Secrets of the Silent Witch - Volume 4.5 - Chapter 4.1

The Villainess's Secret Maneuvers - The Charmed Dream-

Two weeks had passed since Serendia Academy’s school festival. In those two weeks, Monica had tried to help Felix sneak into the library, been pulled every which way by a lost girl and a spirit, and done her best to help a musician recover from his slump. In other words, she’d been fairly busy.

Still, with the festival cleanup now behind them, a measure of calm had returned to the student council room.

…Or so it had seemed.

“Argh! The festival is supposed to be over. So what is going on here?!” growled Cyril as he stepped into the room with Felix.

The rest of the council had already arrived, and everyone turned to look at them. Felix had on his usual gentle smile, but Cyril was clearly out of sorts, flinging cold air everywhere.

“Why haven’t things calmed down yet?! It is outrageous that the prince is still being bothered by all this!”

Elliott’s feather pen came to a stop, and he looked at the silver-haired boy in exasperation. “Seems the one who needs to calm down the most is you.”

The vice president narrowed his eyes at Elliott, but before he could say anything in response, Felix spoke in a calm voice. “Cyril has been mindful of me all day long. I don’t blame him for being irritated.”

Elliott shrugged. Cyril pursed his lips, falling into a sulky silence.

Neil, who had been organizing some documents, spoke softly out of consideration for Cyril. “Why don’t I go make some tea?” he said, getting up.

“I-I’ll come and um, help!” Monica stood up to go after him.

The boy opened the door leading to the hallway—and then froze in his tracks.

“Whoa…,” he breathed.

A moment later, Monica got a look at the hallway, too. She squealed in fright.

A wall of people extended to either side. Half of them were female students, and the other half were their servants.

All of them were gathered in front of the council room, sweeping the floor with their eyes in a frenzy. Though, as one might expect from noble girls and their servants, none of them saw fit to get down on the floor and crawl. And so around thirty people stood very primly in the hallway, their eyes glued to the floor. It was downright creepy.

If it had been only a handful of people, one might assume they were simply looking for some lost item. But this many?

This is too scary! Way too scary!

As Monica shook with fright, Neil quietly closed the door. She couldn’t blame him. She, too, wanted to forget they’d seen anything.

But then Bridget Greyham, who had remained silent up until now, stood up.

“Out of the way,” she said, shooing the two of them from the door before opening it once again.

When the crowd noticed Bridget, they all shuffled back to the wall, looking ashamed.

The noble beauty’s amber eyes scanned from left to right as she directed a cold scowl at the crowd. “You’re obstructing our duties. If there is nothing you need, then begone.”

Even without shouting, her beautiful voice carried through the hallway, making it clear she wouldn’t take no for an answer.

After that, the people gathered in the hall turned around and left like a wave pulling back out to sea.

Elliott clapped. “Excellent work. A stark difference from Cyril, who just screams at everyone.”

Cyril glared at him, then said in a low, stifled voice, “What in the world were they doing out there?”

“There is some absurd charm making the rounds,” explained Bridget, closing the door and returning to her seat. “Take a hair from the one you love, wrap it in paper, then sleep with it under your pillow—supposedly you’ll meet them in your dreams.”

“Oh,” said Elliott, as if it all made sense now. “A charm that lets you meet with the one you love in your sleep.” He looked at Felix.

Felix smiled, his vivid blond hair swaying. He looked a little troubled.

As the second prince and the most likely candidate to succeed the throne, he had many admirers. And political motives aside, quite a few noble girls were infatuated with him simply for his high grades and good looks. Among those pining for him were some who would gladly rely on charms to see him in their dreams.

I thought I heard not long ago that writing love letters in blue ink was popular…, thought Monica. Either way, it didn’t make much sense to her, since she didn’t understand love itself. She was a little impressed; were there really that many different charms out there?

But then Cyril pounded the table with his fist. A chill air spread out from him, even colder than the north wind. “You mean to say they were scavenging for a lock of the prince’s hair? For a reason like that?! It’s beyond rude to even think of using a part of his royal body to fulfill their personal desires!”

Cyril revered Felix, so he couldn’t forgive anyone for using the prince for their own ends—even if it was just a strand of hair. He glared toward the hallway, his eyes glinting, then he put a hand to his chest.

“Prince! I shall protect your hairs!” he declared.

The boy was so serious that sometimes he went a little off course. Felix grinned wryly and rested his cheek on his hand. “It’s just a fad,” he assured Cyril. “It’ll be over in a few days. No need to get so worked up.”

“…Your magnanimity is truly praiseworthy.” At Felix’s gentle words, Cyril quickly reined in his chill.

The prince smiled again, then glanced around the room. “Let’s put this matter aside,” he said, urging everyone to take their seats.

He must have had an important message. Once they were all seated, he began—his expression unusually stern.

“I just received a report from the library committee that a page has been torn out of one of the grimoires currently being stored in Library 2.”

Monica gasped. She knew better than anyone here how terrifying it was to damage a grimoire. Unlike books on magecraft, grimoires were magic items merely shaped like books—their spells could trigger without anyone’s intervention. Both the paper and ink used for them were special, and if a page was damaged, it could cause the magecraft inscribed within to go out of control.

“Fortunately, Mr. Macragan performed some quick sealing work to prevent any major issues,” the prince went on. “However, this is a nasty prank. Tomorrow, we will inform the entire student body, and once the culprit is found, we will punish them severely. If you ever find yourself using the library, please keep an eye out.”

There was a quiet rage in Felix’s voice. Monica could guess why. The truth was that he loved magecraft, enough to read expert manuals on the subject in secret. For him, damaging a grimoire—the crystallization of a mage’s skill and technique—was unforgivable.

Monica thought as she listened to the prince. Grimoires are usually treated the same way as magic items, and both are strictly monitored. You would need permission to view them… So how did one get torn?

A frightening possibility came to mind—what if it was an attempt to set off the grimoire and involve Felix somehow in order to assassinate him? But in that case, the method seemed too unreliable. The grimoire hadn’t misfired. It had been sealed immediately.

If you viewed a grimoire, you’d have to sign a viewing record. Why would anyone…?

Whatever the case, if the culprit had left behind a viewing record, it was only a matter of time before they were found. With that settled, Monica moved her focus on to the next topic at hand.

“I’ve told you a million times to come immediately when called! How long were you planning on making me wait?!”

