But it wasn't Malery who seized Rommel's immediate attention. No — it was the little girl beside her.
There was something about the girl's presence — subtle, quiet, but unnervingly familiar — that gave Rommel goosebumps, like staring at a shadow from a long-past time.
Malery was the first to speak, her voice smooth and comforting, like a hand laid gently on old wounds.
"Ah, Eris, my dear. How are you feeling today?"
Rommel's patience frayed at the edges. He had endured enough of these little plays, these veiled manipulations. These... uniforms made of lace.
Under his breath, in a sharp, guttural whisper of his native tongue, he muttered, "Alright, SOE agents — do your worst. I'm not falling for your tricks."
Then, forcing a bright, practiced smile, he raised his voice. "Ah, I am doing just fine, thank you, Fräulein!"
Across the room, Nora's hand flew to her face as if the words had slapped her.
German. Here!?
That harsh, clipped cadence — she knew it, hated it. She hadn't heard it since… since another life.
No. No, it couldn't be. Not here.
Her breath hitched. Her fists curled faintly at her sides. Jerry.
The word burned in her mind. The language of her enemy. The last voice she ever wanted to hear.
But she mastered herself quickly, smoothing her features into calm politeness. With a measured curtsy, she spoke.
"Excuse me, Lady Eris," she said softly. "I'm Aunt Malery's assistant. My name is Nora."
Turning to the duke and duchess, she added, with carefully placed innocence, "Would your excellencies allow me to speak with Lady Eris alone? Since we are of similar age, perhaps she will speak more freely with me."
There was a beat of hesitation.
Malery leaned forward, smiling. "Don't worry, your excellencies. She may be new, but she's very capable. Lady Eris will be in good hands."
After a few exchanged glances, the Duke and Duchess nodded. The door clicked shut behind them, their footsteps fading down the hallway.
Now alone, Nora stepped to the center of the room, her gaze locked unflinchingly on Rommel — or whatever had possessed this child's body.
No more courtesies.
"Now," Nora said, her voice tightening, "it's just you and me, Lady Eris. And I have to ask: who are you, Jerry?"
Rommel clenched his teeth, a bitter smile creeping onto his lips. "So. You've dropped the act. Very well — you Inselaffen never had much patience for subtlety."
"Giving your name won't hurt, will it?" Nora replied, her voice sweet and sharp. "Or perhaps you'd rather be addressed as Jerry?"
Rommel narrowed his eyes. "That term again. You people are dangerously committed to this charade."
He folded his arms, trying his best to look imperious despite the pink ribbons on his sleeves.
"Fine. If we're playing games, then call me the Desert Fox. That's all you're getting."
Nora blinked. Her lips parted for half a second — a flicker of disbelief.
"Well, well, well, Herr Erwin Rommel," she said, voice lilting with mock delight. Then, with the daintiness of a velvet guillotine: "Or should I say... Frau Erwin Rommel?"
Rommel's expression turned to granite.
"You dare."
"Oh, I do," Nora said, smiling like a satisfied cat. "It's not every day I meet the Desert Fox in a frilly pink dress."
Rommel's eye twitched. His fingers dug into the fabric — his dress now, damn it — as if he could crush the humiliation out of it.
"Careful, Engländerin," he growled. "You may find this amusing. I do not."
Nora tilted her head, feigning innocence. "Oh? And what will you do about it, Frau Generalfeldmarschall? Lead a charge against my teacup collection?"
A muscle in Rommel's jaw jumped.
He was this close to lunging at her, ribbons be damned, when a sudden realization struck.
"…You're enjoying this," he said, eyes narrowing.
Nora's grin turned razor-sharp. "Just as much as I enjoyed crushing your forces at El Alamein."
The air between them crackled — not with magic, but with the weight of history.
Rommel's small frame went rigid, his eyes burning with cold fury. Trapped in the body of a noble girl. Dressed in finery. Mocked by the ghost of a woman who had once been his greatest adversary.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then Rommel exhaled sharply through his nose, fists slowly unclenching.
"El Alamein," he muttered. "A battle won by logistics, not brilliance. You had the supplies. I had sand and allies more useless than a jammed Panzer gearbox."
Nora arched an eyebrow. "Excuses? How unlike you."
"Observations," he replied coolly. "But tell me — how does a decorated commander of the British Empire end up here, playing nursemaid to a German in a dress?"
Nora's smirk faltered for just a second. Then she recovered.
"War's over, isn't it? Or hadn't you heard?"
Rommel frowned. "What do you mean, over? Egypt was a temporary setback. The Reich still stands strong. Tunisia will be the grave of all your little coalition — your Empire, the Yanks, and the Frenchies."
Nora stared at him, expression unreadable.
Then, very slowly, she walked to a side table, picked up a dainty porcelain teacup decorated with pastel bunnies, and raised it in mock salute.
"To the thousand-year Reich," she said dryly. "May it rest in bloody pieces."