APIBAGS Chapter 55

Without the slow pace of a sick child to match, they moved faster.

Ryder, leaning against the butler's shoulder and muffling his coughs with one hand, reached for a conversation topic. He had been taught that offering the person below him something to talk about was part of a superior's role.

"Lady Rohanson... is that what all noble young ladies are like?"

Right now, the freshest topic was the person he had just seen. Lady Rohanson had been genuinely strange. Every strand of hair, every individual lash—worked out to a precision that gave the viewer something close to unease.

That delicacy was comparable to the glass angel ornament in Ryder's room—sculpted in transparent glass. A person made of hardened glass had offered Ryder an elegant greeting.

"Should I become like that too?"

Her posture had been flawless to the angle of her fingertips, each movement seeming deliberate and calculated. Ryder had been deeply impressed by the greeting executed perfectly from the etiquette texts.

"...I wonder."

Lark let the sentence trail.

Having devoted his life to the marquessate and encountered many nobles along the way, he had never met anyone like Evangeline. Precisely because he had encountered so many, he could see at a glance that Evangeline was not normal—but Ryder was different. The boy had no experience meeting or forming bonds with noble children his own age.

Noble families' children typically mixed with their peers from early childhood. Ryder had not been able to.

He might not remember—but when Ryder was even younger, the Marchioness had once invited the children of a countess she frequently associated with. A natural effort to give him friends his own age.

There had been a problem. The countess's children had said to Ryder: the curse is contagious.

Where thoughtless children had heard such a thing was obvious. The Marchioness had scolded them harshly and severed ties with the countess.

What the countess said afterward was something else entirely. Worked up, she had let several things fly that couldn't be unsaid—but the essence was this: she had sent her children to play with a child abandoned by God and cursed, and rather than acknowledging that generosity, how dare anyone get angry.

After that, guests at the marquessate became extremely rare. When Ryder's health deteriorated, visitors were cut off altogether. Evangeline Rohanson was the first guest in three years.

"You don't need to become like that."

He was never going to live long enough to reach Evangeline's age anyway. Lark swallowed the rest.

And yet a sliver of fear had arrived. There was a rumor going around—that Evangeline had also been born with a weak constitution, that her curse of holy water not taking effect was the same kind. And now she was walking around just fine.

If Ryder someday overcame his inborn weakness, would he turn out like Evangeline.

A thoroughly unpleasant thought.

The cursed child knew nothing of what Lark was thinking and kept talking.

"I thought Lady Rohanson was an angel come to collect me because I'd died."

Lark clicked his tongue, internally. Evangeline Rohanson was not something to be compared to anything sacred—and besides, this was the Marchioness's fault for planting bad fantasies in the boy.

An angel. How would a cursed child find rest in God's arms. He was very young, and Lark did feel something for that—but Ryder would find no rest in death, even when it came.

"Were you frightened too, butler?"

"Yes." A pause. "I never want to encounter her again."

Lark felt fear that had gone past mere displeasure—partly, perhaps, because of that one narrow thread of possibility that Ryder might grow up to be like her.

'You do seem to respect Lady Toten very much. Enough to tell someone you've only just met today everything about the marquessate's circumstances—for fear it might affect her.'

When she accused him of making a fool of Lady Toten, his heart had lurched. She had rifled through his dirty mind and seen straight through it. The fear that came flooding in was only natural.

Had she detected something from his few words. Or had she already looked into him. Had the Marchioness noticed his schemes and sent Evangeline to test his intentions.

All manner of imaginings churned through his head.

Wondering whether the Marchioness had truly found out, he had deliberately told resting Ryder that a guest had arrived, forcing the three of them face to face. The Marchioness had not yet seemed to know the truth—but she would soon hear it from Evangeline Rohanson.

And yet, as long as the child existed, the Marchioness would not act recklessly. Lark watched the weakness in his arms breathing in shallow pulls.

'Someone watching might think you were the master of this estate.'

He had never presumed to think any such thing.

Lark's dissatisfaction was simply that evidence of God's abandonment had appeared in the household he loved.

The bright and territory-devoted Marchioness had been spending four years depleting the family fortune in temple offerings for her cursed son, shutting herself away in the capital with the estate left behind.

Lark believed that Rauphos, the late marquis's younger brother, should be the one to carry on the family. Not a child who would soon die. That was the choice that would be far better for the marquessate.