Monica was used to this inevitable performance put on by her collaborator, the faux villainess Isabelle Norton, whenever she entered the girl’s room.

But that day, she quickly gave up the act and closed the door.

“Um, Lady Isabelle?”

“You look awful, my sister. You’ll get better rest on the couch than on a chair. Please, have a seat. Agatha, prepare some hot milk instead of black tea today. And put plenty of honey in it!”

Monica did as she was told and sat on the couch. As she did, Isabelle’s maidservant, Agatha, smoothly placed a blanket across her lap.

Isabelle sat down next to her and looked her in the eye. “You seem so tired. It saddens my heart…”

Monica couldn’t be called healthy at the best of times, but that day she must have looked even more haggard than usual. Her exhaustion was probably showing on her face. She rubbed her cheeks with her palms, trying to get a little bit of color back into them.

“Well, there’ve been a lot of people near the student council room lately… It’s putting me on edge…”

Three days had passed since the council had spoken about the charm—the one that supposedly made you dream about the object of your affections. Bridget’s thundering commands were improving the situation somewhat, but there were still many more people than before loitering in the hall outside.

Felix was the second prince and widely known as a potential heir to the throne. He’d always been popular, but noble girls flocking to him in search of strands of his hair wasn’t normal. Most importantly, if things kept up like this, it could hinder her secret mission to protect him.

After hearing her story, Isabelle put her fan over her mouth as if in thought. “That charm? It’s popular among the first-year advanced students as well. If I recall correctly, someone heard it at one of the embroidery club’s regular workshops…”

“The embroidery club?”

“Anyone can participate in the workshops, even if they’re not part of the club. I occasionally take part as well.”

According to Isabelle, the embroidery club’s workshops were a place to gather information, much like tea parties. While tea parties tended to have a fixed membership thanks to family and interpersonal relationships, such barriers were lower during these embroidery get-togethers.

They had their own cliques, of course. But if your worktables were close, you could hear what others were talking about. Someone must have heard about the charm at one of these sessions and spread it around Isabelle’s class, too.

Isabelle opened her fan, then puffed out her chest a little. “Of course, an admirer as passionate as myself has no need for charms. I can see you in my dreams whenever I wish.”

That sounds even more amazing than a charm, thought Monica, speechless.

“Apart from that…,” continued Isabelle, “I believe the secret code may be contributing to people’s trust in this particular charm.”

“…Secret code?”

As far as Monica had heard, all this charm involved was wrapping a strand of someone’s hair in paper and putting it under your pillow. This was the first she was learning about any secret code.

“From what I heard, you write the secret code on a piece of paper, then use that to wrap a strand of the person’s hair.”

…Huh? Suddenly, Monica had a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach. “You mean like a shamanic technique…?”

“Shamanic techniques… You mean like the choker you recovered during the school festival?”

Isabelle seemed confused. And that was perfectly natural. Most people went their whole lives never having anything to do with curses. Even Monica wasn’t well-versed in them. They were completely different from magecraft—and were the sole domain of House Albright, the Abyss Shaman’s family.

“Um, Lady Isabelle, do you know what the secret code looks like?”

“One moment, please… Agatha!”

Her maid quickly brought out a feather pen and a piece of paper. Isabelle closed her eyes gently, as if combing through her memories, then used her pen to write down the code.

It wasn’t like any magical formula or circle Monica was used to seeing. But it had a regularity to it that she remembered.

It looks like the Abyss Shaman’s cursed seals…I think.

Ray Albright, the Abyss Shaman and one of Monica’s colleagues in the Seven Sages, had used cursed techniques several times in her presence. During one such instance, he’d written a seal on a piece of paper and wrapped it around a strand of hair, thus creating a simple shamanic tool.

Maybe I should look into it. Just to be safe. If it was a curse, and not just a charm, things could spiral out of control.

As Monica organized her thoughts, Isabelle bolted up off the couch. “It looks like it’s time for the villainess to make an appearance.”

“U-um…”

“Information gathering in high society is where I shine. Just watch—see how this villainess elegantly sniffs out the source of these rumors!”

She spread her fan and was about to belt out another high-pitched laugh, when—perhaps out of consideration for Monica’s weariness—she abruptly closed her mouth. Then she sat back down on the couch, her posture prim and proper, and instead proceeded to join Monica in drinking the hot milk Agatha had prepared.

The embroidery club’s workshop was held in a comfortably large room, just like a salon might be. Taking a seat on one of the couches and continuing her embroidery of a skylark, Eliane Hyatt, daughter of Duke Rehnberg, kept an ear out for gossip.

What she heard was all about a charm that had lately become popular, which involved wrapping a strand of hair from someone you loved in paper and sleeping with it under your pillow in order to dream of them.

Oh my. My, my. So they’re crowding around Lord Felix in the hopes of finding a fallen hair for their charm… How vulgar. What a sad fate it must be to never get a smile from him except in your dreams.

Eliane was Felix’s second cousin and the number one candidate to marry him. He would attend her tea parties if she wished it and dance with her at balls as many times as she wanted. She didn’t need to rely on an adorable little charm just so she could see him in dreams.

She almost never attended the embroidery club’s workshops, but today she had made an exception. As a noblewoman, she needed to be well-informed on all the latest trends. These sessions usually had a much lower attendance rate, but thanks to the charm fad exploding, it was currently a roaring hub of activity.

All nobles should have an interest in following trends. And…you never know when such knowledge will come in handy. I might as well have a listen.

The girls sitting nearby stopped their embroidery and began writing something on a piece of paper. This was no embroidery diagram, however, but rather the secret code used for the charm. First, you wrote it on the paper, then you put a strand of the person’s hair into it. Pretending to switch floss, Eliane glanced at the code out of the corner of her eye.

It was more complicated than she’d imagined. As someone with knowledge of magecraft—albeit at a beginner level—the code looked rather like a magical formula. She could tell beyond a doubt, however, that it was not. This was something else.

I’m sure whoever came up with this charm modeled the code after a magical formula. She frantically tried to memorize it, knowing she wouldn’t be able to, when a murmur rippled through the room.

“Good day.”

With a smile, in came her classmate, Isabelle Norton, noble daughter of Count Kerbeck.

Eliane privately frowned. She didn’t particularly like the girl—after all, she was only a count’s daughter, yet she dared to stand out more than Eliane—but Count Kerbeck wielded a great deal of influence, so Eliane couldn’t act coldhearted toward her.

