Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

In the evening in Mayfair, Eleanor stood in front of the dressing mirror, her hands around Millie's shoulders, tying the old rose-colored ribbon behind her back, their figures swaying in the candlelight.

Given the change in her relationship with Richard, it would be unwise for her to stay in the clothing store on Bond Street any longer, so she took Millie to the place she knew best and was the safest place she knew.

Her private salon.

As long as Mrs. Eleanor remains a person, no one will dare to lay a hand on her here, not even her Prussian colleagues.

"Relax, Millie," Eleanor said, adjusting her dress. "Remember what I told you? Your clothes are your armor, the thicker the silk..."

"...the more secure I feel," Millie's voice was a little hoarse, her hands clasped together in a hushed manner.

Eleanor smiled with satisfaction, her gaze falling on the young face in the mirror, a face slightly furrowed as she tightened the ribbon behind her.

"Look at you," she said. "You're no longer the girl who came out of the weaving workshop. Now, you must learn to look down on them like I did."

Millie reached out and stroked Eleanor's reflection in the mirror: "Is this how you wanted to see me, madam?"

Eleanor's heart skipped a beat. She frowned, gently rested her chin on Millie's shoulder, and her voice came from behind Millie's ear.

"I wish there were another way, darling." She closed her eyes. "But this is the safest place for you that I can think of."

Millie bit her lip, took two deep breaths, and gradually relaxed her shoulders, as if she had regained her courage.

"Madam, could you tell me again who I might encounter?"

Eleanor straightened up, put her hands on Millie's shoulders, and gave her some instructions.

"At a party like this, you'll only encounter three types of people," she said softly. "Arrogant avant-garde artists, boring and haughty young masters, and cunning politicians."

Millie swallowed nervously.

"Those artists are always in a state of extreme narcissism and inferiority. No matter what you say, don't praise their achievements, try to empathize with their pain, and they will consider you a confidant." Eleanor tapped her finger lightly. "They are not dangerous, just noisy."

Millie nodded, and Eleanor continued.

"Those young masters who are born with a silver spoon in their mouths have long lost interest in anything that is readily available." Eleanor smiled slyly. "Give them a sense of privilege now and then, and then politely refuse their requests. They will naturally gather around you because of that inexplicable desire to conquer."

"What about...those politicians?" This was actually Millie's biggest concern.

Eleanor gave a bitter laugh, her eyes dimming.

She turned around and took a pearl necklace from the jewelry box on the dressing table.

Twenty round, lustrous beads shimmered in the candlelight.

She squinted at it, then put it around her neck: "I'll handle those politicians. They won't come near you. I promise."

Millie looked at Eleanor in the mirror. Her raven-black velvet dress shimmered with a dark, emerald-green glow in the candlelight, and the string of pearls lay neatly on her collarbone.

Although wearing black outside of mourning was considered very inappropriate in Britain at the time, such a long dress best highlighted her status as the hostess at a banquet attended by the fashion world's leading figures.

Her lips trembled slightly, as if she wanted to say something, but she didn't speak.

Eleanor gave Millie one last look.

The old rose-colored top-quality Lyon silk gleamed with a marble-like warmth under candlelight, and in an era when cinched waists and puffy skirts were all the rage, she adopted a bold back-flare cut.

All the complicated fabrics and pleats were left behind, allowing the front lines to be simple and smooth, and then the ribbon tied at the waist outlined Millie's slender and graceful waist.

"Let's go." Eleanor picked up the small wristlet. "It's time for us to make our appearance."

Millie didn't move. Suddenly, she turned around and opened her arms to hug Eleanor.

It was a very tight embrace, so tight that the pearl necklace was pressed between their chests, the cool beads against their skin.

Eleanor paused for a moment, then reached out and welcomed Millie into her arms.

She gently patted Millie's back twice, as if comforting a child who had a nightmare.

"What's wrong, darling?" she asked.

Millie didn't say a word, but Eleanor could feel her shoulders trembling slightly, her fingers clutching the velvet fabric on her back.

Eleanor also fell silent. She rested her chin on Millie's head, closed her eyes, and quietly embraced her for a few seconds.

"We have to go." She ruffled Millie's hair.

Millie then released her grip, took a step back, wiped the corner of her eye with the back of her hand, and returned to her proper posture.

So Eleanor turned around and pushed open the door to the dressing room.

On the spiral staircase on the second floor, the two walked one after the other, their skirts swaying gently along the edge of the stairs.

The hall was filled with the scent of expensive lilies and high-end French perfumes. The salon had few furnishings, but every piece was carefully selected.

Several oil paintings hung on the wall, framed in dark wood, with ample space between each painting, making them stand out against the matte black wall.

Several blue and white porcelain vases stood in the corner, their shapes full and their glazes warm and lustrous, while on the other side of the antique shelf sat an open Japanese ukiyo-e folding fan, its indigo waves surging in the candlelight.

The conversation in the hall stopped as Eleanor and Millie descended the last step.

All eyes were drawn to the gentlemen and ladies holding champagne and wine, as well as the artists who pretended not to care but couldn't help but tiptoe.

Eleanor's raven feather black velvet gown shimmered with the rhythm of her walk, the fabric's velvet reflecting different shades of dark under the light.

She didn't deliberately make eye contact with anyone, yet everyone's attention was drawn to her.

The artists whispered their praises of her outfit, calling it an aesthetic miracle.

Millie followed behind her, her posture mirroring hers perfectly. The Bassier cut made her figure resemble a flower slowly blooming, the restrained silhouette highlighting her young and clean face.

The young masters on both sides of the stairs rushed forward, handing their wine glasses to the waiters beside them, extending their hands to her, clearing their throats but unsure what to say.

Millie remained completely calm, her eyes slowly and deliberately scanning the anxious faces.

Eleanor stopped at the top of the stairs, turned aside, and let Millie go first.

She whispered in Millie's ear, "Go, Millie. You're the star of the night."