TMIAP Chapter 5

"Miss Monica, I get to introduce you sooner than I expected. This is Martinael."

"Hello, Miss Monica."

The boy nestled against Madame Mollette's skirts looked remarkably like her. The soft brown hair, the lustrous black eyes—both were hers.

His gently curved eyes, as though they held all the goodness in the world, seemed to know nothing of anything dirty or sad.

"Martinael, you mustn't call her Miss Monica. You should call her Teacher."

"All right, Madame. Hello, Teacher!"

"And please stop using that peculiar form of address. 'Madame,' honestly!"

Madame Mollette laughed as she scolded her son. Martinael whined something or other, tugging at her skirts.

Ordinarily, Monica would have found the affectionate boy charming and greeted him warmly. But Monica still couldn't take her eyes off the young lady behind him.

"And this is—"

"Liella Mollette."

Just as Madame Mollette opened her mouth, the young lady, who had likewise been staring fixedly at Monica, answered quickly.

The tone was almost as though she were cutting off Madame Mollette. The Madame's eyes went round before she smiled.

"That's right. My wonderful daughter. Did I mention earlier that she's the same age as you, Miss Monica?"

"Yes..."

Monica managed to answer.

"Liella, this is Miss Monica, who will be Martinael's teacher. Since you're the same age, perhaps you can become good friends. She's from the capital, she says."

"I see. How do you do, Miss Monica."

Liella answered in a voice that came out in staccato bursts, as though reading from a theatrical script.

Madame Mollette tilted her head but didn't seem particularly concerned.

"Since this is fate, why don't you two take Miss Monica to her room?"

"Me?"

"Yes, Martinael. She'll be using the room next to yours."

"All right, if it's Madame's request!"

The boy answered cheerfully and detached himself from the Madame's skirts.

Liella looked reluctant, but when her eyes met Madame Mollette's, she smiled. The Madame said she had something to attend to that afternoon and disappeared quickly.

The boy, Martinael, stepped forward first.

"Teacher, you'll be using the room next to mine?"

"How kind of them to arrange it so."

Monica managed a smile.

Martinael, unconcerned, took hold of her skirts and led her in one direction. Though it was early summer, he was neatly dressed.

On his calves were shining thin silk stockings. Martinael noticed Monica's gaze and grumbled.

"Madame says I'll catch cold if I don't wear them. But don't they make me look like a seven-year-old?"

"Surely not. Boys in the capital wear stockings even through midsummer."

"Really? Oh, Teacher, you can speak casually to me!"

Saying this, Martinael puffed out his chest importantly. Monica smiled ambiguously and began following him down the corridor.

The corridor was laid with thick blue carpeting that muffled their footsteps almost entirely. Liella followed slowly behind the two of them, stopping occasionally—making it obvious she was following reluctantly.

"Sister! What are you doing, not coming?"

But she couldn't escape Martinael's eyes. Only after he stopped and beckoned two or three times did Liella finally catch up, now only a step or two behind.

Martinael was a truly lovable boy.

He bounced along, chattering to Monica about how his birthday was coming soon, and when he turned eleven he'd be really grown-up and wouldn't wear short trousers like these anymore.

"I have a cousin, and he has the most wonderful frock coat and woolen trousers! I asked for a frock coat for my eleventh birthday present, but..."

"Won't a frock coat be rather hot in midsummer?"

Monica kept up her end of the conversation as they walked. But her steps kept slowing, conscious of Liella behind them. Nevertheless, all three of them eventually arrived at their destination.

The first thing Monica noticed was a large white door draped with lovely lace curtains. The door stood open, and Martinael made an openly disgusted face and sighed, "I really hate those curtains!"—which let her know it was his room.

Then the small white door beside it must be hers? Monica started to approach it when someone laughed shortly.

"That's a closet."

Monica turned her gaze.

It was Liella Mollette. Liella had been standing with her arms crossed; now she walked a little way, moving outside Monica's line of sight.

There was a door as large as Martinael's. The door, with its beautiful molding, had no grand ornamentation, yet that alone made it elegant.

But Monica's gaze lingered on the fingertips of Liella's hand as it pointed to the door. Liella wore delicate chemical lace gloves.

Those machine-woven laces were what every noble young lady who had to wear gloves even in midsummer wanted to own, without exception.

But not only was the price astronomical—with the war requisitioning every machine for military supply production, acquiring such gloves was like plucking stars from the sky.

The moment she saw those gloves, an inexplicable emptiness washed over Monica. The heat that had vanished while drinking iced tea seemed to rush back upon her.

"This is your room."

Your. An unfamiliar and chilly form of address. And a tone laden with wariness.

But before Monica could respond, Martinael jumped in.

"Sister, why are you talking so mean?"

