BPOTWC Chapter 5

They rode on for another week after that.

Every time they crossed some invisible boundary, the temperature dropped, and another thick coat was layered onto Clarisse's small shoulders.

By the time they neared Sheridan, Clarisse had turned into a round little coat-creature, arms pinned uselessly at her sides.

The trouble was that even bundled up this much, Sheridan's winter was unbearably cold regardless.

Clarisse peered out at the unfamiliar city with only her face poking out from between her coats.

Along the way, Quentin had said there were "more stones than people"—and it seemed that had been on account of the rocky mountains surrounding the town.

Once they passed through a residential district of low-roofed houses and entered a crowded commercial quarter, the townspeople came out into the streets and began waving at the Duke.

It had been about half a year since he'd last returned.

The Duke slowed the pace somewhat, exchanging greetings with the townspeople and hearing about what had happened during his absence.

Clarisse found it fascinating that Maximilian listened so naturally to the words of ordinary people.

In Grezekaia, Clarisse had rarely ever left the castle grounds, nor had she been able to exchange words with anyone outside the palace walls.

Even her father and brother had spoken only with certain high-ranking nobles.

On the rare occasion Clarisse had timidly approached someone hoping to offer a greeting, she had sometimes been met with a look of thorough contempt.

'But the Duke is someone who listens carefully to what everyone has to say.'

Clarisse felt a strange sense of pride, even though she and he had no connection to one another at all.

As the party left the town, a great manor rising atop a small hill came into view.

"Quentin."

Soon Maximilian, on horseback, drew up beside the carriage Clarisse was riding in.

"Yes, Your Grace."

Quentin bowed his head toward the window.

"I will go check on the northern wall first. It should take about three days, so go on ahead and rest."

"Y-yes?!"

"I know you're all excited that the war is over, but during winter we can't afford to let our guard down against the monsters."

"But—"

"We've been away from Sheridan far too long because of the war. Sheridan Manor's bells don't ring on their own to warn of monster incursions the way the old legends claim, so there's nothing for it but to keep watch myself."

Quentin muttered discontentedly, something like, "But even so, without any rest at all..."—but soon nodded and said he understood.

"Understood. But you must come back quickly, yes? Since you're not going to the capital, you promised everyone a grand celebration instead."

"I know."

The Duke's pitch-black eyes flicked toward Clarisse. Clarisse, clutching her pebble pouch, studied his expression.

"Have the child remain in your care."

"That won't do!"

"Why not?"

"How am I supposed to go pulling out children's things in the manor on my own authority? All of that falls under Her Ladyship's purview."

When he said "Her Ladyship," the Duke paused briefly, though Quentin didn't notice.

"...Is that so."

The Duke hesitated, face reluctant, then forced out his conclusion, voice stiff with awkwardness.

"Then... tell the Duchess of Sheridan that I'll be leaving the prisoner in her care for a while."

"Yes! An excellent conclusion."

"Then I'll set off north at once."

The Duke immediately turned his horse and broke off from the procession along with five knights.

"Did you hear that?"

Quentin turned back to Clarisse with a pleased expression.

"Ah... yes!"

By the time Clarisse forced a smile in reply, the manor had come fully into view through the window.

Looking it over, Clarisse felt a faint sense of unease.

Unlike the neatly maintained town of Sheridan, the manor where the Duke lived seemed rather poorly kept up.

The clock mounted outside had stopped entirely and wasn't moving at all, and some of the stones in the outer wall had gaps in them, as if teeth had fallen out.

Perhaps it was because of the winter.

With most of the windows boarded up with wooden planks, the entire manor looked like nothing so much as an enormous prison.

"Ah—well. Not much to look at, granted. But—no ordinary man could fix a place like this, so. Can't be helped. ...Well. Anyway."

Quentin cut his explanation short, since the carriage had come to a stop.

"You'll get used to it soon enough."

While the knights dismounted at the front entrance to be welcomed by the Duchess and the household staff, Clarisse followed Quentin through a small side door into the manor.

Thanks to a fire burning near the entrance, warmth quickly spread through her body, which had felt on the verge of freezing solid.

