TMIAP Chapter 33

"By the way."

Monica had been turning the check over in her hands, examining it from various angles, when the question occurred to her.

The man, who had been leaning back against the sofa cushions with an air of complete and rather shocking indolence while finishing his cigar, glanced at her. The look conveyed that she should continue. Monica rolled her eyes briefly, then spoke.

"How long have you gone without sleep at this point?"

"About two days."

"Not even an hour?"

His blue eyes narrowed at the question—as if to say, what sort of inquiry is that?—then blinked with a hazy slowness. The effect reminded Monica rather forcibly of a gaslight running out of fuel, and she felt an unreasonable flutter of alarm.

The man raised the hand holding his cigar and rubbed his forehead lightly, appearing to sink into thought.

"Do you sleep well, Miss Orphen?"

"I fall asleep the moment my head touches the pillow."

"How fortunate for you."

The man laughed shortly, the sound edged with mockery. Monica wondered if she'd said something tactless in front of someone who couldn't sleep, and cast a surreptitious glance toward the door.

Andrei, the secretary, entered with two glasses—one containing amber liquid, the other water—and set them before the pair before withdrawing once more.

Enrique stubbed out his cigar with a decisive motion, grinding it into the marble ashtray. He'd barely smoked half of it, but his movements showed no hesitation in crushing the expensive tobacco.

The action brought Garcia to mind quite suddenly—that ruffian who'd treasured every scrap of his broken cigar, smoking it down to nothing. The contrast between that street brawler and the aristocratic man before her could hardly have been more pronounced.

She was beginning to understand what people meant when they spoke of different worlds.

"When my head touches the pillow," Enrique said, "the remaining hours of night stretch before me in an endless expanse. The temples near my eyes grow heavy, while my ears, conversely, become impossibly sensitive. I've even considered simply marrying Miss Mollette. Do you know why?"

Monica blinked, unable to parse his meaning. The man lifted the glass Andrei had brought, took a measured sip, and continued.

"I've never lived in a townhouse. And when I lie down in the rooms of this townhouse, I can hear the large dog from a house three blocks away barking. The sound drives away whatever chance of sleep I might have had. How I long for a quiet house."

"...The Solivén estate must be quite large, then."

Enrique gave a short laugh. The sound carried such peculiar weight that Monica found herself blinking more rapidly.

An awkward sensation crept through her—a tingling in her palms, an urge to escape.

"The Solivén family has commanded the kingdom's military forces for nearly three hundred years. We have several such estates. Which is why my ancestor, six generations back, built not merely an estate but a castle."

"A castle?"

"Yes. A castle. Are you familiar with Eridrae Castle in Asmara?"

"Oh, yes."

Eridrae Castle. Even Monica, who had spent her entire life in the capital, knew of that beautiful structure. It was famously larger and more magnificent than the royal palace itself, frequently appearing in newspaper illustrations and storybooks.

So that tremendously famous castle belonged to the Solivén family.

Monica regarded the man with fresh eyes. He raised an eyebrow at her scrutiny while tilting his glass.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Ah. I thought only princes lived in castles."

The words were out before she could consider them, and Monica's cheeks flamed. It felt as though she'd just compared the man before her to a prince.

An ordinary person might have taken the remark as sarcasm, but the man sitting opposite happened to be remarkably handsome and aristocratic in bearing.

That is to say—lounging against the sofa in nothing but a fine silk shirt worn loose, his attitude thoroughly arrogant, crushing half-smoked expensive cigars without a second thought while tilting his glass of spirits...

The man's blue eyes curved slightly. The sight of them brimming with amusement nearly stole Monica's composure entirely.

"I've been torn," he said. "When everyone else fled to La Spezia as a refuge, should I resent my mother for failing to purchase an estate here, or consider myself fortunate that she at least acquired a townhouse of this size?"

Is he deliberately provoking me?

Monica wondered in earnest. She found herself growing irritated with this man who complained about the noise in his enormous townhouse while she had neither house nor prospects. Surely not all aristocrats were like this. They couldn't be.

"What if you exerted yourself physically all day? Exhaustion should bring sleep."

"I'm a former soldier."

"Of course you'd know far more than I about physical exertion. But there's a difference between the exercise nobles take for amusement and truly demanding labor, and—"

Monica stopped mid-sentence, catching sight of Enrique's expression. He had narrowed his eyes as if daring her to continue.

"...Though naturally, you couldn't actually work. No..."

Labor for one's living was what the nobility considered most degrading. Even as lower nobles opened business ventures and the middle classes rose in wealth and influence, this remained true.

It was precisely why the Mollette family, despite their enormous fortune, struggled so desperately to find Liella a husband. The man before her would naturally have no thought of actual work.

