COARV Chapter 20

So preparations must already be finished.

The sight of Lesche dressed in a clean white suit, the color pairing well with his silver hair, was, for a moment, enough to knock the soul clean out of me. A beauty like someone pouring cold water over a head that had been boiling with fury only moments before.

Guess that's what a good body does for a suit.

Naturally, this made me think I should hurry and finish getting ready myself. I ought to go sit outside.

"Forgive me, Your Highness."

I bowed my head to Lesche and quickly turned to walk away, when he began following alongside me. I looked at him, taken aback.

"…Your Highness? Why are you following me? Are we heading the same direction, by any chance?"

Then again, I hadn't even mentioned where I was headed to begin with. At my question, Lesche's expression went, if anything, incredulous.

"What exactly are you talking about?"

"What?"

"I've been following you ever since your bedroom door. You simply didn't notice."

"…Since my bedroom door?"

"That's right."

Lesche frowned faintly, then added.

"Was I walking too quietly, perhaps? I made a fair amount of noise as I came."

I hurried to shake my head.

"No. I was preoccupied with something else and must not have heard you. I apologize."

"There's no need to apologize."

Lesche gave a simple reply, then looked me over and asked.

"What's that strange thing stuck to your cheek, and where are you off to? Is it some new accessory fashionable in the capital?"

Only then did I realize what a ridiculous sight I must present. And yet, even so, the fact that I felt no urge to duck my head and hide my face wasn't down to some rock-solid confidence in Seria's beauty—no. It was because I knew perfectly well that whatever state Seria's face happened to be in, Lesche wouldn't spare it a second thought.

He's not the type to be swayed by a woman's face. I might as well just tell him honestly.

Unhooking the silk pouch that hung around my neck and ear like a mask, I opened my mouth.

"It's not an accessory. This is—Your Highness?"

Lesche suddenly reached out and tilted my chin upward, and I froze without breathing, blinking a few times in a row. Lesche's red eyes, right in front of my field of vision, were strange. Unlike me, still stopped in confusion, his eyes were narrowed.

"Who's been knocking you around?"

"That's—"

"That's the old you's handiwork, isn't it."

…How did he know?

Then again, this told me the original novel's Seria had struck people's cheeks with this kind of force on a regular basis. Now I understood why over a hundred servants had gotten sick from it.

I swallowed against a dry throat and said,

"You're right. I struck my own cheek. But Your Highness, could you... maybe let go of me now?"

Lesche stared at me for a moment, then, a beat late, released my chin. My heart pounded belatedly. I took an unaccountable breath and looked back at Lesche.

"I struck my own cheek during an argument with the Saint."

"An argument?"

"Yes."

I deliberately used the vague word "argument" for the simple reason that I could not bring myself to say more. That Lina had brought up my mother's status, that it had made me furious enough to nearly strike her, and that I had drawn on the very last of my patience and raised my hand against my own cheek instead.

It wasn't that I refrained from saying it because I wanted to hide it. It worked the same way Seria's whole body would shake uncontrollably at any insult to her mother, regardless of my own intentions. For Seria, the true owner of this body, an insult concerning her mother seemed to strike a genuinely severe blow.

The result was an extremely unhelpful explanation, but Lesche didn't press further—he only kept his eyes on me. He asked.

"Who else was present, besides the Saint?"

"The designer, Begonia."

"I see."

Is he planning to summon Begonia and ask her about it?

Well. Perhaps that would be for the best. I roughly guessed as much and moved to reposition the silk pouch against my cheek again.

It really is better than ice. By now it should have started to melt and grow damp with moisture, but it held its cold with not a trace of humidity, keeping my cheek from ever going clammy. I understood now why Begonia always kept one on hand.

Trying to fasten it myself without a mirror proved a bit awkward, though. As I fumbled with it, Lesche clicked his tongue and reached a hand toward me.

"…."

He looped the cord once around, easily, fixed the silk pouch to my cheek, and lifted his head again without a trace of sentiment.

"Since we've come this far anyway, we might as well stay together and head to the hall where the ball's being held once it's time."

"You mean to wait here at the annex?"

Getting fully ready would take me a good three hours more—and he meant to wait here for that?

"I'll just finish preparing and come find you at the main castle myself, Your Highness."

"The Marquess of Haneton will come looking for you before you make it to the main castle."

"He already came by once. Surely he wouldn't come again?"

At my answer, Lesche paused for the first time. He turned to look at me. His expression suggested he was surprised I already knew Kallis had come to the annex. I nodded.

"There was a trace of cologne."

I'd noticed it the moment Begonia pushed me out the door. A faint trace of the cologne Kallis liked to wear. My annex was kept unusually spotless, so I'd been able to catch that scent of cologne right away.

I had guessed as much, especially since Kallis himself hadn't actually been in sight. He must have come to my annex, seen Lina running out in tears, and chased after her.