As the big shot Kerbeck girl entered, a girl with hair the color of milk tea quickly stood up. It was the embroidery club president, Cecily Stanley.

“Good day, Lady Isabelle,” said Cecily. “I’m so happy you came. And I see you brought your retainer as well.”

Behind Isabelle was Monica Norton, a short girl with light-brown hair who served as student council accountant.

Isabelle hid her mouth behind her fan and snickered. “Why, yes. And can you believe, this poor excuse for a servant can’t even do one stitch properly. Would someone mind showing her the ropes?”

Monica looked down stiffly at Isabelle’s mean-spirited comment.

Eliane thought. Was it best to say Oh, you poor thing and invite Monica over to her table?

No, no. If a servant like that was to come to our table, she would only look more pitiful by comparison. The tragedy!

Everyone else probably had the same idea. Their faces made it clear that while they all wanted to curry favor with the influential House Kerbeck, they didn’t want a servant at their table.

It was a girl at another table who finally offered to help—Sheila Ashburton, the vice president of the embroidery club. The black-haired girl wore glasses and seemed the epitome of calm as she smoothly raised a hand.

“In that case, please come over here… Well, you know… This table is where we teach beginners.”

As Monica sighed in relief, Isabelle cut in sarcastically. “Oh, how nice for you. I know it will be hard, but please learn how to sew a floorcloth, at least. Ohhh-hoh-hoh-hoh!” Laughing in amusement, the girl took a seat at a table with several other high-ranking nobles.

Monica Norton, twitching and trying to make herself look small, went over to the corner table to join Sheila’s group.

***

After surmising that the charm at the center of the recent fad might be using a shamanic technique, Monica had written a letter to Ray Albright, the Abyss Shaman, asking him to check if it matched any curses he knew. She’d entrusted the letter to the high wind spirit Ryn; that way, it would arrive faster than normal post. Still, she wouldn’t necessarily receive an answer right away.

So while she waited, she accompanied Isabelle to the embroidery club’s workshop to investigate further.

Isabelle had suggested that they split up once inside. The workshops were, for the most part, divided into groups consisting of higher- or lower-ranking nobles. The high-ranking groups were usually led by the club’s president, Cecily Stanley.

Cecily acted much as one would when sponsoring a tea party, teaching the noble girls embroidery while making light conversation to entertain them. Hers was an important job—she provided the topics of conversation, whether that was embroidery, clothing, or the latest trends in fashionable society.

Looking after the other groups was the club’s vice president, Sheila Ashburton. Isabelle had this to say about the girl:

“She may be reserved, but she is very kind. If I neglect you, she is sure to invite you to her table.”

And Isabelle was right. After being bullied, Monica found herself called over to Sheila’s table right away.

Wow, Isabelle is amazing… It really went exactly like she said…

Isabelle knew the family situations, interpersonal relationships, and personalities of everyone who attended the embroidery club. She was quickly becoming ever more reliable as a collaborator.

Monica’s job was to ask Sheila where the charm had originated. The girl in question was currently guiding a group of lower-ranking students through some embroidery. She would sometimes move from table to table giving instructions, so it was very possible she knew more about the rumors than Cecily—or at least, that was what Isabelle believed.

I’ll…I’ll do my best! As Monica rallied her courage and made her way over to Sheila’s table, she suddenly spotted a familiar figure sitting on the couch right next to the vice president.

She widened her eyes. “Huh? Um… Lana?”

“Monica?!”

Lana quickly pulled her embroidery hoop to her chest, then hid it behind her so Monica couldn’t see. Maybe she was the type of person who didn’t like to show people things she wasn’t finished making. Monica didn’t like to show off half-finished magical formulae, either, so she understood the feeling.

Then if I sit next to her, I might end up bothering her…

As Monica hesitated, wondering where to sit, Sheila patted the seat right next to her. “This spot is free.”

The vice president’s couch was at a right angle to the one Lana was sitting on, so while they could talk to each other, they were far enough away that they couldn’t see what the other was embroidering.

Grateful, Monica took a seat next to Sheila. “Th-thank phew…”

As Monica sat down, Sheila looked at the girl’s embroidery box and frowned. It was small enough to fit in someone’s palm, and it only had a needle and some thread in it. She didn’t have scissors to cut the floss, so she would have to bite the strands off with her teeth. There were also several scraps of fabric she could use for practice inside, but that was all she’d brought.

Sheila slid her own embroidery box over to Monica. “If there’s a tool you need, please use mine… Well, you know. I can lend you a thimble, too.”

“Th-thank you… Um, which, um, finger do I put this on?”

The vice president eyed Monica through her glasses, shocked—she hadn’t expected the girl to be quite this clueless. But then she kindly explained how to use the thimble. She really was caring, just like Isabelle had said.

Monica wasn’t exactly clumsy with her hands, but she had no real interest in sewing, so she could only do the very basics. Essentially, she could sew two pieces of fabric together without caring about how it looked, and that was it. She hadn’t really cared about her appearance while living up in her mountain cabin. As long as she could mend the holes in torn clothing, that was enough.

“You put the thimble on the middle finger of your dominant hand,” explained Sheila, “then use it to push on the head of the needle. It makes things easier when sewing thicker fabrics.”

“I, um, I see…”

Before, whenever she was working on a thick piece of fabric and couldn’t get her needle to go through, she’d push the head against a table to force it. This was a revelation.

“We can start by practicing how to sew in a straight line. We’ll use this fabric. You’re not moving the needle so much as… Well, you know. Imagine you’re bringing the needle forward. Move the fabric so that you’re sticking it in at a right angle.”

“Um, I think I get it…”

Monica began to stitch the fabric as Sheila had described. At first, the thimble on her right middle finger felt odd, and she couldn’t move her right hand properly. But she didn’t actually need to move it much in the first place.

Don’t move the needle, bring it forward… At a right angle to the fabric…

Most “proper” ways of doing things were rooted in logic. Monica liked it when things were logical.

Huh? Wait, I’m doing it more efficiently now. And I think the stitches are neater, too…!

As Monica covertly admired her stitches, Lana stopped hers and frowned. “You should have said something if you were coming,” she said.

“Um, do you come here a lot?” asked Monica. “To these workshops, I mean?”

For some reason, Lana flinched.

