BPOTWC Chapter 4

Past the high hill the Duke's procession went, and began crossing the level ground past it.

Clarisse sat in the carriage, doing nothing but turn her pouch over in her hands. Across from her, Quentin looked out the window and said nothing at all.

The first sound in the quiet carriage came from Clarisse—or, more precisely, it was her stomach that cried out first.

Grrrble.

Startled, Clarisse clapped both hands over her belly and shot Quentin a look.

Please. Don't let him have heard.

...Being thought an ungrateful stomach. She hated it.

The Duke's party provided Clarisse with food three times a day. Considering that she was a prisoner of war, this was something she ought to be tremendously grateful for. And more than that—hadn't they given her the whole carriage to herself, the most comfortable way to travel? In its plush-backed seat, Clarisse had come dangerously close to dozing off more than once, quite above her station.

And yet here she was, letting out a grrrble!

She lifted her head and found Quentin looking her way, his face somewhat stiffened.

He'd heard it after all.

"S-sorry."

Clarisse quickly bowed her head low in apology.

It had been only a few hours since she'd promised not to make a fuss.

"Ah—no."

He shook his head and rustled through the bag set beside him.

"Here, here!"

He said something, tone strange, and held out a bread wrapped in paper.

Its shape was a little flattened, but it smelled wonderful.

Clarisse wasn't sure whether she deserved to accept even this, given that she'd just been so noisy, but he pressed it toward her again, and she had no choice but to take it.

Thinking it over, it was better than stubbornly going without and letting her stomach embarrass her again.

Clarisse tore at the paper eagerly.

"Slowly."

Quentin scolded her in a stern voice.

He must have been worried she'd wolf down the precious bread all at once.

"...Yes."

Clarisse took his advice and bit off small pieces, chewing carefully. There was jam spread inside, and it was softer than she'd expected.

As she tore off little bits of bread here and there, Clarisse noticed, to her surprise, that Quentin was staring at her intently.

Their eyes met naturally.

He seemed to find something about this unsettling, for he fidgeted with his glasses and frowned.

"Nomming away like that, just like a rabbit—no. No. Never mind. Anyway. Be grateful to the Duke."

Clarisse quickly swallowed the bread she'd been chewing and nodded firmly.

"Yes."

But even though she'd answered so dutifully, Quentin's reaction was somehow not a good one.

If anything, his displeasure only seemed to deepen.

"...But is that really something to be grateful for. Damn it."

He muttered discontentedly, his expression growing even fiercer.

Clarisse, bread still in hand, watched him for a moment before speaking up carefully.

"I... I mean it."

"...?"

Quentin's gaze returned to her.

"I really am glad. And grateful, too."

Clarisse recalled the condition the King of Sapheris had spoken of just before granting her a stay of execution.

He had said that when she turned eighteen, they were to cut off her head and bring it to him.

Thanks to the Duke, who had accepted such a demand, she'd been guaranteed a longer life than she would have had as a princess of Grezekaia.

But her gratitude toward the Duke wasn't rooted simply in the fact that her life had been extended.

"I heard... someone say it was a harsh condition to accept."

On the last night the King of Sapheris had granted her a day's reprieve—the last night she stayed in Grezekaia Castle—Clarisse had heard people speaking of how cruel the King's demand was.

But the Duke had neither tried to conceal that fact from her nor said he would give it up.

Clarisse was truly grateful to the Duke, who had calmly accepted a task everyone had called difficult.

"I know my existence will be a great burden to the Duke. So..."

Clarisse straightened her posture.

She squared her slightly hunched shoulders and lifted her chin, meeting Quentin's eyes with a steady gaze.

Just then, the bright sunlight caught the pink strands of her hair and made them shimmer.

"I will do my very best to become the most magnificent eighteen-year-old in the world. I want to make sure that when the Duke thinks back on his sacrifice someday, he never regrets it, not even once."

Quentin was struck anew by the fact that the child before him was a "princess"—even if she was wearing threadbare clothes.

"...What could someone who's nothing but a criminal possibly do?"

He deliberately forced a coldness into his voice, ignoring the way something in his chest had stirred.

If he didn't, he had the strange feeling he might end up wanting to cheer the child on.

"Wherever I am, I'll do my very best, and someday I'll be of help to the Duke."

"How?"

"By whatever means it takes."

"That's easy to say."

Quentin folded his arms and pursed his lips.

"You—you little, adorable—no, horrid—child, what do you think you can even do?"

"Then... would you think it over with me?"

"What?"

Quentin, utterly at a loss, turned to look at the child again.

The proud bearing she'd carried herself with a moment ago, as if she were a princess of some nation, had vanished; her two hands were now folded neatly together.

"There must be something I can do. I'm sure of it."

