Later, as she ruffled his damp hair and stepped back to admire her work, she grinned.
"I knew it! You are handsome," she declared proudly.
Michael's face flushed red with embarrassment. Even after insisting he could bathe himself, Shirley hadn't budged an inch. She'd been caring, yes—but also stubborn in a way he didn't quite know how to deal with.
In the end, he'd simply given in.
"I brought some clothes with me, though they might not fit you perfectly," Shirley said with a hint of regret, pulling out a white top adorned with frills and a pair of fancy black pants.
Michael blinked, staring at the garments in disbelief.
Those are girls' clothes…
Having attended plenty of formal dinners as the son of a City Lord, he was no stranger to noble fashion—and he could spot a young lady's wardrobe from a mile away.
"They're… for me?" he asked, resisting the urge to scrunch his face.
Shirley winced. "I'm sorry, Michael. We didn't have time to visit the tailor, so you'll have to make do with some clothes from the young miss's wardrobe."
Though reluctant, Michael could hear the sincerity in her voice. And as much as he disliked the idea, he knew he couldn't show up before the Lord of the house in tattered rags.
"…Fine," he murmured.
"Wonderful!"
With renewed energy, Shirley helped him out of the bath and began drying him off with careful, practiced motions. Her hands moved quickly but gently, and before long she had him dressed in the borrowed outfit.
Then came the brushing of his hair.
Now clean and free of tangles, Michael's blond locks shone under the soft lantern light. But as the brush passed through his hair, and Shirley hummed contentedly, he began to feel increasingly awkward. Being bathed, brushed, and now dressed in girls' clothes—it was all too much.
Once finished, Shirley stepped back and gave him a thorough once-over.
"The pants are a little short, but overall… you look super cute!" she declared, flashing him a playful wink.
Michael's eyebrow twitched.
She could have used literally any other word…
Before he could voice his protest, his stomach let out a loud, rumbling growl.
Shirley's expression faltered. "Oh, goodness me—I completely forgot about dinner!" she exclaimed, leaping to her feet. "Come, the food should be served any minute now!"
Michael lurched forward as she grabbed his hand and whisked him toward the door.
The hallway became a blur. He barely had time to take in his surroundings as they rushed through ornate corridors and past towering archways. Whatever grandeur the mansion held was lost on him in the whirlwind of movement.
Eventually, after several twists and turns, Shirley stopped abruptly. She turned and knelt on one knee to look him in the eye.
"Now listen," she said softly, placing her hands gently on his shoulders. "You need to be on your best behavior, okay? If all goes well, Lord Winterborne might let you stay here… permanently."
Michael blinked.
Stay here permanently? But why would he do something like that for me? He doesn't even know who I am…
Instantly, alarm bells rang in his mind. Nobles didn't offer charity—at least not without expecting something in return. That much, he had learned the hard way.
His gaze sharpened, his instincts flaring.
If his conditions are outrageous, I'll just go back to my original plan—find work in town and sleep on the streets if I have to, he resolved.
Still, despite the red flags, he felt genuine gratitude toward Shirley. Even if everything else turned out to be a lie, her kindness had been real.
"Thank you, Shirley," he said, bowing his head slightly in respect.
Whatever came next, she had treated him like a person—not a burden.
Compared to the cold, sneering maids he'd grown up around, she was in a league of her own.
Shirley smiled warmly, adjusting Michael's collar with a gentle touch before rising to her feet.
"I'll come fetch you after dinner," she said, placing a guiding hand on his back and leading him toward the closed door.
"Remember—be on your best behavior."
With that, she opened the door and stepped through, holding it open for him.
"My Lord, My Lady, Young Miss," she announced with practiced grace, "Young Master Michael Ellis has arrived."
Michael's eyes drifted to the long dining table at the center of the room—far too large for the few who sat there. At the head sat a man who appeared to be in his early thirties. His sleek blue hair was combed neatly to one side, and his face held a refined symmetry, handsome in a cold and commanding way.
To his left sat one of the most beautiful women Michael had ever seen. Her long, wavy blonde hair cascaded down her back, and her soft red lips shimmered in the lantern light. Her piercing blue eyes sparkled like twin sapphires.
Across from her sat a girl about Michael's age. Her blue hair—so like the man's—was tied into elegant braided pigtails, framing her pale face. The combination of her delicate features and immaculate posture gave her a regal, doll-like charm.
"I, Michael Ellis, greet the Lord of the Estate," he said clearly, performing a bow that reflected proper noble etiquette.
Lord Winterborne's eyes widened slightly in surprise, clearly not expecting such formality from a boy who they'd found in rags. He cast a quick, questioning glance at Shirley, but her equally startled expression told him she hadn't expected it either.
The Lord cleared his throat and recovered.
"Michael, it's a pleasure to meet you. Please, take a seat—I'd very much like to hear your story," he said, gesturing to the empty chair beside the young miss.
Michael bowed again in thanks and made his way toward the seat. As he passed, the girl's eyes met his—only for her to roll them with the elegance of practiced disdain before promptly looking away.
A butler stepped forward and pulled out the chair for him. Michael sat down smoothly, then offered a polite nod to the Lady of the house. She smiled at him—faint, but approving.
Lord Winterborne clapped his hands.
"Serve the food. I'm sure our guest is quite hungry."
No sooner had he spoken than the room came to life. Butlers and maids moved with precise coordination, the opposite doors swinging open as servants streamed in, carrying silver platters engraved with intricate designs.
They placed them deftly on the table, revealing an array of lavish dishes: a hearty vegetable stew, roasted pheasants seasoned with herbs, fresh greens drizzled in oil, and loaves of steaming bread accompanied by creamy butter.
The aroma hit Michael immediately—warm, rich, and utterly mouthwatering. His stomach let out a low growl in protest, and he was only saved from embarrassment by the bustle of the room masking the sound.
As the dishes settled before them, the young girl leaned forward and began helping herself to food without waiting. She picked up her knife and fork and started eating, treating those present as if they weren't even there.
Michael raised an eyebrow and cast a quick glance toward the Lord and Lady—but neither of them seemed to mind. Their attention was fixed squarely on him.
"Tell me, Michael," Lord Winterborne said, his cool gaze sharp with curiosity, "what happened for you to be in such a state when we found you?"