APIBAGS Chapter 63

"Nothing's been decided yet. There's also Marchioness Toten—"

"The Crown Prince's birthday is two days away. Do you think Lady Toten will be in contact by then?"

Raphaela had apparently never been on the receiving end of someone going dark. Let a senior offer a word of wisdom, Raphaela: whether it's a lover or a group project, someone who's gone dark never surfaces again. That's the whole point of going dark.

"Or there's my mother. If the other party is a duke, even Bishop Marik wouldn't be able to do anything."

"Didn't you say you'd cut ties?"

"No! That's just talk—she actually worries about me enormously. I'll grab her by the trouser leg and beg her to serve as Lady Evangeline's chaperone!"

Raphaela called out in a rush. He's worried about me being in danger? He does have a certain loyalty, after all. I was a little moved, actually.

"And it seems like surveillance has been placed."

What? That wasn't in the letter. Could it be that the rumors have them tailing me? But I never leave the house—how are they planning to surveil me?

At those words, Jelly, who had been picking grapes and eating them at the back of the room, replied with his usual indifference.

"Oh, that creep who kept lurking around near the house? Already dealt with him."

Dealt with? Jelly—you were patrolling behind my back this whole time, playing dark hero? And here I'd been scolding you every day just for lazing around!

"You shouldn't have handled it! Now that the eye they planted near the estate has disappeared, they're going to find it even more suspicious!"

That does seem to have been a mistake. Apparently it was worth scolding him for. Raphaela, not knowing who was speaking, snapped in irritation—then belatedly turned to look at Jelly with a sour expression.

"My lady…. Come to think of it, who is this person?"

Are they meeting for the first time?

"Me? I'm Jelly."

"I was asking Lady Evangeline?"

A quiet standoff followed. Oh no—has he realized that with Daisy at stake, they're rivals in love? Since what Daisy likes right now is Raphaela, I should take Raphaela's side too.

"Jelly is…. my dog?"

Oh no. I'd been explaining what kind of relationship Jelly and I had, trying to keep it as disconnected from Daisy as possible, and without meaning to I just said "dog." This is going to get me side-eyed again for discriminating against beastfolk.

"Ah, I mean—someone I use like a dog. My trusted hand."

I added quickly. Though isn't that exactly what an exploitative employer would say? Raphaela was knocking on his own ear repeatedly, as if he'd heard something that couldn't possibly be real. I know, I know. I'm sorry.

Meanwhile, Jelly, despite being called a dog, didn't seem to have any complaints—he was wagging his tail—demurely, unbothered.

What? Was that my imagination? He's in human form right now. I must have seen wrong.

No. It wasn't my imagination. A tail had sprouted from Jelly. And ears too, apparently. The ears on top of Jelly's head were perked up, and before I knew it my hand had twitched. It hadn't been my imagination earlier either. But you hide them so well normally—why are they coming out now?

Fortunately Raphaela was still hitting his own ear and seemed not to have noticed yet. Put those away! Right now! I pestered him with eye contact alone, and Jelly tucked the ears and tail back in.

"What were you doing?"

“Ah. This? Come now, Master—you adore things like this.”

"Since when do I like that sort of thing?"

What is this one going on about? Why would I like that?

"Well. That's why you always spoil Flau—Pudding more than me, isn't it?"

Oh. It wasn't about my preferences—he just meant I spoil animals more. I see. This one's burning with competitive spirit against Pudding, which is why he keeps calling me his master. But what kind of comparison is that? Pudding is still young. Obviously I have to look after him more.

I was about to say something mature about that when Raphaela stared at Jelly with an expression that didn't know where to begin. Had he seen Jelly's ears and tail? Raphaela spoke to Jelly in a voice considerably softer than before.

"Um, excuse me—"

"Are you talking to me?"

"If there's ever any undue pressure placed on you—please do report it."

"What?"

What on earth! Undue pressure? Now he thinks I'm some kind of perverted-beastfolk-slave-collector? As if I needed one more line added to the mountain of rumors already out there. How do I explain this? I don't particularly like beastfolk? No! That's even more suspicious! Like I'm trying to hide my own preferences, which makes it come across as even more twisted!

Jelly looked equally baffled before soon dissolving into laughter.

"Hey, you're genuinely funny. You're actually telling me to report my master right now?"

Don't call me master! You've never once called me that in your life, and now you choose this moment—right when suspicion is about to blow up in my face!

"If I filed a report, who exactly is going to come arrest her?"

Jelly chuckled and kept picking grapes. In between he tried to show off, tossing some to Pudding to catch. Our dignified Pudding, of course, caught the grape and fired it back at Jelly's face with full force.

Jelly had been hit in the face with fruit by a cat and was somehow still laughing about it. How does that look like someone suffering under exploitative labor? To my eyes, he looked like a jobless layabout who'd somehow lucked into a very good patron. I glared at him with some grievance, and Raphaela avoided my gaze.

