PDCOO Chapter 18

"The adults aren't wrong. Most of the young men who went to fight hoping to be heroes came back dead or crippled. Girls who dreamed of romantic encounters—some went to the city and were kidnapped. My mother, too—she says there was a girl her age who was taken advantage of by a noble, so I should never trust a noble man who talks about love."

"That is why you showed hostility toward nobility when we first met."

Bertram recalled the day he had introduced himself as a damn beggar bastard before a thoroughly hostile Karlah.

Anna laughed—half a sigh in it.

"Right. And yet, despite everything people say, someone always ends up leaving to find something more. Not that it matters—I'll probably just end up marrying someone dull like Dieter."

The name Dieter conjured an image like soup greens that had been simmering considerably too long.

Limp. Flavorless. Overextended past all reasonable necessity.

An unremarkable man. One who seemed, furthermore, to like Anna.

Somehow, Bertram's brow went stiff.

"……Do you like Mr. Dieter?"

"As a friend, we've built up the kind of bond that comes from mutual irritation. As a man—not at all."

"But you will still marry him."

"That's probably how it'll go. Besides, an unmarried woman has a hard time earning trust in the village. They assume she might leave at any moment."

Anna's face darkened—and then she was suddenly on her feet, clapping her hands together. She manufactured a smile.

"Right! That's enough of that! You promised to tell me about your parents, the ones who loved each other. I want to know everything. Do they really exchange flowers? Things you can't even eat?"

"Every Sunday morning, my father would buy flowers and arrange them at my mother's bedside while she slept in. But the day she declared she would accept no more flowers—because watching them wilt each time was too wasteful—my father built her a small garden. Twelve varieties of plants, blooming each season."

"Did they bear fruit every season too?"

"There were perhaps two fruit trees."

"Why would anyone plant something so useless— ah." Anna caught herself. "He loved her that much."

Bertram propped his chin in his hand.

"It seems, rather, that it is Miss Anna who does not understand love."

"We've never had anyone like that around……"

"There is nothing to be embarrassed about. I too learned only by watching. The feelings themselves remain beyond my understanding. Is there anything else you would like to know?"

"Yes! It's—"

The thought stopped just before it escaped.

'Do they kiss? Do you want to? Is it any good?'

Things she had only ever seen in novels. Not once in real life.

Even her own parents had gone no further than a brief peck on the cheek.

What was actually enjoyable about lips pressing together? If anyone accidentally opened their mouth, saliva would be involved. The small red portion of anatomy that every person possessed—was it somehow more thrilling than any other piece of flesh? Why did the heroes in novels always covet the heroines' lips so desperately?

……But even Anna knew she could not ask this.

'This I absolutely cannot do. Hold it together. Who knows where it might end up.'

"Done! That's more or less everything I was curious about!"

"You asked exactly one thing."

He almost seemed more disappointed than she was. Expressionless as ever—and yet, somehow, that was what Anna felt.

Bertram checked the time. Minutes remaining. He asked:

"Now it is my turn. A few days ago, you called me 'cute.'"

"You still remember that? Well, I suppose it was probably the first time you'd ever heard it."

"You know me well. I am curious about the circumstances that produced that statement."

"Hm? It's not complicated! When someone's behavior doesn't match how they look, it moves you somehow. A great bear of a man covered in a floral apron—that's cute!"

"Would you have found the village chief cute if he had done the same?"

"……No."

"What if Karlah had done it?"

"I'd have thought something was wrong with her."

"And if it had been Mr. Dieter?"

"I'd kill him— ahem. Ahem. I'd have stomped on him for getting his feet all over someone else's apron."

"So it seems I am indeed cute."

……That wasn't where this was supposed to go.

A man the size of a modest mountain, constructing a logical case for his own cuteness with complete sincerity. Anyone but Bertram and she would have hit him.

Fortunately, Bertram noticed she was flustered.

"Understood. I am not cute."

"It's just— no, I mean— how do I even explain this……"

"You need say nothing more. I thought it might become a clue to recovering my emotions. I have only managed to make things awkward for you."

"……You said before it wasn't a head injury. That there was something else. A wound of the mind from the war, perhaps?"

"Something like that. Though I am not sure you will believe me……"

Bertram hesitated.