"Hm, well, first we'll have to do something about those clothes."

Quentin peeled off the layers of coats trailing along the ground, one by one.

He couldn't very well leave the child in nothing but the thin dress she'd been wearing from the start, so he wound a warm blanket snugly around her shoulders instead.

"That should do for now. Come along, we must pay our respects to Her Ladyship."

"A-already?"

"You have to greet the person who'll be looking after you, don't you?"

"Th-that's... true, but."

Quentin found it strange that the child, who'd been so spirited the whole time, had suddenly grown quite subdued, but he didn't press the matter, and instead picked up a candle and began climbing the stairs.

These were the narrow stairs used by the household staff, taken by anyone who lacked special permission from the ducal family.

Quentin normally had permission from the Duke to use the grand central staircase, but today, with the prisoner Clarisse present, he'd chosen this route instead.

The steps were steep, the floor uneven, making it somewhat difficult for children to manage.

Quentin glanced back over his shoulder. To his relief, the child was following behind him one careful step at a time, one hand pressed against the wall.

"You do know your basic etiquette, don't you?"

"...Yes."

Clarisse answered with effort as she struggled up steps that came up to her knee.

The Queen of Grezekaia had at least made sure to teach Clarisse proper basic etiquette.

Otherwise, she'd said, a child of such a shameful birth would only bring disgrace upon the royal family if her conduct fell short as well.

Even though the method had been rather violent, and Clarisse had been struck on the head more than once for it.

"That's a relief. One must observe basic courtesy properly within the manor."

If she failed to do so, would Her Ladyship strike Clarisse's head as well?

Somehow frightened by the thought, the child quickly answered with forced vigor.

"I'll—I'll do my best!"

"Good to see you have confidence."

Clarisse had no confidence at all, but she couldn't bring herself to correct him.

Climbing the stairs had left her so out of breath she could barely manage it, and the thought of meeting someone called the Queen of this land made her strangely tense, so that the words simply wouldn't come easily.

Climbing a little farther, Quentin opened the door connecting to the second-floor corridor.

A dim hallway came into view.

Because of the cold weather, most of the windows had been boarded up with wooden planks. Still, thanks to candles lit at regular intervals, Clarisse was able to look around at her surroundings.

A round-shaped ceiling, tapestries of various sizes decorating the walls, and—

"Stone..."

Clarisse murmured softly, lightly brushing her hand along the nearest wall.

The stone, which must have stood in this same place for at least a hundred years, had a surface worn smooth and glossy.

"It's a manor with a long history. A bit rough around the edges, though."

Clarisse, still touching the wall, smiled brightly for the first time since entering the manor and shook her head.

"No, this manor is very kind and lovely."

The manor was kind?

Quentin thought that was a rather odd way to put it, and was about to ask her about it again, when—

"Welcome back, Secretary Saintclair."

A middle-aged woman in a stiff apron bowed before him.

Her stern voice and rigidly set face seemed somehow frightening, and Clarisse quickly shifted a step behind Quentin.

"I'm back, Mrs. Betsy."

Quentin nodded lightly and glanced past Betsy toward a firmly closed door.

"Has the Duchess returned to her chambers?"

She appeared to be the Duchess's personal maid.

"Yes. She's been quite disheartened that the Duke hasn't returned."

"I imagine so. But he'll be back within three days. More to the point, might I see the Duchess for a moment?"

"Of course. So long as you leave that little beast in my care."

Betsy jerked her chin toward Clarisse, who was hiding behind Quentin.

Clarisse's shoulders flinched.

"Ah, this child is—"

When Quentin tried to explain, she cut in before he could finish.

"I heard what the knights said. A prisoner of war, was it?"

"That's right. The Duke asked Her Ladyship to look after her. So please, go tell Her Ladyship I'd like to see her at once."

"But Secretary Saintclair."

The maid remained standing there, rigid and unmoving, as though she had not the slightest intention of opening that door.

"That thing is far too filthy."

"Ah... well, that's because she's been traveling by carriage for so long—"

"You go in and speak with Her Ladyship, Secretary Saintclair. I'll wash that up and have it pay its respects to Her Ladyship separately."

