TMIAP Chapter 34

The enemy aircraft numbered fewer than ten.

But no one had anticipated that such a small force could inflict such devastating damage. The planes struck unpredictable targets, and soldiers died helpless before them.

"...help!"

"Hurry!"

He pulled the terrified boy into his arms. The combat helmet—too large for the boy soldier's small head—rattled against his chest.

The boy whimpered in his embrace.

"Mama... Mama..."

The high, childish cry made him look down without thinking.

Their eyes met.

"It's all right. I'll get you back to your mother. You'll be able to go home."

At these words, the boy buried his face in his chest, choking back sobs. The moment he lifted the boy, a bomb exploded nearby. Bang—his head rang and his ears went dull simultaneously.

Explosions were always like this. From head to toe, the sensation was as though someone had trapped him inside an enormous bell and was beating it mercilessly.

His body tumbled like paper. Despite this, he tightened his grip, refusing to release the boy in his arms.

"It'll rot! You have to cut it away!"

"No! He's alive! The wound's just deep!"

Something struck his head violently and flew past—how many times now? The shelter had long since ceased to function.

Bang—another explosion directly before him, and almost simultaneously the space below his eyes burned.

He screamed involuntarily, clutching at his face. He wanted to open his eyes but couldn't.

Hot liquid ran between his fingers.

Then he realized abruptly that his arms were empty.

"Ludwig!"

He forced his eyes open and tried to scan his surroundings, then pitched forward and tumbled into the shelter.

Dirt filled his mouth, gritty between his teeth. "Ludwig! Ludwig!" He called the name over and over, but no one answered.

He clawed frantically at the ground around him, then felt something catch in his hand. With great effort, he opened his uninjured left eye.

A small body lay before him. The rattling combat helmet had slipped half off, covering the face. His trembling hand reached to remove the helmet, then hesitated repeatedly in fear.

Then—bang—and his vision went black.

"It's all right. It's all right. You'll be able to open your eyes."

That nurse's gentle voice made him want to laugh bitterly. I said that too. It's all right. You'll be able to go home to your mother. But the boy never made it home.

He wanted to respond but his mouth was too dry—only a few words escaped. Instead he knocked away the rough hand stroking his forehead, but rather than withdrawing, it patted his shoulder lightly.

"Do you want your mother?"

That's not it. Do you take me for some child wanting his mother? Moreover, his mother was the very person who had created this humiliating, degrading situation.

"Does it hurt too much? What should I do? I can't give you more painkillers..."

Please go away.

"Should I sing to you? The children at my orphanage liked my lullabies..."

"...Miss."

The hand that had been stroking his shoulder was now shaking him gently.

This was absurd. Shaking someone like this while trying to put them to sleep? Did she put those orphanage children to sleep this way too? He wanted to demand an answer. But strangely...

"Young master!"

Enrique opened his eyes.

Andrei was looking down at him, visibly flustered.

"Did you sleep here all night?"

"All night?"

Repeating Andrei's words like a parrot, Enrique looked around.

The reception room. A somewhat dusty rug on the floor, plush sofas, antique furniture—his thoroughly familiar reception room.

Yet it felt startlingly foreign. And not merely because sunlight was streaming abundantly through the frosted glass windows at the front. Enrique stared at that sunlight in something like stupefaction, then asked vacantly:

"Did I sleep here?"

"It appears so, but..."

Andrei explained that after seeing Monica home last night, he'd returned to the reception room to find Enrique lying on the sofa with the bonnet covering his face.

"I thought you were resting briefly from fatigue."

Enrique's insomnia-driven wanderings through the house at night were common enough.

Finding him lying on the sofa was equally unremarkable, so Andrei had left him undisturbed. His master's mood had seemed particularly poor.

But to have actually slept here—

Enrique shook his head with an equally dazed expression, then rose slowly from the sofa.

The bonnet that had been resting on his chest slid to the floor. Enrique reached for it automatically, but Andrei was faster. His efficient secretary retrieved the bonnet and tucked it away.

"It must be Miss Monica's! I'll return it next time she visits."

"Next time?"

"Mm? Ah. Yes."

When he considered it, there was little reason for him to meet with Monica personally each time. After all, he only needed the medicine.

So naturally his secretary meeting with Monica made far more sense, yet Enrique found himself distinctly displeased by the notion. He propped his chin in one hand, considering, then spoke.

"No. When she comes, inform me as well."