Sheila cast a sidelong glance at the girl, then said, “It’s Miss Colette’s first time here. But she’s quite good at this.”

Lana’s mouth began to twitch like she was trying to hide how happy she was at the compliment. She still seemed intent on hiding her embroidery from Monica, though. If she’d rather Monica not see it, that was probably best. Monica let her gaze wander, so as not to look at Lana’s hands.

“Do you embroider often, Lana?” she asked.

“I dabble, I suppose,” said the other girl. “Our family’s business includes clothing, so it can’t hurt to know a bit about how it works, right? Embroidered rickrack pieces with pearls or beads around them have been popular lately. I’m sure you’ve seen them on collars and broaches. And people add embroidery to the edges of lacework, too…”

She spoke quickly. To Monica, it seemed like she was trying to hide the real reason she’d come to the workshop. If she didn’t usually attend, then why do so now? Monica could think of only one reason.

Could it be that…Lana’s also interested in the charm…?!

Was she in love with someone? Did she want to see him in her dreams?

But first, I have to figure out if this new charm is related to a curse… If it’s not a shamanic technique but just a harmless charm, then it shouldn’t be a problem…

People would still be after Felix’s hair, of course, but once the fad ran its course, the commotion near the student council room would settle down, too.

Monica stopped moving her needle, then tried to speak as casually as she could. “Um, I hear a certain charm has gotten really popular lately…”

Her attempt was completely unnatural. She hadn’t managed a casual tone at all.

Lana shot her a dubious look. “You’re interested in that, Monica?”

She’d been right. Lana did know about the charm. But how should she answer? Should she say she was interested?

As Monica hesitated, Sheila—without stopping her own embroidery work—replied, “Oh, that. The one where you wrap a strand of hair in some paper… The poor student council. People have been practically banging on the council room’s doors looking for a strand of the prince’s hair.”

“Y-yes…,” said Monica.

“Ever since the rumor started spreading, these workshops have been much more popular… I just want to embroider in peace, but well. You know. It’s complicated.”

“I wonder who started the rumor…,” Monica wondered aloud—far too directly.

Sheila probably thought the charm business was bothering her as a member of the student council. “I don’t know who started it,” she said, looking slightly sympathetic, “but apparently the charm came from a book recently donated to the library.”

“A book donated to the library…?”

That had to mean it was one of the tomes from the Haymes-Nalia Library, which had recently been closed down. Monica had been there one or two years ago, to do some sealing work on their grimoires.

The Haymes-Nalia Library… A charm…

Something about that tugged at her. She stopped her needle and groaned. It would only take one more push to remember what it was. As it turned out, that push came in an unexpected form.

“’Scuse me! Can I borrow a needle and thread from someone? A hole opened up in my sock!”

The door swung open, accompanied by a loud voice, revealing the always-effervescent butcher’s son, Glenn Dudley. And something he said further wrenched open the door to Monica’s memories.

Two years ago, while sealing grimoires at the Haymes, Ray Albright—the Abyss Shaman—had described a curse. It was meant to open a hole in the sole of someone’s shoe to help the caster feel better about himself.

Then Monica remembered the cute pink cover he’d designed to make curses more appealing to young girls.

Finally, she recalled the book’s new title. He’d replaced its original name, An Introduction to the Shamanic Arts with bubbly letters reading My First Charm.

Aaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Monica’s throat spasmed. She started hiccupping, but her hiccups sounded like contracted whimpers. If the charm’s originator had taken the idea from My First Charm—formerly An Introduction to the Shamanic Arts—then no matter what anyone else called it, it was a curse.

This is terrible…!

Hands shaking, Monica put her needle away, then wobbled to her feet. “Um, I’m sorry! I haph, um, something r-really important to do!”

She bowed to a surprised Lana and Sheila, then burst out of the room.

Her first task was to check the list of donated books in the library.

When Glenn Dudley stepped into the room and shouted in that absurdly loud voice of his, Eliane was so shocked she pricked a finger with her needle.

How far must you go to aggravate me, Glenn Dudley?!

Though she quietly glared at him, he didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he turned to look, confused, at the girl rushing out of the room.

“Well, Monica’s certainly in a hurry. What happened? …Oh, sorry. Could I borrow a needle and some thread?” he called out.

The noble girls watched him, half exasperated and half amused. Normally, a man storming into the embroidery club’s gathering—a ladies’ gathering—would have been grounds for criticism.

But after playing the hero in the festival play and making it a huge hit, the whole school had their eyes on him. Quite a few noble girls were hoping to get closer to him.

Glenn scanned the room, then seemed to spot someone he knew. “Oh, hey, it’s Lana,” he said, heading over to her table.

Why is he going over there? thought Eliane. I’m right here! …Well, I don’t want to get a hair’s breadth closer to him. Still, we did perform together, so you’d think he’d at least greet me.

Placing her embroidery hoop on her lap, Eliane called out to him. “Good day, Lord Glenn.”

“Oh, you’re the girl from the play.”

She had to desperately stop her smile from going haywire. She remembered his name. Did he not remember hers?

“It’s Eliane Hyatt,” she replied, looking up at him with a smile that had been described as having fairy-like beauty and slightly tilting her head.

“Have you torn a sock?” she asked him. Would you like me to sew it up for you?”

Now she was sure he’d be moved to tears, thinking what a compassionate, kindhearted young woman she was.

Unfortunately, his reaction was much more awkward. “Well… Hmm…”

He glanced at the skylark she was in the middle of embroidering and, of all things, put on a pained grin.

“It’d be faster if I did it, so don’t worry about it. Oh, but I’ll borrow your needle and thread!” He took a seat next to her and fished a needle and some thread out of her embroidery box without asking.

He then strung the thread through the needle and made a French knot, seeming very practiced.

As Eliane shook from the humiliation, Glenn glanced at the skylark in her embroidery hoop. “If you’re gonna stitch a boar,” he said, “it’ll look better if you make a stripe pattern with black thread here.”

She let out a classy giggle. “Oh, Lord Glenn. You are ever so good at joking,” she said, maintaining an elegant smile, consciously holding herself back from slapping him in the face with her hoop.

Monica ran—or rather, stomped—through the halls toward the student council room. It looked incredibly awkward and clumsy, but she was going as fast as she possibly could.

