's, masterpiece!
That mortise groove structure perfectly offsets the wind pressure; that oil blend has turned the rain into rolling gems!
When Her Majesty holds it, it is quite simply the most perfect silhouette in the world.
Magic? Spells? They're pathetically weak compared to a single click of this thing! I am building, with this umbrella, a portable and eternal spring for Her Majesty!
Hailey was at this moment hiding behind a marble pillar of the flagship store, her pen tracing the most devout marks it had ever made across a sheet of parchment.
Spring. Before the Black Rose Flagship Store.
Her Majesty has launched a higher-dimensional strike!
I saw it! That is a cloud you can fold. An amber-colored, never-wilting Black Rose!
Every one of the subjects knelt — because they realized that even in the worst weather, Her Majesty can still bestow upon us this kind of dignified grace.
Watching the rain dance on the umbrella's surface, I know: from this day forward, a rainy day in Mason will no longer be a byword for sickness and wretchedness — but for a kind of elegant art.
Her Majesty's silver hair glowed beneath the umbrella. She glanced back at Sister Irene for just a moment — and in that instant, I felt that even the overcast sky above was ashamed of itself.
Sophia stepped into the flagship store, leaving behind a street full of shattered wonder and blazing reverence.
"Willow, note it down. The first batch of prototypes: performance outstanding."
Sophia turned, pale-gold pupils settling on Irene.
"Since the entire city has now witnessed its miracle — starting tomorrow, I want this 'amber sky' appearing at the doorstep of every Mason household."
"Yes, Your Majesty. Arrangements have already been made."
Willow smiled and said as much from the side.
In the flagship store's spacious hall, a faint trace of cool fir fragrance — left behind by Sophia's entrance — still lingered in the air.
Outside, the rain fell on, tireless and unhurried. But here, every last subject who had crowded to the store entrance — so caught up they hadn't even shaken the rain off their coats — had eyes locked completely on a sleek, amber-colored oblong object resting on the counter.
Hailey was now perched on a specially raised small round stool, chin propped in both hands, watching the proceedings like a little performer waiting for the curtain to rise, taking in the expressions of wonder and curiosity on every face before her.
"Everyone, quiet — quiet! Listen to me!"
Hailey cleared her throat, adopted Her Majesty's usual bearing, tilted her small face upward, and called out in her clear, crisp voice:
"What Her Majesty was holding just now is not some glowing mushroom — it is Mason's latest miracle: the Black Rose Type I Folding Umbrella!"
With practiced efficiency she reached behind her to the shelf and retrieved a demonstration model — a simplified version Irene had rushed to complete overnight.
"Listen — before, when it rained, we had to wear those straw rain capes thick as city walls, heavy as anything, and they'd go moldy and make you sick in no time, right? But now —"
Hailey pressed her fingertip down. Accompanied by that clean, crystalline click, the amber canopy burst open behind the counter.
"Just one light little push, and the sky is blocked! No getting soaked. No freezing cold. And look — tuck it back like this —"
She folded the umbrella back into a neat, slim rod with a deft motion.
"Hang it at your waist or sling it on your back, and it's like carrying a light little walking stick. Wherever you go, Her Majesty's and Lord Irene's protection goes with you!"
Before Hailey's last word had settled, the crowd erupted as though someone had tossed a blazing bomb into it — a rising tide of astonished exclamations crashing over each other.
"To fold all that heavy sky into a single thin stick... what a feat of imagination! Has Her Majesty mastered the Divine Arts of folding space itself?"
"Look at that paper surface — the rain rolls off it smoother than a gold coin. Her Majesty must have seen us drowning like rats in the rain and taken pity on us, bestowing this dignity upon us. This isn't an umbrella — this is Her Majesty's mercy!"
"Look at that structure, that precision interlocking — even more artful than the most complex locks in the Orr Empire. Lord Irene is truly Her Majesty's right hand. Her wisdom must have been guided by the stars themselves!"