"Ha, ha, ha. Of course, it was a joke. You know that, right?"

No, I actually don't. Right now I'd offered to watch over his love life with Daisy, and he's calling me an exploitative employer? I glared, and Raphaela scrambled to gather his things.

"In that case, I'll go find my mother just in case."

He was attempting to flee. Where do you think you're going?

"Don't bother."

"Pardon?"

Common sense: what good is an emergency plea going to do?

Even if I were in that position—if an estranged son showed up after years of cutting worldly ties, barged in on the head of her temple after years away, and started whining that his love interest needed a chaperone—I'd be so affronted I'd kick him out the door—boot him right in the backside. The duke is unfortunate, but let's give up on her.

"Is Bishop Marik the sort of person who readily steps forward as a chaperone for a young lady she doesn't know?"

"No. She's kind, but she draws clear lines. She wouldn't agree to a request like that."

Someone like that stepping forward would only be because she finds me extremely suspicious. The rumors about Evangeline are so alarming that no one would ever believe she was a civilian—finding it plausible that something demonic had taken up residence was entirely reasonable.

"If Marchioness Toten doesn't come, I'll accept Bishop Marik's offer."

"But Bishop Marik is dangerous—"

"The more desperately I refuse, the more suspicious I'll look."

In any genre, when someone runs, the type of character who suspects something will chase. The more you hide and dodge, the more suspicious they find it and the more they stick to you.

They'll dig into every corner, calling you a nuisance, going after you relentlessly—that's their habit. I'd stake every hair on my head that Bishop Marik will do exactly the same. So rather than running, a direct approach would be better.

More than anything, I'm not who I used to be. Those days when I was so bad at performing that I kept getting caught as a possessor everywhere I went are over. It's not like I've only been learning etiquette and dance this whole time. Allow me to introduce: the new Evangeline—perfected through Dolly's careful instruction and the memories of Evangeline that Daisy drilled into me!

Now I'm confident I could fool even Count Rohanson himself. For whatever reason, the count has suddenly invited me to lunch on the day of the banquet—I'll use that as a test. Speaking of which, isn't it standard to fast on a banquet day? How inconsiderate. Though I suppose that's why he was indifferent enough to let his daughter become a villainess, possessed or not—he's still just leaving her abandoned.

"Please, just let Marchioness Toten come…"

This little wretch— Raphaela is apparently dissatisfied with me regardless. Or perhaps Bishop Marik is simply someone to be truly afraid of. She's not actually going to come at me with a sacred branch of the World Tree like an exorcism, right? That would be a bit frightening.

I'd tried to respond with composure, but watching Raphaela's face, I found myself simply hoping Marchioness Toten would come too. Though it does feel shameless to summon someone away from a sick child. In that case, I should have just told Raphaela to use this opportunity to reconcile with his estranged mother. Raphaela's eyes had now gone soft, even a little dewy, as he looked at me.

"With no word yet, I suppose she isn't coming?"

Mischief welled up in me, suddenly.

"Shall we make a bet?"

"Pardon?"

Sure enough, Raphaela narrowed his brows as if he'd heard something absurd.

"I'll bet on Marchioness Toten coming."

Raphaela looked puzzled. I'd been convinced she wouldn't come, and now I was betting the other way.

"Don't you think she won't? The child is said to be ill."

"Well. Circumstances might change."

Tch. This is why amateurs lose. You have to know about reverse betting. That's the whole pleasure of gambling.

Of course, my real feelings were different. I don't want to get hit with a World Tree branch! Please, please come!

Already five days into the relentless monsoon, and the day of the Crown Prince's birthday banquet had arrived. The sun had vanished from the midday sky, and only the storm clouds blanketing the heavens poured down rain. As night descended, the world grew more overcast still, hidden beneath the shadow of the clouds. The downpour, driving hard as if intent on submerging the earth, beat fiercely against the windows as though trying to get inside.

Kinder Toten checked again that the windows were firmly latched and drew the curtains. The Toten marquessate, which had always carried the fragrance of sunlight, smelled today—of all days—of damp and mildew.

Kinder's eyes were shadowed dark beneath—dusky patches from five nights spent awake without rest. Her eyelids were red—she had been crying again, by the look of it. Having sat beside the bed through the whole day, her back was near to breaking. But then the faint sound of a voice reached her, and the pain ceased to matter.

"Mo—"

"Ryder!" She was at the bed in a single stride, stroking her son's sweat-soaked hair, speaking to him without stopping. "Mama's right here."

The warmth against her hand ran unusually high.

Five days ago, as the monsoon began, Ryder's condition had taken a sharp turn for the worse. Yesterday he had spent the entire day unable to open his eyes, burning with fever—and it was only after a full night had passed that he had barely recovered consciousness now.

Ryder had been prone to illness from birth, but this episode was the worst by far. The servants employed at the marquessate had quietly sourced dark mourning clothes without letting the Marchioness know. In the entire estate, there was only one person who had not yet accepted the child's death.