She’d just come from the library. Ten or twenty minutes ago, after darting out of the embroidery club’s workshop, she’d gone straight there and had the student in charge show her the list of donated books.

And there it was, just as she’d thought:

MY FIRST CHARM. AUTHOR: RAY ALBRIGHT

Its official title was An Introduction to the Shamanic Arts, but that part was in such small print it must have been overlooked.

Normally, you needed permission to view shamanic tomes. But this one’s cute new cover had led it to be mistaken for a general-use book and placed in the normal part of the academy’s library.

Once Monica realized this, she’d frantically requested to borrow the book. Unfortunately, it was already on loan. And because of their confidentiality policy, the librarian couldn’t tell her who was borrowing it.

I put in a reservation to borrow it next, but I have to get ahold of it as soon as I can…

If she sent in an appeal to the school saying that a shamanic tome was mixed in with the general books, they might have retrieved it immediately. But then others would be suspicious of her—how did she know it was special? Normal people basically never got the chance to see a shamanic tome. The argument that she knew the author was the third Abyss Shaman seemed a little weak.

For now, I have to make sure the prince hasn’t been cursed…!

Her mission was to protect Felix. His safety was her top priority, so she had to check on him first. Desperately, she ran, her limbs flailing.

For someone with chronic physical weakness from lack of exercise, running from the embroidery club’s salon to the library building and then to the student council room as fast as she could felt like a marathon. Her sides hurt.

Eventually, her steps changed from big stomps to tired wobbles—but she’d made it to the council room.

“I’m… I’m here…,” she muttered as she began to cough.

Opening the door, she saw that Felix was alone, doing some work—perfect for her purposes. There was no council meeting that day, but Monica had assumed the prince would want to use the nice, quiet room to focus on his tasks. And she’d been right.

Thank…thank goodness… If he wasn’t here, I’d have had to go all the way to the third-years’ classrooms… For someone as shy as Monica, visiting a classroom in a different grade was a terrible trial. She sighed in relief.

Felix’s feather pen stopped, and he looked up at her. “Hello there. What’s wrong? Why do you look so out of sorts?”

“P-Prince, um…”

But before she could get the words out, she swallowed them back down. She wanted to tell him that someone had found a shamanic tome among the regular library books and spread around a cursed charm—to ask him if he’d noticed anything wrong. But she didn’t know much about curses or which ones were in the book to begin with. In fact, there was only one she could recall.

“P-Prince, your…”

“Yes?”

“Your socks! Are they okay?!”

Felix fell silent. First Cyril was worrying about his hair, now Monica was concerned for his socks? The quiet room filled up with Monica’s pained huffing and puffing.

Still smiling, he said, “They seem fine, I think.”

Oh, good… At least I know he wasn’t cursed to have holes in his socks. Privately relieved, she continued. “Also, um… Any new bruises, or a fever…?”

“Why the sudden questions?”

That was a perfectly natural thing to ask. Monica panicked and started waving her arms meaninglessly in front of her, desperately trying to form words. “Um, well, there’s an illness like that going around, and I was worried you were sick!”

“Hmm?” said Felix, getting up from his desk. As Monica continued to pant, he went over to her and smiled. “You were worried about me?”

“Yes, very much! Very worried!” Worried, as his bodyguard, about how exactly he might have been cursed.

She peeled her eyes, studying any exposed skin she could find—his face, his neck. Those cursed by a shamanic technique usually had patterns called seals form on their skin.

I don’t see anything like that, but what about under his clothes?

As Monica stared at the place where his neck met his uniform, the prince—with very natural motions—took Monica’s shoulders and directed her to sit on the sofa. She flopped down onto it and sunk into the cushions as he quietly took a seat next to her.

“And how is this illness related to my socks?”

“Well, um… It’s an illness where the skin on your foot can start to fester, and…”

“My, that sounds awful.”

“Yes! It’s really, really awful!”

Part of her realized that if an illness like that really was going around, it would be considerably worse than the curse that punched holes in your socks. Regardless, she quickly nodded.

Felix, seeming somehow amused, grinned and tilted his head to the side. “What other symptoms does this illness have?”

“Um, palpitations, shortness of breath, dizziness…,” she said, offering a bunch of symptoms she thought sounded reasonably convincing.

Felix gave a start. “Oh, that’s not good then,” he said gravely.

The color drained from Monica’s face. “D-don’t tell me those symptoms ring a bell!”

“Indeed they do,” he said. “I know of someone so pale they look ready to pass out, and they’ve been very short of breath.”

“Wh-who is it?!”

Monica was panicking now. The curse didn’t necessarily have to be on Felix. There was a chance someone near him could have been cursed instead.

Just then, she realized something. For the last few days, this charm craze had everyone after Felix’s hair. And that meant Cyril was always at the prince’s side. Yet right now, he was nowhere to be found.

“No!” she cried. “Not Lord Cyril!”

“I mean you.”

“Huh?” said Monica, caught totally off-guard.

Felix smoothly removed his glove and put his hand to her forehead.

“…Well, it doesn’t seem like you have a fever. But you’ve been out of breath ever since you arrived, and you look very pale. I was worried about you.”

Her shortness of breath was from running all the way here—and her poor complexion was chronic. “N-no, I’m fine. Um, so why isn’t Lord Cyril here?”

“He’s out on a different matter right now.” Felix seemed to think about something, then lowered his tone. “You remember me telling you how a grimoire page was torn? He found the culprit, and he’s going to question them.”

Oh yeah. That did happen, thought Monica. Grimoires had viewing restrictions, so if you went through the records for the one in question, you’d be able to find the culprit pretty easily.

“Who, um, did it turn out to be?”

“One Miss Wanda Willmott, a third-year in the advanced course. I suppose you wouldn’t know her… She’s the cousin of the embroidery club’s president. She belongs to the club, too.”

Monica had never heard the girl’s name before. But the fact that the culprit was a member of the embroidery club bothered her.

The charm going around is probably a curse from the shamanic tome. And the one who spread it was in the embroidery club…

The shamanic tome mixed into the regular books and the torn page from the grimoire. Something linked them. Monica could feel it.

Was Wanda Willmott the one who borrowed My First Charm—or rather, An Introduction to the Shamanic Arts? But even so, why would she tear out a grimoire page?

As Monica looked down and began to mull this over, she felt something touch her mouth. She could smell something tickling her nostrils, too—the rich scent of butter. Out of reflex, she got her mouth around it and started chewing.