Would Anna believe the word cursed? And even if she did—what was the point of saying it now?

But one glance at the clock and the answer came quickly.

Anna was his last creditor—and perhaps the only loose thread that might finally unravel this. He couldn't afford to waste time with her in lies and pretense.

Five minutes.

Bertram confessed.

"I have been cursed."

Lara crouched outside the inn, crunching through a raw carrot.

She had gotten swept up in the moment, offered them thirty minutes, and walked back out again.

"I want to go up and watch..."

A former soldier from distant lands. A village restaurant owner. An impossible romance. That was practically a novel.

Talking about romance in the village got you a you still read that sort of thing? from your friends. But everyone read it. They just didn't say so out loud.

'Will something like that ever happen to me? I'd like to fall in love with someone wonderful before I get married.'

It had been hammered into her ears: nobles who bothered crawling out to the countryside to chase women were empty husks who'd failed at romance in the capital. The chaff of the marriage market.

But a man from a nearby city would be fine.

Guards were too dull. A merchant, perhaps. With luck, she might meet someone who worked as a secretary to a mayor. Someone like that would surely be handsome.

While Lara was pleasantly occupied with these thoughts —

A strange sound came from the alley beside the inn.

"Hah... hah..."

The rough, ragged breathing of a grown man.

Lara's shoulders drew up.

'A ruffian? A thief? A bandit? A rebel?'

Every villain she'd ever encountered—in life, in stories, in the darker corners of her imagination—filed through her mind in quick succession. But a moment later, the man who braced himself against the alley wall and stepped out into the light was...

If forced to guess his profession based on pure appearance: librarian.

He wore glasses, and his expression was gentle. His slightly wavy dark-brown hair only added to the overall impression of someone who had never done anything alarming in his life.

Before Lara could stop herself from saying oh, he's cute—

Once he'd fully emerged from the alley, his build turned out to be considerably more solid than expected. And the sword at his hip communicated something rather different about his profession.

Lara stood there with her mouth open at this strange contradiction. The panting man turned his head.

"Oh. A lady."

"A, a, a lady?"

Lara startled and looked around wildly.

A lady! That was what women with white parasols and proper dresses were called. The village had told her so. Repeatedly.

But there was no one else around. The man stepped closer. His kind eyes settled on her.

"I am not—hah...—a dangerous person. I am looking for someone."

"Are you a guard?"

"I am nothing like those people!"

Franz's subordinate, Erich, had taken offense before he could stop himself.

Being compared to the city's slovenly local guards was unpleasant. He was technically an ordinary soldier by rank, but not just anyone was selected as Franz Gerhardt's direct subordinate.

As a flicker of confidence passed through Erich's eyes—

Lara's eyes lit up as well.

"Oh, then... are you a knight?"

"..."

Erich considered this.

He was not a knight. Knights required a certain level of wealth and title to produce—usually in the next generation, at that. Erich, at his very best, might make officer by his forties.

But the young woman standing in front of him, managing her hunger with a raw carrot outside a rural inn, did not look like someone with detailed knowledge of military hierarchy.

If he was going to extract information, it was better to look dignified.

Erich completed a brief internal calculation and lied.

"Yes, I am indeed a knight!"

"I knew it! You're so dashing."

It was, technically speaking, a compliment aimed at 'the knight' rather than at Erich.

The word dashing, heard for the first time in his life directed at himself, stirred something small in Erich's chest.

Not a single regret about the lie.

Erich squared his shoulders until his back ached. Even his manner of speaking became more dignified.

"Why is a lady spending time in a place like this? Are you employed by the inn?"

"No, I live in another village. I came out to sell some things. What brings you here, Sir Knight? You were breathing very hard—were you fighting villains?"

In a manner of speaking, yes. He had been entirely at the mercy of a villain. Unilaterally.

Specifically: a villain of a superior officer named Franz Gerhardt, who had nothing to recommend him if you first removed his face, his family connections, his personal fortune, and his considerable abilities.

'This is the city map. Memorize it, then divide it into four sections and locate His Highness Bertram.'

'Four sections? Then where will Sir Franz—'

'I am your head, not your hands and feet.'

All four soldiers had sprinted off immediately, and Erich—the youngest, the least experienced—had been assigned the widest territory.