BPOTWC Chapter 21

A night without even the light of the moon.

At the very rear of the mages' procession heading toward Sheridan's northern wall was an old cargo wagon, cold wind whistling freely through every gap.

Inside it, a boy sat curled up, wedged in among the baggage.

In front of him, a piece of bread, gone hard and stale from days of neglect, rolled about.

Days had passed already since he'd resolved to stop eating.

The boy tried to count how many, his mind still unbearably clear even now, and then gave up the effort.

Just how much more—what more—must be done, before death would come, even to a body grown this monstrous?

The road ahead felt impossibly, endlessly far, even the wind itself seeming too distant to reach him.

He gave the red pebble he'd been holding a limp flick, letting it drop through the narrow window—then bowed his head deep between his knees.

A week or so had passed since Clarisse's first dinner with the Duke and Duchess, and only about five days remained of the year.

Of course, the turning of the year meant nothing in particular would change for Clarisse.

What she had to do remained exactly the same.

Grow up healthy and splendid.

Toward that end, Clarisse had done morning calisthenics with Sir Benson that day.

Stretching her arms and legs out, again and again, was said to help one grow taller, so Clarisse threw herself into it, earnest to the bone.

She wanted to grow tall.

If she did, she'd be able to reach things on high shelves all by herself, and wouldn't have to trouble anyone else.

After her exercises, she studied arithmetic with the book Rosalie had brought her.

There was no tutor, but the kindly book explained everything so clearly that she could follow along without much difficulty at all. It was quite fun.

And after lunch, she received word that His Grace wished to see her, and made her way to his office.

Rosalie knocked in her place to announce Clarisse's arrival.

Clarisse clasped her two hands together, feeling somehow nervous.

'What could I have done wrong...'

Being summoned to someone's office like this had happened many times before, back in the Kingdom of Grezekaia.

Always when she'd done something wrong.

Failing to greet someone properly, or disturbing the garden stones without permission, or getting on her brother's nerves...

"Come in."

At the Duke's loud voice, she flinched, startled—and just then, Rosalie opened the door for her.

Clarisse kept her head bowed low and walked forward with somewhat stiff steps to stand before the Duke's desk.

"H-hello, Your Grace."

"Have you been well, Clarisse?"

"Yes, thanks to Your Grace's kindness, I studied... arithmetic today too. I worked very hard."

Clarisse quietly clasped her trembling hands together.

How strange, that was. Being summoned by the Queen—someone she'd always thought frightening—had never made her tremble like this.

Being scolded by someone she'd come to think of as kind felt, somehow, far more frightening still.

'Whatever it is, I'll just tell him I was wrong.'

Just as she'd made up her mind to that—

"What do you think of a trip to the northern wall?"

The Duke asked her.

"I—I was wr—!"

She very nearly answered on pure reflex, but caught herself and corrected the words at once.

"Huh?"

It seemed she must have misheard him.

"At the northern wall, fireworks are set off at the turn of the year. To comfort those living in the harshest reaches of the realm."

"Fireworks?"

"Yes. Fireworks of every color. I believe you've seen them before, in Grezekaia."

Clarisse nodded.

On the kingdom's holidays, she'd caught glimpses, a few times, of scattered fireworks through her bedroom window.

Though she only ever watched for a moment before shutting the window and burrowing into her blankets, pretending nothing had happened at all.

Pretending, too, not to hear the distant, joyful cheering of the people outside.

"Am I... being transferred to the northern wall?"

"There's no plan for a transfer. We'll return to the Sheridan estate on New Year's Day."

'That sounds rather like a trip.'

The thought crossed Clarisse's mind, though she didn't dare say it aloud.

A prisoner, on a trip?

It was a little exciting to think of, but surely too absurd a thing to actually happen.

"If Your Grace is taking me, I'll follow along quietly."

"...Yes. Thank you."

"Sir?"

Something about him offering his thanks struck her as so strange that she asked again at once, but he said no more on the matter.

"Then tell Rosalie to make the preparations. Take care not to catch cold before we depart."

"I'll be sure never to catch a cold, Your Grace."

"See that you don't."

Back in her room, Clarisse turned to the inner wall with a question at once.

"I don't understand why His Grace is taking me to the wall."

〈It is all thanks to Her Ladyship, it is.〉

"The Duchess?"

〈Indeed—His Grace, having agonized a full twelve hours over the matter, if it please you, was moved to pen Her Ladyship a love letter, proposing they walk together to the northern wall, so it is.〉

"He wrote a love letter! How wonderful."

〈Indeed, it seems these days the two of them exchange a letter with one another about once a day.〉

The inner wall answered in a delighted voice.

When Quentin had gone and said something so out of place, Clarisse had feared all her efforts had come to nothing—but thankfully, the love letters were still passing safely between the two of them.