It was a baked item, soft and buttery with raspberry jam and a mottled pattern of crumbs on top. The slightly moist body and the topping had different textures, adding interest, with the sourness of the raspberries providing the perfect accent.

“…Huh?!”

Monica’s head came up, the baked good halfway into her mouth. A mischievous, blue-eyed gaze met hers.

“Once you eat that, go back to your dorm room and take the rest of the day off. I’m pretty sure the exhaustion is getting to you.”

Her mouth full of baked goods, Monica wasn’t sure how to reply.

Felix’s lips turned up in a smile. “Or do you want me to take care of you instead?”

She shook her head vigorously. If that ever happened, an enraged Cyril would make a freezer out of the entire student council room. “How dare you subject the prince to such treatment!” he’d scream at her. She started to tremble at the thought.

“I-I’ll be going nomph!” she exclaimed, shooting up to her feet and scampering away. Felix watched her go with a chuckle.

After bursting out into the hallway, Monica shut the door and exhaled. She was exhausted, physically and mentally. But she was steadily getting all the information she needed.

I’m still missing the most important piece, though…

First, she wanted to meet up with Isabelle and go over what they’d learned. The embroidery club’s workshop would be ending soon.

As Monica started toward the girls’ dorm, she suddenly heard a soft voice in her ear.

“Lady Silent Witch… Can you hear me?”

It belonged to Ryn. She was probably producing sound from afar by directly vibrating Monica’s eardrums.

Last night, Monica had entrusted the spirit with a letter to Ray. Had she gotten a response?

“You said you wanted Sir Abyss Shaman’s reply as soon as possible, and so…”

Monica had only made the request the day before. I can’t believe she got a reply already! she thought, impressed.

Then, with a hint of pride, Ryn continued, “So I have kidnapped him and brought him here.”

“Meep?!” cried Monica.

Ray Albright, the Abyss Shaman, was sitting in the forest outside Serendia Academy, curled up in a ball, his arms around his knees.

“Th-this is unbelievable… All of a sudden, I’m kidnapped, and then I go spinning through the air and land here… What’s happening? I don’t understand. What is going on? I was sure my organs would start leaking through my nose…”

Apparently, Ryn had tested out one of her “unprecedented landing methods” on him. After bringing Monica to Ray, the spirit nodded meekly. “I am glad you appear to be satisfied.”

Monica felt bad for him, so she bowed apologetically. “I’m really, really sorry. To tell the truth, one of your books made its way into the school…”

She briefly explained the situation. The shamanic tome he’d altered the cover of at the Haymes-Nalia Library had gotten mixed up with the regular books, and whoever had found it was spreading one of its curses around the school in the guise of a charm.

Ray’s already pale complexion grew even more ghastly. He scratched at his purple hair, apparently struggling. “I’m happy a girl picked up my book…so happy… But this seems like a pretty bad situation…”

“The curse might be, um, targeting the prince,” added Monica.

The shaman widened his eyes and stammered incomprehensibly. “Abuh, buh, buh—”

She knew the feeling. They had to get that shamanic tome back as quickly as they could, then capture the one responsible for spreading around the curse.

“I wrote you a letter about it, but… Is there a curse where you see the person you love in your dreams?”

“…No.”

Ray hung his head and shook it. His purple hair rustled from side to side, his bangs momentarily parting to give a view of his glinting pink eyes.

“The essence of shamanic techniques is to make others suffer…,” he explained. “The one you’re referring to is supposed to interfere with your target’s dreams. You create a simple shamanic tool with a strand of your own hair, then place it under the target’s pillow. When you do, you can infiltrate their dreams and do mean things to them… Specifically, you can yell at them and call them names, since it’s just a dream.”

Yelling aside, this flustered Monica. Things were getting a little strange.

The original technique uses your own hair—and interferes with someone else’s dream? But the charm uses a strand from the one you love, and then you put it under your own pillow…

That meant the casters were cursing themselves, didn’t it?

Why had someone spread such a thing around? What were they after?

Monica groaned, trying to puzzle it out.

“Well,” said Ray softly, “you need paper that can be imbued with mana to create the tool. And imbuing it takes training anyway. I doubt someone could use it straight from the book…”

“Huh?”

Ray’s words pricked Monica’s memories. Wait, that means…

If her assumption was correct, then everything was connected. The culprit probably couldn’t use shamanic techniques at all. But their ability to curse wasn’t the issue here. The details didn’t matter—the fact was that someone had gotten the prince mixed up in a ritual using shamanic techniques. If that was proven, the culprit would be put to death.

I have to settle this whole thing peacefully. In secret. But how…?

“I see… So that is the situation we find ourselves in.”

After returning to the girls’ dorm, Monica went to Isabelle’s room to exchange information and ideas.

A shamanic tome from the Haymes-Nalia Library had found its way into Serendia Academy. And for some reason, a curse meant to interfere with a target’s dreams was spreading as a charm to see the person you love in your own.

After this brief explanation, Isabelle put her fan to her lips and lowered her eyes in thought. Monica took a sip of the tea Agatha had prepared, then explained her own theory.

“I think the culprit, and the one who tore the page out of the grimoire, was Miss Wanda Willmott.”

From what Ray had said, the curse required paper that could be imbued with mana. Such paper was valuable—and it was used for grimoires. Even a noble girl would have a hard time getting her hands on it.

Instead, she’d obtained it through other means—by ripping a page out of a grimoire in the library.

“I think, um, that she repurposed the technique for herself.”

Originally, the curse involved putting a simple shamanic tool with your own hair in it underneath a target’s bedding, then interfering with their dreams. But Felix was royalty. Nobody would be able to slip something like that into his room.

So rather than interfere in his dream, Wanda probably wanted Felix to interfere in hers. That was how she’d reinterpreted the curse, and why she’d used a torn-out grimoire page to make the charm.

“The one thing I don’t understand is why she spread the rumors,” said Monica. “Wouldn’t it be better for her to keep it secret?” She folded her arms and hummed in thought.

“You wish to settle things peacefully, yes?” asked Isabelle quietly, looking Monica straight in the eye. Her expression was the epitome of a proud, dignified noble girl.

In front of Monica, Isabelle could act like a regular, excitable girl, as well as the noble, elegant daughter of Count Kerbeck. Both versions were parts of the whole that was Isabelle.