Andrei tilted his head slightly, but he was an excellent employee who rarely questioned his employer's instructions without cause. Instead, Andrei repeated his earlier question.

"In any case—did you sleep through the night without waking?"

Enrique blinked several times before answering.

"No... I woke in the middle."

"I see. Still, if you managed even a little sleep, that's fortunate."

Actually, it was a lie. But somehow it felt wrong to tell Andrei that he'd slept through the entire night without waking once. Andrei departed, announcing he would prepare breakfast.

Enrique perched on the edge of the sofa and stared at the table thoughtfully.

Yesterday's stubbed-out cigar remained where he'd left it.

So too did the traces of the black-haired woman who'd sat opposite, clutching her check and practically bouncing in her seat.

Barely a day had passed. His personality hadn't changed. Enrique cupped his large hand around his chin.

He wondered if something had been mixed into the cigar, or perhaps the liquor had been drugged, but surely Andrei would have noticed.

"..."

He'd slept deeply for the first time in ages—deeply enough to wake with a clear head. He thought he might have dreamed.

'Though it didn't seem to be a particularly pleasant dream.'

Strangely, it felt as though he should remember something but couldn't quite grasp it. Everything was obscured as if by thick fog, nothing distinct.

Monica finished breakfast early and helped clear the dining room afterward.

The servants ate their first meal at sunrise and had already begun their duties by the time the sun fully revealed itself. Thanks to Martinael, who barely opened his eyes before late morning, Monica's mornings were relatively leisurely.

That didn't mean she wanted to eat the meal the housemaids provided and then leave the kitchen ungraciously.

She'd been rolling up her sleeves alongside Maria to clear the dining room and assist with the maids' various tasks for several days now. If she intended to remain at the estate long-term, maintaining good relations with the servants was essential.

The housemaids seemed to appreciate Monica's assistance and mingled with her willingly.

"Hey. Are you and Miss Liella on bad terms?"

The maid beside her asked this while they were all sitting together, drying the washed dishes with cloths.

For one startled moment, Monica feared someone had discovered the true nature of her relationship with Liella, but that wasn't it. Recently, Liella had been seeking Monica out with increasing frequency and irritability.

Liella seemed to have developed a habit of asking the housemaids about Monica's whereabouts.

But when the maids asked, "Shall I fetch Miss Monica?" she would wave her hand and say, "No, never mind."

Naturally, this struck the housemaids as odd.

"How could we be on bad terms? I'm not even a noble young lady."

The housemaids giggled at Monica's indignant reply.

"That's right—a governess can't be on bad terms with the young miss."

A servant whose position required constant deference could hardly presume to have "relations" with the lady she served, good or bad.

In any case, Liella's current fixation on Monica was unmistakable. One maid muttered that it seemed like subtle harassment.

"I'm not even her personal maid, but if the young miss keeps summoning me like that, it's burdensome. She never seems to have any actual business."

"Oh, don't even start. The estate where I used to work..."

Gossip blossomed. Everyone sighed over the story of a maid who'd been dismissed from her previous estate without a letter of reference, simply for displeasing the young lady.

"Still, Monica has it better. If things get bad, you can quit and work under a doctor as a nurse."

Monica replied cheerfully while drying a plate:

"Doctors don't pay as handsomely as this, though."

"True enough. Our estate's quite generous."

"I heard from Mistress Oraingne. Monica's salary isn't small."

Someone sighed.

"Ah! I should've become a nurse!"

Maria promptly delivered a light thump to the speaker's head. Thunk.

"Don't be ridiculous. You'd see people dying several times a day. You'd faint, wouldn't you? And that's rude to say. How would you feel if someone said, 'Oh, I'd like to wash dishes and get paid for it too'?"

The housemaids laughed. Monica smiled as well.

"I've recently discovered I'm a complete materialist."

In various senses. Just last night, for instance. Walking home in the dark with a five-thousand-sing check in her pocket had made her heart feel ready to burst!

Monica had practically danced her way back along that long road.

To the point that Andrei, escorting her home, had asked, "Aren't you frightened?"

But the maids present seemed to interpret Monica's words as 'the high salary makes everything bearable.' Maria laughed.

"Same here. Anyone here who doesn't like money?"

The dishwashing maids smiled and shook their heads. Then Maria spoke as if remembering something:

"Come to think of it, Monica—did you get a sweetheart?"

"What?"

"Hans said he saw you last night."

Her pleasant mood evaporated entirely.