"There's nothing like that. Not for him."

Quentin gestured toward the Duke's broad back, visible at an angle through the window.

"He's already perfect all on his own."

"Perfect...? He is?"

"That's right. Martial arts, scholarship—there's nothing he lacks. And on top of that, he holds the noble status of royalty."

"Wow."

When Clarisse's eyes lit up in admiration, Quentin somehow felt the urge to boast even more.

"It's all thanks to the Duke that Sheridan in the north—which used to be nothing but a wasteland from all the monster incursions—has become a place worth living in. He arranged for a system to supply water year-round, and he built roads and provided carriages for the distant villages."

"Wow."

"That's not all. He personally found crops that could be grown in Sheridan's cold climate. And he's spared no investment in researching farming methods, either."

"The Duke really must be an amazing person."

"That's right. He's the true guardian spirit of the north."

Quentin answered while pulling his shoulders up proudly.

"And on top of that, Quentin Saintclair, who's of service to such a Duke, is pretty wonderful too."

"What? Oh, come now, I'm nothing like—hm. Well, I suppose I'm just an unremarkable paper-pusher."

He rubbed the arm of his glasses awkwardly, looking sheepish.

"The Duke needs a golem master far more desperately than someone like me. They say there are more stones than people in Sheridan."

"There are more stones than people?"

It was, at most, just a matter of rocks, and yet the child seemed strangely delighted by it.

"That's right. That's why it used to be said golem masters loved that land above all others. Though... they say the line of golem masters has died out these days."

"A golem... master? I've never heard of that. What exactly does such a person do?"

"A mage who can breathe life into ordinary stone. A golem given life that way becomes a loyal servant. Why am I explaining all this, anyway? In any case."

"It's ever so interesting. You have such a clever way of speaking, Mister Quentin Saintclair. I've never heard such a mysterious and interesting story before."

"Ahem... call me Uncle Quentin."

"Yes, Uncle Quentin. So then, what does this creature, this golem, do?"

"It fights fearsome monsters, and sometimes it becomes the 'building' itself. The Sheridan estate is a prime example of a structure built that way."

"Wow, Uncle, you're a real Dr. Know-Everything!"

When Clarisse laughed and clapped her hands, he buried his face in both palms.

It briefly sounded as though he'd cried out, "Aaargh—too cute!"—but Clarisse decided she must have simply misheard.

"In any case, that's not the only remarkable thing about the Duke. He was once the most popular gentleman in the capital, you know."

His looks were quite different from the beautiful Lysander, but there had been no shortage of women who loved his cold eyes.

"The ladies of the capital used to write him love letters, practically all of them."

"Love... letters? What are those?"

"Well, ah, that is—letters where you write down how wonderful you think someone is! Nothing helps a man and woman grow closer quite like that."

"Then I'll write a love letter to the Duke too."

"Absolutely not!"

Quentin shook his head urgently.

"That's not something a child should write."

"Even children know how to write down that they think someone is wonderful. And it makes you feel good to hear things like that."

"Even so, no. That's something grown-ups who love each other write to one another. Besides, from now on, the Duke can only receive love letters from a single woman."

"...?"

"The Duchess of Sheridan, I mean."

Clarisse tried to imagine what sort of woman might be bound to such a splendid Duke.

She would surely be spirited and wonderful.

Of course she would, being the wife of such a perfect Duke.

Clarisse had already begun to look forward to the day she might meet her.

"She truly is a beautiful woman."

Sure enough, kind Quentin began explaining once more.

"You might say all of Sheridan has been enchanted by her quiet elegance."

"Somehow, I thought she might be."

When Clarisse nodded along eagerly, Quentin's mood brightened at once, and he added, his face quite radiant.

"Isn't that right? The knights of the ducal household even pledged their loyalty to her, calling her the Snowflower Queen! Sheridan is a city of snow, after all."

"Oh, the Q-Queen...?"

The moment she heard that word, Clarisse felt a sudden fear seize her, and her shoulders flinched without her meaning them to.

To her, 'queen' meant a woman glaring with frightening eyes: 'Reeking of your base blood, and yet—'

"It's just a figure of speech, mind you. In any case, it just means she's a woman of tremendous beauty. She and the Duke really are a match made in heaven."

But Quentin, far too pleased with himself, failed to notice the change in Clarisse.

"So you see now? There's not even a pebble's tail's worth of anything you could do for the Duke!"

"...Yes."

Clarisse bowed her head quietly.

"...?"

Something in Quentin twisted, oddly. Some part of him had hoped she'd snap back—'That's not true!'—and argue.

'No, no.'

He forced himself to shake his head. Clarisse was a prisoner of war.

Of course she was meek and obedient.

The carriage fell silent once more.