Feeling a little overwhelmed, Monica nodded slightly. “Y-yes.”

“Then, if you would, my sister… I am more than capable of cleaning up this incident myself.”

When Cecily Stanley, president of the embroidery club, saw the tea party invitation, she doubted her own eyes. The sponsor was Isabelle Norton, daughter of the great eastern noble Count Kerbeck.

While Isabelle was two years younger than her, the girl’s family far outranked hers. Plenty of people wanted to get on Isabelle’s good side, male and female alike. Cecily was no exception. If she could establish a positive relationship with Count Kerbeck’s daughter, her father was sure to be delighted.

Oh, I’m so glad I worked this hard to make the embroidery meetings exciting…

The club’s workshops were just one of many watering holes in noble society. As sponsor, she had to keep a constant watch on how everyone was feeling and provide suitable topics of conversation. Lately, rumors of a new charm had been making meetings much livelier. Even girls who she didn’t often see had started attending.

Isabelle must have invited her to this tea party out of respect for her skills.

“Excuse me,” she said, knocking on the door of the private tearoom.

A servant from House Kerbeck showed Cecily in. Isabelle was already seated; it was to be just the two of them.

Cecily offered a friendly smile and a curtsy. “Thank you for inviting me today, Lady Isabelle.”

“And thank you for coming,” Isabelle replied. “I know you must be busy, so I appreciate it. Please, sit down.”

Cecily quickly scanned the flowers and tea utensils on the table. The vase was made of finely decorated, highly transparent glass; the tea set was first-rate, adorned with plenty of gold. In the vase was a large orange rose. The roses that bloomed in autumn and winter tended to be smaller, so having such a large one in this season signified Isabelle’s wealth.

As expected from the daughter of a major eastern noble…! she thought, impressed.

Isabelle flashed a full smile and began. “I’ve taken quite the interest in that charm everyone in the embroidery club is talking about. You’ve heard of it, I’m sure, Lady Cecily?”

“Why, yes. I recall you were at the previous gathering, in fact, and were asking quite fervently after it. Hee-hee. I have to wonder what sort of dream you’d like to have.”

“Now, now, Lady Cecily. There’s only one person anyone in this kingdom pines for, is there not?”

A hint of “sulking child” crept into Isabelle’s charming face. It made her look like a little sister—adorable.

Cecily brought her fan to her mouth and smiled a little. “Ah… Yes, we do all long for Prince Felix.”

“I wonder, does Miss Wanda Willmott feel the same?”

For a moment, Cecily felt like someone had just thrown cold water all over their fun. Her grip on the fan tightened, and she had to fight to keep the emotion off her face. Everybody knew her cousin Wanda was infatuated with the prince. This was nothing to be rattled over.

“Yes, she does indeed,” she replied. “She quite reveres him, in fact…”

“Is that why you taught her the charm?”

Cecily felt her blood run cold.

Isabelle hid her mouth behind her fan, her eyes icy as she watched the other girl. Her face held none of the girlish innocence of a moment ago.

“I don’t know,” Cecily said immediately, “who it was that first suggested the charm.”

She hoped her voice didn’t reveal how disturbed she was. What about her smile? Was that okay?

As she began to panic, Isabelle drove in her next blade. “My First Charm. By Ray Albright.”

That title. How did she know it? A chill ran down Cecily’s spine. She wanted to swallow, but her mouth was so dry and ragged that she couldn’t manage it. Hand trembling, she took a sip of her tea.

Isabelle went on. “Miss Wanda never seemed like much of a reader… You, on the other hand, are an avid one. Am I right?”

She was. Cecily loved reading. During embroidery club workshops, the sponsor had to be ready to provide all kinds of topics. So she knew all about what was popular. She knew of all the clothing trends, hairstyles, novels, plays—and charms.

That was what had led her to that book. She’d realized at once that it was no book on charms, but a shamanic tome. Still, her curiosity pulled her in, and that was when she’d figured it out. She could use its curses as charms.

And so she’d used the curse meant to interfere in someone’s dream as a foundation for a charm to see the one you loved in your own dream instead. When she’d explained it to Wanda, she’d said she read about it in a library book.

“I’m certain that if you use this charm, you’ll be able to see Prince Felix in your dreams,” she’d said, placing the paper charm in her hand and closing her cousin’s fingers around it.

On her honor, she never intended for the charm to spread any further. All she wanted to do was help out the lovesick Wanda.

The next morning, she’d been practically bouncing as she came to Cecily and hugged her.

“Cecily! Cecily! You won’t believe this! The charm—it’s amazing! It worked! I had a dream where I danced with the prince!”

She’d had the dream she wanted. It must have been the result of her own strong feelings, or perhaps a mere coincidence.

Regardless, Wanda thought the charm was the real thing. In a burst of excitement, she’d told all her friends. And thus the rumor spread in a flash, turning into a minor fad. Thanks to that, the embroidery club workshops had grown livelier, and Cecily found herself pleased with the situation.

But things had taken a turn for the worse a few days ago. Wanda came to Cecily again, but her face was gloomier this time. “The charm stopped working. I wonder what happened…,” she’d said.

Charms didn’t actually do anything. Even Wanda would have known that, but that glimpse of happiness in her dreams had sucked her in.

She and Cecily shared the same dorm. At some point, Wanda started fishing through her belongings—and found the book.

Cecily looked down. Isabelle’s voice continued to pelt her like cold rain. “Lady Wanda sought out special paper to increase the charm’s effects, right? And it seems she was looking for a paper shop at last week’s bazaar… But paper able to be imbued with mana is not so easily obtained.”

Wanda had searched high and low at the bazaar last week looking for such paper, but in the end, she was sadly unable to find it.

“So she tore a page out of a grimoire in the library and used that instead,” said Isabelle.

“How…how do you…?” How much did the girl in front of her know? Cecily’s voice shook.

Isabelle tittered, then angled her fan down slightly. Her mouth was visible now, and it was turned up in a cold smile. “Oh? Keep one ear to the ground, and such paltry rumors are easy to catch… Perhaps you were so focused on providing information that you neglected to think of what it all meant.”

Cecily was an avid reader for the purposes of gathering information. Wanda didn’t like reading. Wanda pined for Felix. Cecily and Wanda were on good terms, and Cecily supported Wanda’s feelings for the prince. Wanda had gone to the bazaar and searched for special paper that could be imbued with mana.