Monica's gaze drifted to the bottle of sleeping medicine she'd set down earlier. He'd said he'd tried that too, without effect...

"Would the 'green medicine' help you sleep?"

"Mm..."

The man answered with the immediacy of one who had anticipated the question.

"According to Andrei, I apparently have nightmares. He says I talk in my sleep. But at least I sleep deeply. And after I wake—"

Monica could readily supply the words he'd omitted. After waking, his personality doesn't change. That was what he'd meant to say.

"Ordinarily, I'm closer to collapsing from exhaustion after going without sleep entirely. Even when I do collapse, I manage two or three hours at most. And when I wake, my personality invariably shifts."

"..."

"Worst possible timing for me, considering I need to marry before autumn. I should be calling on young ladies during daylight hours to make polite conversation and eventually propose."

The final words carried a self-mocking edge. Monica felt suddenly awkward and occupied herself fiddling with the check, then looked up abruptly. Her eyes met those of the man leaning sideways against the sofa.

"What if you asked your secretary to sing you a lullaby?"

Enrique's expression turned peculiar. Monica hastened to explain.

"No! Some children really do sleep better with lullabies, even when they're unusually sensitive! Or someone could hold their hand until they fall asleep—"

"Those are children. And Andrei was employed as my secretary, not as a nursemaid."

The man made a scoffing sound and glanced toward the reception room entrance. The secretary, having long since set down his glass and departed, was not present. Monica offered a mental apology to him.

"You should marry quickly, then. It might not be such a bad idea to ask your wife to—"

"...Miss Orphen."

Enrique cut across her words with the air of one instructing a slow pupil.

"This would all be resolved if you simply brought me the 'green medicine.'"

But that's truly terrible for you. It causes hallucinations, impairs judgment... Rather than voice these objections, Monica hunched her shoulders and tucked the check into her pocket. Enrique gave a short laugh.

"I won't take it from you."

"No, it's not that I thought you would... I'm worried I'll lose it myself."

Monica paused, then spoke as if something had just occurred to her.

"Actually, there's something I'm curious about."

"What now?"

"I just received money from you."

"And?"

The man's brow furrowed.

Monica could have wagered the check in her pocket that the moment she voiced her current thought, that handsome face would crease twice as deeply in displeasure.

But somehow, she very much wanted to say it. So Monica asked as carefully as possible:

"Does accepting your money mean I'm allowed to worry about you now?"

Oh, what a pity no one was present to take that wager. Enrique Solivén's face contracted precisely as if he'd heard something utterly outrageous.

"Earlier, you said—that is. You said no matter how much I worried, it wouldn't match someone who worries about you for payment, so—"

Monica broke off with a small "ah" and added quickly:

"I'm not offering to sing you a lullaby! If I sang here, it would carry all the way to the townhouse three blocks over!"

Enrique's expression turned strange.

The man lowered the hand that had been holding his glass and propped his chin on it, studying her intently. Then he raised that hand again and dragged it across his face several times. He stared at the ceiling for a long moment before releasing an audible sigh.

"It's late. The young lady who falls asleep the moment her head touches the pillow is well past her proper hour for returning home."

"Um... Are you saying I'm being presumptuous?"

Enrique clicked his tongue at her question and laughed.

"If you're this perceptive, why did you just say something so strange?"

"What? I don't think it was tactless..."

"Andrei will see you home."

The dismissal, delivered with cutting finality, severed her words.

Having spoken, Enrique lifted a small bell from the table and rang it as if nothing more needed to be said. Then he reclined against the sofa, staring upward.

The posture—long legs drawn fully onto the cushions—was so thoroughly indolent it appeared entirely natural, as if he'd been born lounging on sofas.

Monica had no choice but to rise hesitantly. Andrei, summoned by the bell, seemed to grasp the situation and ushered her out with perfect courtesy. Monica hesitated, then bent her knees in a curtsy.

"I'll take my leave."

Enrique didn't even look at her, merely flicking one hand in dismissal. The sound of Andrei and Monica descending the townhouse stairs gradually faded into distance.

Only then did Enrique cast a brief glance toward the reception room entrance. Monica did not reappear.

His gaze fell to the space beneath the table. Enrique made a soft sound of surprise and sat up. Monica's bonnet lay on the floor beyond the table—she must have failed to collect it properly in her haste to leave.

Intending to have Andrei return it to the estate later, Enrique picked it up.

A mouse-gray bonnet of the sort housemaids commonly wore.

Shabby and entirely unsuited to the season. Holding it, Enrique lay back down on the sofa, then—finding the lamplight suddenly too bright—placed the bonnet over his face.

This was his second night without sleep. Perhaps, if luck favored him, he might manage to rest tonight.

'I'm not offering to sing you a lullaby.'

An odd sensation of longing crept through him.