The moment he heard that, an unpleasant feeling welled up in Quentin, though he couldn't quite say why he felt so uneasy about it.

Nothing Betsy said was wrong. Not one word of it.

They had drawn water and bathed the child a few times over the course of the carriage journey, but a small child couldn't possibly have managed to do it thoroughly on her own.

Her pink hair, which had once been soft, was now tangled up like a head of cabbage, so anyone could see she wasn't in a fit state to greet a noble lord.

And calling her 'that thing'— well. Couldn't be helped.

A prisoner of war was the very lowest rung among criminals. It was common sense not to treat such a person as human.

Besides. The child should have died already anyway?

"Well... very well."

Quentin, his face somewhat displeased, took a step back from the child hiding behind him.

"Take her along."

For a moment he caught sight of Clarisse's face gone pale as paper, but there was nothing more he could do about it.

Above all, Betsy only meant to bathe Clarisse—she wasn't about to do anything truly wrong to her, was she?

"Hmph. Go along with her, and once you've made yourself clean with hot water, pay your respects to Her Ladyship properly."

He said this to Clarisse, who was looking up at him, then fled into the Duchess's study as though escaping, and knocked.

"Ah..."

Left alone in the corridor, Clarisse clasped her hands together and slowly lifted her gaze to look at Betsy.

"Follow me."

The maid led Clarisse to the servants' bathroom and washed her face and body—quite carelessly, in truth.

It didn't seem as though this would leave her particularly clean at all, and Clarisse felt some doubt about it.

"You said I had to be clean to meet the Duchess."

Working up her courage, she pointed this out carefully, and the maid gave a scornful laugh.

"And what's a little nothing like you going to do, meeting Her Ladyship?"

"I... I..."

Betsy's tone was so cold that fear welled up in Clarisse.

But she summoned a little more courage and managed to move her jaw, which felt as though it wouldn't move at all.

"I... I'm here to repay her kindness."

"Kindness? Don't make me laugh."

She sneered.

"There's only one way you can repay Her Ladyship's kindness."

Betsy flung a damp, sour-smelling towel at her.

Clarisse caught it with both hands and haphazardly wiped down her arms and legs.

"Just tell me whether there wasn't some woman mixed in among the party that came here, who doesn't know her place."

"A... a woman?"

Unfortunately, Clarisse couldn't grasp the point of what the maid was asking.

Some noble who'd recently returned from the war had brought back a woman he'd newly met in Grezekaia, given her a separate place to live within his territory, and kept up an improper relationship with her.

Already, rumors were quietly making the rounds among the maids that several noble ladies were suffering their hearts out over exactly this sort of thing.

Clarisse held the towel to her chest and thought it over carefully before answering with care.

"There were many women in the party. There were knights and soldiers, and they were all so strong and wonderful."

"Idiot. I'm asking if the reason His Grace is dragging his feet is because he's off setting some woman up in a house!"

"Ah, the Duke? A house?"

"Yes, I'm asking whether the Duke of Sheridan brought along some woman. Someone who's neither a knight nor a soldier."

Well, there had been a woman among them who was neither knight nor soldier. That was Clarisse herself.

But she knew nothing about anyone else in the party besides that.

And even if she had known something, Clarisse understood that speaking about other people's private matters wasn't proper etiquette.

'Uncle Quentin said I absolutely must observe basic courtesy in the manor.'

Clarisse's shoulders trembled at the chill she felt run through them, but she looked the maid straight in the eye and answered.

"I can't tell you that."

"...What?"

"I've decided to observe proper courtesy. So please, let me keep my faith with the Duke."

The maid glared at her with sharp eyes, and Clarisse felt frightened, but even so, she couldn't take back her resolve.

Fortunately, the maid didn't press her with any further questions about the Duke.

"Why did such a nuisance have to come along... The Duke really ought to have just killed the thing off quickly. Honestly."

"The Duke told me that it would be against the law for me to die quickly."

Betsy glared at Clarisse and flung an old brown dress at her, grumbling.

"What on earth is this thing?"