Perna hastily completed the Crown Prince's routine health check, her stethoscope barely cooled from use, before stuffing her tools into the medical satchel and dashing out of the chamber like a startled deer. The soft clip of her heels faded down the marble corridor—yet, just before turning a corner, she abruptly stopped, turned on her toes, and stole a fleeting glance back.
Joseph, catching her from the corner of his eye, blinked in mild confusion.
"…What was that about?" he muttered to himself. "Did she forget something—or just get a stomachache?"
He shrugged. Life at court was full of oddities.
South Wing of the Palace of Versailles – Office of the Finance Minister
The scent of old parchment and beeswax polish hung in the air of the finance wing, where Archbishop Brian stood behind a walnut desk, his cassock sleeves rolled slightly, the lines around his eyes deeper than usual. He held the latest version of the revised tax reform bill—a significantly thinner stack than the original.
He glanced up at Joseph with puzzled eyes.
"Your Highness… this draft seems remarkably lighter. You've removed quite a few clauses."
Joseph nodded without hesitation. "Yes, I've made some selective adjustments."
The Archbishop's brow creased as he flipped through the pages, scanning the amendments rapidly. He paused halfway through, his expression hardening. "These—these are the very clauses that benefitted the nobility."
"Indeed," Joseph answered calmly.
Brian laid the papers flat and stared at the young man before him, perplexed. "Then… why remove them? Wouldn't cutting those tax privileges only inflame the nobles further?"
Joseph leaned slightly forward, folding his arms over the back of a leather chair. "Archbishop, tell me honestly—do you believe appeasement will convince them to pass the bill?"
Brian exhaled heavily. "…No."
"Exactly," Joseph said with a faint smile. "Then instead of walking on eggshells, let us hand them a red cape."
Brian blinked. "A… red cape?"
"Have you ever watched a bullfight?" Joseph asked with a hint of mischief in his tone.
"I have, once or twice, in Madrid."
"Then you'll know," Joseph continued, "that the matador uses the red cloth to provoke the bull into a charge. It's not cruelty—it's strategy. Because when the bull is blinded by rage, it makes mistakes. And in that moment of frenzy, the matador strikes."
Brian tilted his head, beginning to understand.
"Let them rage," Joseph said, his voice calm but firm. "Let them howl and denounce it in their salons. Because while they fume, we'll be building the public's understanding and support piece by piece."
There was a long silence between them before the Archbishop, old and weary, finally smiled—a small, sad smile, but one of growing admiration. "You play a dangerous game, Your Highness."
Joseph nodded. "Yes. But it's a game we can win."
Brian tapped the edge of the bill thoughtfully, then sighed and said, "Very well. I will present it to the High Court."
He gave Joseph a cautious look. "But please… do not tell anyone these changes were made by you. Once this passes, the nobles will harbor deep resentment. No need to invite that burden on yourself."
"I understand," Joseph replied.
"And if I fail to get this passed before year's end," Brian added with quiet gravity, "I may as well step down. At my age, I've little to lose. If this is my last act as Finance Minister, it should be bold."
"I'm honored by your trust," Joseph said sincerely.
Moments later, back in his private office, Joseph turned to his assistant and began issuing swift, precise orders like a general before battle.
"Contact the major newspapers in Paris. Reserve front-page space for the next several weeks."
"Yes, Your Highness."
"Once the bill is rejected, publish the first article—break down the very first tax clause, explain it in clear, simple terms. Who pays it. Why it matters. Who benefits."
"Yes, sir."
"One article a day. Item by item. Lay it all bare. No jargon, no spin—just truth. Let the public see exactly what the High Court is rejecting."
"And for the editors?"
"Gather a team. I want journalists reporting not only on the bill's text, but also on the drama surrounding it—court debates, noble opposition, financial consequences. Drip it slowly. Keep the fire burning."
The assistant scribbled notes furiously.
"One more thing," Joseph said, pausing, "have our team prepare rebuttals in advance. Anticipate the nobility's talking points and discredit them before they can take hold."
"Understood."
By the time the noon bells rang across Versailles, the first wave of Joseph's strategy had been unleashed. The press was already moving into place, and the High Court had been served its red cape.
Later that afternoon, after a brief lunch with Queen Mary, Eman approached with a bow and a message: Dr. Lamark was requesting an audience.
Joseph made his way to the receiving room, where he found the gray-haired physician pacing back and forth, visibly flustered.
"Dr. Lamark," Joseph said, "has something happened at the pharmaceutical workshop?"
The doctor bowed hastily. "Yes—well, that is, no… not exactly. Your Highness, I came to apologize first."
He wrung his hands. "My daughter… Perna. I heard she may have—may have startled you last night in the kitchen. I sincerely hope you were not offended."
Joseph laughed and waved the concern away. "Dr. Lamark, please rest easy. She didn't offend me in the slightest. In fact, she prepared an excellent midnight meal. You've raised an exceptional daughter."
The older man looked stunned. "Truly? She didn't… dissect anything inappropriate, or speak out of turn?"
"She's passionate, that's all," Joseph replied. "You should be proud. And in fact, if she still wishes to study anatomy, she's welcome to use the Royal Family's laboratory."
Lamark's eyes misted. "Your Highness… such generosity…"
"I'll ensure the guards and staff keep her activities discreet," Joseph added. "Talent like hers shouldn't be wasted."
"I don't know how to thank you," Lamark said, bowing again. "If only the medical association thought like you…"
Joseph then pointed to the bottle Lamark carried. "Now then, what news from the workshop?"
The doctor's eyes lit up again as he handed it over.
"Your Highness, this was produced last night—without intervention from myself or Mr. Laseny. The workers did it entirely on their own. The facility is excellent—originally designed for perfumery, but it's ideal for salicin refinement."
He continued, voice filled with enthusiasm, "I installed a few additional instruments: precision thermometers, condensers, and a filtration basin. The machinery is powered by a water mill—quiet, efficient. With these resources, we can refine salicin consistently and safely."
Joseph opened the vial and examined the fine beige powder with satisfaction.
"How much can you produce daily?"
"At present, about 2,500 grams. Once the workers become more skilled, perhaps twice that."
Joseph nodded, doing the math. "That's more than enough to serve Paris. Maybe even the surrounding provinces."
Lamark smiled. "We've also estimated cost. One pill—0.25 grams—costs about 3 to 4 deniers to make. We'll sell it initially at 5 deniers, then adjust as needed."
Joseph agreed readily. "That's fair. Make it affordable. The goal is health, not profit."
He then added, "I'll need 300 grams of high-purity salicin daily. As refined as possible—minimal impurities."
"For your skincare project?" Lamark asked, eyes twinkling.
Joseph laughed. "Yes. Let's just say I hope the ladies of Versailles are willing to pay generously for smooth skin."
"Understood," Lamark said with a grin. "We'll make sure it's as pure as the crown itself."
And so, as the shadows lengthened across the rooftops of Paris that evening, the furnaces in the Crown Prince's pharmaceutical workshop roared to life, and the first real batch of salicin pills entered production.
It was not merely the start of a medicine.
It was the spark of a new era.
And 400 kilometers away, in the Dutch city of Amsterdam, another thread of Joseph's plan was quietly being woven, as the leader of the Patriot Party received a visitor from France…