BPOTWC Chapter 31

What if it asks something I don't even know? Worrying, she looked toward where the child was pointing—and there stood a snowman.

"Someone's made two wonderful snowmen. They suit each other beautifully."

Brielle answered with a warm smile. The snowmen, one wearing a little hat and the other a ribbon, really were endearing.

"Aren't they? Don't they look just like the Duke and the Duchess?"

They didn't, not in the slightest.

The thought came to Brielle reflexively.

If Maximilian was a splendid snowman, she was nothing more than the mud the snow left behind when it melted.

But she couldn't say that to Clarisse, eyes shining as they were, and so—helpless to do otherwise—she nodded.

"Th-that's... true. I mean—the Duke's got a hat on, and I've got a ribbon, so—!"

"And the two of you suit each other so well. Isn't that right, Your Grace?"

Oh, please.

Brielle hoped, desperately, that the Duke hadn't heard this embarrassing exchange.

Or if he had, that he would hurry and give Clarisse the correct answer—"We're a little different from a pair of snowmen, aren't we?"

That they, standing there facing each other so tenderly, should resemble those snowmen.

It was something she couldn't possibly accept.

"So it seems."

Brielle spun around in shock at an answer so far from what she'd expected.

Maximilian, his expression and tone no different from usual, even went so far as to add, without any apparent need to:

"Fairly alike, at that."

Brielle wanted to object, but Clarisse looked so happy—"I knew you'd say something like that!"—that she couldn't get a single word out.

No, actually.

If anything, Brielle herself seemed to be the most delighted person there.

'What now.'

After they returned from the village to the manor, Brielle sat in her room with her head in her hands.

'I was going to confess the lie—and instead I've gone and made another happy memory!'

Steadying herself once more, Brielle waited until Quentin's usual hour of leaving for the day, then made her way to the Duke's study.

At this time he was always working alone, and she expected they'd be able to speak quietly.

She knocked softly, and soon a voice told her she could come in.

Brielle cracked the door open and peered inside.

"Duchess!"

At once, Clarisse came running with delighted little footsteps to welcome her.

"Clarisse, you're... here?"

"Yes! I've been drawing His Grace's portrait."

Clarisse gave a small clap, as though this had all worked out perfectly.

"Um, I'd like to draw you too, Your Grace. What if the two of you sat side by side?"

"I—I'll do it later."

Brielle waved both hands awkwardly, laughing.

The "Duchess" that Clarisse ought to be drawing wasn't her.

"What brings you here?"

Maximilian's voice soon came from further inside the study.

He seemed to have noticed her hovering by the door rather than coming in.

"Ah... I."

Brielle had meant to ask Clarisse to step out for a moment.

"Clarisse, listen."

"Yes, my lady."

But somehow the words wouldn't come.

Brielle hesitated a while longer, then lowered her head.

"I'm glad you're here. I was... worried when I didn't find you in your room. Do show me the drawing when it's finished. I'll look forward to it."

She managed to scrape together an excuse, but Clarisse's face, as she looked back at her, was full of puzzlement. As though she'd expected her to say something else entirely.

"I'll be going, then. Excuse me."

Brielle offered Maximilian a light bow as well, then quickly shut the door.

"...Hff."

...A long breath slipped out of her before she knew it, and the sound of it surprised her.

It wasn't a sigh born of the situation dragging on unresolved.

If anything, she felt relief.

Why on earth was it so... satisfying, this pointless lie continuing a while longer?

'Do you... perhaps want to stay here longer?'

Asella's question surfaced in her mind without warning.

"....."

Brielle gently stroked the uneven stone of the inner wall.

With deep affection.

"I want to stay, but... I can't, can I. I can't go on deceiving His Grace."

Feeling unaccountably downcast, Brielle shook her head quickly and hurried down to the first floor.

In any case, as the mistress of this house, seeing to the servants who had worked hard throughout the day and overseeing the household came first.

"It seems we've failed, my lady."

Meanwhile, in the guest room where she was staying, Asella glared sharply at her maid, who had come bearing bad news.

"That numbskull still hasn't breathed a word to His Grace?"

"Yes, that pink-haired child has been camped out in the Duke's study."

"What on earth is that girl?! Ugh, how annoying... It's freezing enough to die out here and now this! Hey—get more wood on that fire."

The maid set down the snack the Sheridan kitchen had sent along and quickly added more firewood.

The flame swelled briefly, but the guest room's chill did not lift.

"And she went trailing along to the village earlier too. What is that girl, anyway? Some relative of the Duke's?"

"According to the servants here, she's supposedly the princess of fallen Grezekaia."