"Before, when it rained, all I could do was huddle inside or trudge out to the fields with a sack on my head. But now with this... I feel like what I'm holding isn't an umbrella — it's my pride as a person of Mason. To hell with the straw cape, I want to buy one!"
"Her Majesty can stop ocean waves, and now she's tamed the tears of the heavens. Following that Black Rose, we really will get to live like proper human beings!"
"It's so light! And this thing called a folding umbrella — it looks so beautiful open! My wife will never have to walk out into the rain looking like a drowned cat again. Long live Her Majesty! Long live Lord Irene!"
"Look at the Black Rose pattern carved into the umbrella tip — those must be protective runes. With this, even rainy days in Mason will be filled with the sacred!"
Watching the subjects' faces flush red with excitement — each one of them looking ready to tear their purses open that instant — Hailey's mental abacus was clattering at full speed.
Hehehe, the advertising pitch Her Majesty and Sister Irene taught me really works!
I don't quite understand what 'advertising' means, and I don't really get 'brand premium' either.
But Her Majesty said: as long as I tell them this thing makes them feel dignified and saves them effort, they'll rush at it like chicks spotting a worm.
Watching the reverence in their eyes for Her Majesty — I feel like right now I'm not just a record-keeper. I'm a fully qualified salesgirl.
But... Her Majesty really is incredible. How did she know that the moment I said it like that, everyone would want to buy one?
Up in a private box on the second floor of the flagship store, Sophia was watching the frenzied crowd below through a half-drawn curtain.
"Hailey is performing very well."
Sophia set down the ledger in her hands. A glint of deeper meaning passed through her pale-gold pupils.
Willow gracefully refilled her red tea at her side, that trademark smile at the corner of her lips.
"That is because Your Majesty wrote the script so well. This rain-stroll performance, with little Hailey fanning the flames — the umbrella market of Mason has, from this moment on, already imprinted itself powerfully in every one of their minds."
"This poison called dignity — once the subjects have had a taste of it, they can never go back to that heavy straw-cape era."
Sophia took a light sip of tea, her gaze drifting back to the window.
Amber umbrella silhouettes crisscrossed in the rain outside. They were not merely tools for keeping dry — they were the cultural Great Wall of Mason, which she was building brick by brick.
Just as the crowd was still deep in its stupor of reverence, a slightly awkward question rang out from the front of the crowd.
"Hailey... such a marvel must be extraordinarily expensive, right?"
The speaker was a plain, honest-looking farmer. He instinctively pressed a hand over the flat little coin purse at his waist.
With that one question, the flagship store hall — which had been in a roar a moment ago — fell eerily quiet for half a second. The feverish light in the subjects' eyes was tinged, one by one, with a sober flicker of worry.
Right — this is a treasure made by Her Majesty and Lord Irene working together.
Every coin in their hands was sweat-money, dug out of the earth one shovelful at a time since spring — clearing land and laboring under Her Majesty's program.
In the old days, a finely crafted item like this would have cost a whole family everything they owned just to afford the handle.
Watching the crowd's expressions — each person wanting to step closer, yet unable to stop themselves from taking a small step back — the professional smile on Hailey's face only grew brighter.
Good question! Her Majesty and Sister Irene briefed me on this one too!
Rather than rushing to name a number, she picked up the amber sample umbrella from the counter and began a careful demonstration, as though she were a tiny professor:
"Everyone, don't reach for your purse just yet! Her Majesty says that good things must be usable by every single person in Mason. Look — this Flexible Wind Wood and this oil-paper have both been specially treated. As long as you remember to let it air-dry after use —"
"Don't go using it to fight wild boars. Take good care of it, and don't let mice chew on it. This one umbrella will last you at least three years!"
"Three years?!"
A low gasp rippled through the crowd.
"And furthermore —"
Hailey gave a playful wink and pointed at the overcast sky beyond the window.
"Don't think you can only use it when it rains. Come deep summer, when the sun turns vicious — hold this open and the shade underneath is cooler than sitting beneath an old locust tree! That's what's called one item, two uses. Her Majesty specifically had Sister Irene adjust the oil blend so it blocks the sun's heat too."
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