"...What?"

Liella looked down at Martinael in confusion. He squinted his dark eyes slightly and asked accusingly.

"Talk nicely. Are you still angry?"

"...No, Marty. Why would I be angry?"

"Liar. You're still upset about me breaking your watch the other day, aren't you?"

The boy stamped his feet petulantly. Liella hastily protested it wasn't so, and Monica learned that a few days ago, Martinael had accidentally broken a watch Liella treasured.

What that had to do with anything, she didn't know... In any case, Liella waved her hand.

"I'm sorry, Marty. Maybe I was shy because there's someone I'm meeting for the first time."

Then Liella raised her head and looked at Monica again.

"...Sorry, Miss..."

Monica lifted her stiffened lips.

"...Orphen."

Liella murmured the surname, rolling it in her mouth. Martinael jumped just then.

"What's that! Anby!"

Both of them looked around in surprise. Martinael had suddenly dashed into his room. The maid called Anby, who had been coming out of Martinael's room carrying an armful of something, stumbled in shock and was pushed back inside.

"Why are you taking away my blocks! I told you not to put them away!"

"But Young Master, these blocks are—"

"No! Do you know how hard I worked to build that!"

"Madam told me to clear them because you can't even walk around your room!"

The sound of the boy, already having forgotten the two of them, dumping out all the blocks the maid had been carrying echoed from inside the room. Clatter...

Monica, who had been staring blankly at the scene, suddenly turned her head. Before her stood Liella, who had opened Monica's door halfway.

Madame Mollette was returning to her room when she suddenly remembered she hadn't taken Miss Monica's letter of introduction. She could have the butler fetch it, but...

Now that she thought about it, Madame Mollette had assigned the butler several very important tasks.

Such as running an errand to the Solivén family's townhouse.

'Well, I can fetch the introduction myself.'

The doctor had been nagging her to walk more anyway. She should walk more, even if just inside the estate.

And so Madame Mollette turned her steps.

"The wardrobe—you'll probably use that one. And in front of it is..."

Liella was continuing her explanation in a dry tone.

The room given to Monica was also an excellent room.

Autumnal green silk wallpaper and wainscoting placed here and there to ward off the chill of the stone mansion made the room cozy and elegant.

And that wasn't all. Above the fireplace installed in one corner of the room hung a large black mirror.

A black mirror!

Not glass injected with black ink or anything of that sort. A genuine mirror made from obsidian. And a very large one at that.

But Monica set aside even that black mirror, staring at Liella in a half-dazed state.

Liella's beautifully puffed brown hair was clearly the result of considerable effort. Maids must have swarmed over it, spending at least an hour with curling irons.

"Excuse me. Hello?"

Liella, who had been explaining half-heartedly, called out to Monica irritably.

"...Yes, Miss Mollette."

"Oh, sorry. I've already forgotten your surname."

The smile was nothing if not affectionate, despite the words. Monica blinked, then suddenly looked at the black mirror before her. The contrast was oddly striking.

Liella stood directly in front of the fireplace where the black mirror hung, and the pink-striped dress she wore harmonized beautifully with the autumnal green wallpaper.

Light, soft fabric suited to early summer. Good skin falling beneath short sleeves, and plump, slightly fleshed arms. Below the wrists were the chemical lace gloves.

At that moment, she saw herself reflected in the black mirror.

Her face was slightly flushed from the heat. Unlike Liella's cheeks, stained peachy with red cinnabar powder, it looked oddly grimy. And the long-sleeved taffeta dress that covered even her wrists—the same one she'd been wearing for two days.

The hands protruding beneath were rough, with thick knuckles.

The black mirror was so transparent and clear that she could see every flyaway hair that stuck out despite her best efforts to twist it up without hair oil.

Monica opened her mouth impulsively.

"You couldn't not know."

At first, she hadn't been certain.

Yesterday she'd confused Sol with the young man called Luis. She'd been sure she knew him, but he'd turned out to be completely different—merely someone who resembled him. That experience had restrained Monica.

But Monica hadn't missed the black roots of hair beneath Liella's splendid brown locks.

And that oddly hostile attitude...

This girl was Lizzie. She couldn't not be.

Lizzie twisted her lips into a crooked smile. Monica continued.

"Lizzie, isn't it?"

The gray eyes showed no confusion. They simply observed Monica in silence.

"It's been a long time, Lizzie. How have you been? No—you seem to have been very well indeed. You look wonderful. I didn't know you'd be here."

Monica smiled, eyes widening.

What should she say? Delight at meeting an old companion from the orphanage? That she was glad Lizzie lived in such a splendid house? Or that she hoped they'd get along? Or perhaps—

Lizzie's lips parted.

"Why did you come?"