〈In any case, when Her Ladyship wrote back that it seemed a touch awkward, the two of them going alone, His Grace himself proposed bringing Clarisse along—that is how it came to be, it is.〉

"Wow..."

〈Naturally, Her Ladyship was quite delighted, she was. Do you understand now, Clarisse?〉

"Understand what?"

At the question, so suddenly put to her, Clarisse tilted her head.

〈Ah, dear me, whatever shall I do with someone so lacking in perception.〉

The inner wall sighed, disappointed, but kindly added an explanation all the same.

〈His Grace and Her Ladyship, the two of them, have begun to notice—thanks entirely to Clarisse—that matters between them are mending, it is so!〉

"Really?"

〈Why else would they bring Clarisse along on their outing together? So now you understand what you must do, don't you?〉

Clarisse nodded at once.

"I'll bring the two of them even closer! To repay a little more of my debt to His Grace."

〈That is exactly it, it is!〉

But there was a problem here.

Now that they'd already come to know each other's feelings, just how was she meant to bring them any closer than that?

Nowhere in any of the storybooks Clarisse had read was there so much as a single word on the matter.

〈Simple enough. Just have the two of them hold hands—tightly, mind you—and that will serve nicely, it will.〉

"Hands?"

〈Yes—would Clarisse herself not be delighted if a person she favored took her hand so firmly in his, if it please you to consider it?〉

"U-um?"

Clarisse looked down at her own hand.

Well, she had held someone's hand before, but that had only ever been part of the procedure during her transfer.

〈I do believe you know quite well how happy it makes one, to hold hands tightly and gaze upon something beautiful together.〉

"...Ah, mm."

Somehow, Clarisse couldn't quite bring herself to say she didn't know, and so she simply nodded.

〈So do make quite certain, if you please, that the two of them hold hands.〉

"Mm-hm... I'll be sure it happens."

Three days later, on a clear winter day.

Clarisse arrived at the northern wall by carriage.

It was the first wall raised between the human settlements and the north, where dragons and Monstrous Beasts were said to dwell, and over its long history it had already collapsed and been rebuilt several times.

The most recent rebuilding had taken place about ten years ago, following the end of the Silver Monster's invasion.

It was famous, too, as the tragic event in which the King and the Mage-Commander had been lost together, holding the line against the relentless tide of savage Monstrous Beasts.

There had once been a time when the whole continent mourned that grief together, but now only the statue of the late King, raised in the north, still remembered it at all.

Here, too, the Duke gave Clarisse a warm room with a fine fireplace—a prison, that is.

And he issued the order that she was never, under any circumstances, to catch cold, and must wear two layers of socks without fail.

Clarisse answered that she would wear two layers of gloves as well, and was praised for it by the Duke.

"So long as you don't go up on the wall, you may keep on with outdoor exercise, for your health's sake. Benson goes with you. Always."

"Yes."

"Wash your hands before every meal—without fail. You know well enough how important hygiene is to a prisoner's life."

Of course. Clarisse nodded, her face set with resolve.

"I'll be Sheridan's model prisoner."

"Good. Then I'll be off—I have a meeting with the mages."

"You've only just arrived, though?"

Clarisse asked, her face full of worry, clasping both hands together.

"I'm afraid Your Grace must be... very tired."

The words had come straight from her heart, but Clarisse realized at once that she had spoken above her station.

The proof of it was in the Duke's gaze, which seemed, somehow, faintly startled as it looked down at her.

Clarisse hurried to step back and bowed her head low.

"I—I'm sorry."

"...No, well."

He answered in a sour, awkward half-mumble, then gave up on it entirely.

"You are to rest."

And he left the room without even waiting to hear her answer.

"...I'm pathetic."

Left alone in the room, Clarisse sighed and kissed Mallangie, still shaped like a pebble.

To carry on as if she had any standing at all to fret over the Duke, simply because a prisoner had been shown a little kindness.

She must have seemed dreadfully presumptuous.

Mallangie, quickly growing arms and legs, slipped free of Clarisse's hand and burrowed straight into her little bag.

"What's wrong? Is it cold in there?"

"Mrrph! (I can't stand the noise!)"

Noisy...?

Clarisse listened carefully around her. But aside from the distant sound of soldiers calling out their drills, everything nearby was perfectly quiet.

"Mrrph! (This one!)"

Mallangie poked his head out of the bag and held up a red pebble.

It was the one Clarisse had found and put in her bag right around the time they'd arrived in the north.

She'd thought there was something a little special about it, and sure enough, it seemed to be a stone she could speak with after all.

"Mrrph. (Why'd you pick up such a noisy rock. Can't get a moment's rest.)"

Mallangie scrambled up, over the chair, the desk, and all the way to the windowsill.

"Mrrph. (I ought to just chuck it right out.)"

Just as Mallangie went to drag the stone up onto the windowsill, Clarisse hurried over, seized the red stone tightly in her hand, and asked—

"Is something wrong?"