"What? So she's a prisoner of war, then?"

"Yes, they say she's a prisoner."

"Ha. Unbelievable."

She'd been dressed in such fine clothes, Asella had assumed she must be some cherished distant relative of the Duke's.

"And here I was wondering whether I ought to buy her a gift to get on her good side."

If she'd actually done such a thing, it would have been mortifying beyond words.

An earl's daughter, trying to curry favor with a mere prisoner.

"This is truly the most unpleasant manor. I never wanted to marry into a place like this. Ugh, this is so irritating!"

Asella took a bite of the sandwich her maid had brought.

It had been made with fresh cucumber—hard to come by in winter—and the moment its crisp scent filled her mouth, Asella spat it out at once.

"Are you crazy? How many times do I have to tell you the smell of cucumber makes me want to gag! ...Ugh, blech."

"I—I'm so sorry, my lady! I'll tell the kitchen here to bring something tart instead—some fruit."

"Have you lost your mind? Why don't you just hang a sign on the door announcing I'm having morning sickness while you're at it?!"

Asella shrieked loud enough to rattle the room.

〈Very well done indeed, if I might say so!〉

The next morning, at the inner wall's praise, Clarisse blushed and gave a bashful little laugh.

Though on the bed, Mallangie bounced indignantly, grumbling, "Stop making Clarisse do things for you!"

〈That unpleasant woman as mistress of this house is simply not to be borne, if it please you to hear it said plainly. And scheming to deceive His Grace with such wicked intent, no less...!〉

Clarisse nodded slowly.

"But still... I feel bad for her."

〈Not in the slightest, I assure you.〉

"What if she really doesn't have anywhere else to go?"

〈Hmph. Even so, we cannot possibly hand over the seat of Duchess of Sheridan to the likes of her, if it please Clarisse to hear it plainly.〉

"It's very strange."

Clarisse tilted her head.

"If it were me, I would have just told the truth and asked for help. The Duchess is a kind person, so she wouldn't have refused."

〈Oh, whatever shall I do with a child so sweet, if I might say so.〉

"It's not that I'm sweet. I just... really feel sorry for her, that's all."

For the Duchess, who had always been so kind to her, having to live trapped in a painful lie.

And on top of that, trying to cover it with yet another lie.

"There ought to be a good way to set everything right, even now."

Something like telling the truth honestly, for instance.

As far as Clarisse could tell, the Duke of Sheridan seemed like the sort of man who would listen to his wife's story and think through the best solution together with her.

So why wasn't she doing that?

"Grown-ups are strange."

〈When Clarisse is grown, might I be so bold, you'll come to understand a great deal more.〉

Was that what being a "splendid eighteen-year-old" meant?

For the first time, Clarisse thought that her own goal was rather vague.

"In any case, I'm going to go show the Duchess the portrait I drew of His Grace yesterday."

〈Do go ahead, if it please you. On no account, mind, should His Grace and that woman be left alone together—not for a moment, might I add.〉

"Okay!"

Clarisse pulled her hand from the wall and scooped Mallangie up from the bed, tucking him snugly into her pocket.

"You're coming with me, right?"

"...Mrrph."

"I'm not being nosy. I'm only repaying a kindness."

Clarisse hugged her thick sketchbook to her chest and peered up and down the corridor with the door open.

Though she'd grown accustomed to life in the Duke's household, Clarisse had never once forgotten her place.

She was a prisoner, and this room was her cell.

Whenever she left the room, it was only proper to notify the knight or soldier guarding the corridor before moving.

"Huh...?"

But right now, there wasn't a single soldier standing in the corridor.

"Did the Duke or Duchess call them away?"

Clarisse shifted her weight from foot to foot, still clutching the sketchbook. Her heart began to race.

"Have to hurry to the Duchess... can't be late... can't..."

"Ah, of course."

Just then, a mocking voice came from right beside the door.

"...?"

Clarisse pushed the door open a little further and looked toward where the voice had come from.

"...!"

There stood the lying guest she'd seen yesterday.

"I thought something felt off."

She approached, sweeping back her long silver hair, and fixed Clarisse with a sharp glare.

"You know something, don't you. That's why you're deliberately getting in my way."

Clarisse flinched and clutched the sketchbook tighter to her chest.

The moment she heard that sharp voice, a memory she'd nearly forgotten in her peaceful life at Sheridan rose up before her.

And with striking clarity, too.

'Reeking of your low birth wherever you go.'

The look now pinning Clarisse in place bore a startling resemblance to the Queen of Grezekaia's.

"A filthy prisoner, and the nerve of you. This dreary manor's gloomy enough without you fouling it up worse."