Comparing the marquessate's standing barely ten years ago—when the late marquis had been in his prime—to its standing now told you everything you needed to know.

They arrived at the room while he was still reflecting on Evangeline Rohanson. Lark saw to the boy's bed and moved to leave; a hand caught his hem.

"Butler. I want to hear a lullaby."

The lullaby the Marchioness always sang before bed. On any other night Ryder would never dare to be indulged by the butler—but today seemed unusually exhausting.

"I can't sing it as well as my lady, but if that's all right."

Lark stroked the child's hair and sang a thoroughly ruined lullaby. The old wrinkled hands moved over Ryder's hair as though wanting to absorb every bit of vitality from the boy.

"...Are you asleep?"

The child had drifted off quickly. Lark brought his hand to the boy's nose and felt warm breath against his skin. He withdrew.

The old hand moved from the soft tip of his nose toward the slender neck, and came to rest at the sleeping boy's throat.

The old man had no courage to do it himself. He only wanted God to take the child's life sooner.

"Please die soon." Lark prayed to his merciful God.

Then, careful not to wake the boy, he held his breath and left.

The door closed, hinges twisting in their bodies.

In the silence, the regular breath keeping time with the clock's second hand went wet and irregular.

The child knew very well that the only person in the world who loved him was his mother.

It's been a long time since the Toten estate visit.

The debutante is almost here. I count the days and get three.

What.

Three days, really. Less than I thought. Am I miscounting? When did time go this fast?

Lamenting the time that's rushing past without consulting me, I get word that Gabriel has stopped by Rohanson Manor again—per my own request from before, but he was supposed to come hours ago, and I was deep in the middle of a sweet nap when the news of his belated arrival reached me. I drag myself out to meet him.

How dare he disturb my sweet sleep.

Today's dream was wonderful.

A woman in a white dress, stroking my hair. I can't remember her face—but I have a faint memory of dream-me calling her mother. I finally had a dream like that after so long, and of all the times to be interrupted.

Not that I can blame Gabriel—I was the one who called for him. He's been well looked after by the butler; when I arrive, Gabriel is waiting in the drawing room at his ease. First time he came he was stiff with nerves. A few visits and now he's completely at home.

Look at that. The refreshments are even laid out lavishly. Even my servants, who were initially thrown by the news of a villainess and a holy knight associating, seem fully accustomed to Gabriel's visits by now. Not a flutter.

Gabriel spotted me and rose to his feet.

"I apologize, Lady Rohanson. I'm late."

Late to the appointment, disturbs my sweet sleep, and thinks an apology settles it. Of course it does. A villainess can hardly complain to the exalted male lead of this story.

"Were you busy with work?"

"If I may make an excuse—yes. The Pharalos Knights are also on security detail for His Imperial Highness the Crown Prince's birthday banquet."

He seemed to be making a point of it—that he came despite being this busy. Not that a stiff male lead would actually be hinting at anything with ulterior motives.

Thanks to Dolly's speech lessons, every word in the world now sounds like it has a pointed double meaning and this is a real problem. At this rate I'm going to misread a compliment and get offended. That's the day I become a genuine villainess.

"Did you have a good visit with Lady Toten?"

"Have you not heard from her directly?"

"She hasn't been to the temple since then. I sent a letter just in case, but there's been no reply either."

Given the connection Gabriel has with Lady Toten, I'd assumed she'd have told him already—but apparently she hasn't been to the temple since our visit. I haven't had any contact from her either.

"Did something happen?"

Soft words.

This is effectively an interrogation.

Whoa. Gabriel, are you actually suspicious of me? Surely you can't think I threatened her into staying away from the temple.

The weird rumors must be piling up and the love goggles seem to be slipping. I need to spend today playing nice and reel the fishing grounds back in.

"It seems Master Ryder doesn't have long left."

"The young marquis?"

Might as well be honest. Blindly insisting I did nothing wrong only invites a double-check later.

"Lady Toten asked if there was a way to heal her sick child the way I recovered."

"And what did you tell her?"

"That without offering a life to a demon, it was impossible."

Gabriel knows I'm a possession, so he knows the same method wouldn't work.

"...Is there truly no method?"

But contrary to my expectation, Gabriel asked it with doubt.