That's probably why I was in an even fouler mood. Fouler enough to lose my way entirely.

Lesche spoke slowly.

"A trace of cologne?"

"Yes. The Marquess of Haneton favors a particular cologne he wears to every ball—"

Lesche's expression shifted slightly. I said, "Um…?" and asked.

"Your Highness? Did that—did that displease you, perhaps?"

Lesche's face hardened almost instantly. As I shrank back, he said shortly.

"It reminded me of the High Priest."

"Ah. Right, of course. It must be tedious for you, Your Highness."

Ordinarily, nobles—no, even kings of their kingdoms—welcomed a High Priest's visit with open arms. High Priests stood at the very pinnacle among hundreds of thousands of clergy. A High Priest's personal visit meant that the ground he walked upon was blessed, that divine favor was being conveyed. Above all, it was an extraordinary honor.

But there's always some oddball out there. Lesche was one of them. Of course, in Lesche's case, it was likely because the honor he already possessed overflowed to the point that he had no need for a High Priest's added prestige.

He held, after all, the title of Grand Duke of Berke—unprecedented, without equal. He needed no further honor, no further glory. Which was likely why, to Lesche, a High Priest's visit amounted to nothing more than one more tedious event added to his calendar.

The place I chose to spend my hour was a bench in the garden. Sitting there, I stole quick, inconspicuous glances at Lesche seated beside me. He had followed me and sat beside me, yet said nothing in particular.

Lesche, leaning against the back of the bench and staring straight ahead, spoke without turning his gaze.

"Why do you keep looking at me?"

What? How did he even know I was looking?

Caught off guard, I answered him honestly all the same.

"I was worried your suit might get dirty, since it's white, Your Highness."

Lesche looked at me with an expression of pure exasperation.

"I really do want to crack that skull of yours open sometime."

"Why—why would you want to look inside my head?"

Whether or not I was startled, Lesche continued in an offhand tone.

"You think of the strangest things."

"But you're not going to have this garden bench cleaned every single day, are you?"

"There's no need—Linon has your annex swept spotless every day."

"Linon does?"

Did he mean the same Linon I knew—Berke territory's own chief aide, Linon? I tried to trace back exactly when he'd started taking on servants' chores on the side, then thought better of it—surely he wasn't sweeping and wiping down even garden benches every day—and reached out to lightly brush a finger across the bench's surface.

I was considerably startled by what followed. I'd expected at least a little dust, but astonishingly, nothing came up on my finger at all. What was this, exactly—

"You have your chief aide doing cleaning duty too?"

Lesche replied, "Of course not," then added.

"He has an obsession with cleanliness."

"An obsession… with cleanliness?"

"That's right."

I'd never heard tell of such a thing. And no wonder—the original novel's story had mostly concerned itself with Lina and her men. Lesche and Kallis, for instance. A handful of others besides. A supporting character like Linon had never received any detailed setting worth mentioning.

Come to think of it—if someone with an obsession with cleanliness personally goes out of his way to clean my annex, doesn't that mean… that I'm exceptionally filthy?

I sat there in a daze for nearly a full hour, stunned. Then, since time before the ball wasn't especially plentiful, once roughly the amount of time Begonia had specified had passed, I stood up right away.

"Your Highness. You said you'd come to my room with me, didn't you?"

That came out a little strange.

Lesche said nothing in reply and simply fell into step beside me. Something about it felt oddly awkward, so I found myself unconsciously fidgeting with the silk pouch of snow-crystal until my hand went entirely numb from the cold. I was quietly opening and closing my fist when, suddenly, something hot touched my skin.

It was Lesche. He took my hand lightly, then let go.

"Your hands are cold."

"…My cheek's probably even colder."

Flustered into blurting out whatever came to mind, I cleared my throat and looked away. Lesche laughed.

"Excellent. Even an enemy would fall in love at the sight of this."

Begonia looked thoroughly satisfied. The pink-beige dress, adorned with hundreds of painstakingly placed silver beads, shimmered as if enchanted even under the dim light. I marveled anew at Begonia's skill and turned around.

There, to my surprise, sat Lesche. This was my bedroom, but there had been no helping it. My sitting room hadn't received guests these past few days, and as a result wasn't being heated, leaving the corridor chilled through. And I could hardly leave the master of this very castle sitting somewhere freezing cold.

Besides, Begonia had wanted Lesche brought in. Something about how looking at a beautiful creation gave her strength, or some such thing. I wasn't a designer myself, but I understood the sentiment well enough. Lesche Berke was, if nothing else, a man handsome enough to pull a sigh right out of you.

"Your Highness."

Begonia asked Lesche with her professional smile.

"This may sound forward of me, but as the one who created this masterpiece, might I ask what you think of your wife's dress, Your Highness?"