All of these things were tiny morsels of information, but Isabelle had put them all together and arrived at the truth.

That’s…terrifying…

Cecily felt like she was freezing, despite the fire in the hearth. Her hands trembled madly; she balled them into tight fists to still them, then looked down.

Isabelle watched her with pity. “The book was written by the Abyss Mage, yes? Meaning it’s a shamanic tome.”

“That… I…” She tried to lie. But something like that would be obvious from simply looking at the book. So she fell quiet.

Icicles in her voice, Isabelle continued, “That means Lady Wanda attempted to place a curse on royalty.”

Immediately, Cecily began to shout. “Wait! She…she doesn’t know anything! She believes it’s just a charm!”

That was a lie. Wanda had stolen a look at the book. The thing she’d believed to be a charm was a shamanic technique, and she’d known it. And she’d still wanted to increase its effectiveness.

But Cecily didn’t want to make Wanda into some kind of criminal. Not only was she her cousin—she was a good friend. Tearing a page out of a grimoire would be grounds for a strict warning, but cursing royalty? Expulsion would be a lucky break. At best, she’d spend life in prison. At worst…execution.

“I tricked her! That’s all! She didn’t do anything wrong…!” Cecily cried, all out of sorts.

Isabelle folded her fan and switched her cold look for a soft smile. “Of course she didn’t. I plan to keep all this to myself. I wouldn’t want to disturb the peace of our school life, would you?”

Now that she’d revealed all Cecily’s secrets, she was offering to help her.

“You can explain the book to the librarian like this,” she said. “I borrowed as many books as I could but didn’t read this one for a while. As the return date approached, I got impatient and read it, then realized it was a shamanic tome. That should convince them. All that remains is for you to tell Lady Wanda not to say a word.”

Cecily clung to Isabelle’s merciful outstretched hand—she had no other choice.

She had been backed into a corner, and now she gazed up at the very one who had done it as if she was her savior.

Teacup in hand, Isabelle simply smiled calmly back at her. Cecily could even make out compassion in the expression.

The girl was two years younger than her, but as a noblewoman, she was on another level.

“Oh, right. I’m sure the charm will go out of fashion on its own soon, but…if possible, I think it best to replace it with a different trend quickly.”

“Something new…?” That sounded awfully convenient. Could they really do that?

As Cecily wondered about it, unsure, Isabelle flashed her an incredibly charming smile. “Believe it or not, there is something I’d very much like to make popular.”

A week had passed since Isabelle’s questioning of Cecily, and a measure of tranquility had returned to the area around the student council room. People hadn’t totally forgotten about the charm, but nobody was swarming Felix hoping to get their hands on a strand of his hair anymore.

Cecily had gone to the library and told them she’d realized a book she’d borrowed was a shamanic tome. The book itself, its cover the new one Ray had created, was returned to House Albright, whereupon he got a severe telling off from the previous Abyss Shaman.

Lady Isabelle is just incredible, thought Monica as she headed for the council room, thinking back to her collaborator’s conversation with Cecily that day. Monica had been hiding behind the curtains in the tearoom; she’d heard everything. Isabelle’s skill in getting the embroidery club president to confess was truly a thing of beauty.

“In situations like these, the trick is to withhold some information. That makes them believe you somehow know everything. It rattles them something awful,” Isabelle had said.

Not only had she overwhelmed the girl and driven her into a corner, she’d then offered a means of getting her out of the situation entirely. That had brought her down for good. Isabelle had called it “one of her villainess techniques.”

Apparently, becoming a good villainess meant learning extremely advanced forms of information gathering and negotiation. The rabbit hole went deep, and Monica couldn’t even pretend to understand it.

Still, there was one thing that had defied even the talented Isabelle’s predictions—it had to do with the new fad she’d wanted to start.

“They have published a book detailing all the incredible feats of the Silent Witch, one of the great Seven Sages and the one who saved our lands! I would very much like to make that book popular instead…!”

Eavesdropping from behind the curtain, Monica had almost started foaming at the mouth and nearly fainted. This was the first she’d heard of such a book being published.

According to the villainess, those living in Kerbeck had been so grateful to the Silent Witch for putting down the black dragon that they’d dedicated a book to her. Monica wished they would have asked permission first.

Fortunately for her, despite Cecily’s and Isabelle’s best efforts, the book hadn’t caught on. Instead, lace embroidery became a minor fad. Some noblewoman had worn a beautiful outfit with gorgeous embroidery on lace, which had incited the boom. The only topics at the embroidery club’s workshops lately were wedding outfits and lace embroidery.

This had frustrated Isabelle. “It was the perfect opportunity to spread the news of how great you are, my sister… How disappointing,” she’d said.

Monica had been secretly relieved. I’m so happy a book about me didn’t catch on… Thank goodness, she thought as she opened the student council room door.

There was no meeting today, but she had something to submit to Felix. Nobody else was in the room; the prince was reading a book by himself. When he noticed Monica come in, he looked up.

Was it just her, or did his blue eyes sparkle for a brief moment?

“Um, sir, I finished the income and expenditure report for the bazaar…,” she said nervously.

Felix beckoned her over, not saying anything. Yes, his eyes really were sparkling. Papers in hand, Monica slowly walked toward him.

The prince held up the book he was reading so Monica could see. “Look at this,” he said. “A book detailing the accomplishments of the Silent Witch. It just arrived at our school library.”

Monica’s eyes were as round as saucers. She felt like she was going to topple over.

He was holding up the very book Isabelle had plotted to make popular and failed.

A rosy red came to the prince’s fair cheeks as he tabbed through the pages, spellbound. “I never expected anyone to be so detailed in describing her feats. Just look at this page… It even lists all her contributions to modern magecraft during her time studying at Minerva’s. I can feel such love and respect from this book. It makes me happy to know someone is so passionate about informing the world of her charms…”

Monica began making odd croaking noises like a dying frog, but the prince only continued. The Silent Witch covertly held her stomach as Felix launched into his own passionate description of her charms.

It’s a good thing that he’s happy… It is, but… Ah… Ugh, my stomach hurts so bad…

“Do you have time after this, Monica?” asked Felix. “If it’s all right with you, we could have tea and talk about the book at length.”

“I-I’m sorry, I actually, um, have something to do…”

That wasn’t a lie. She had accepted two tea party invitations that day—the first being Lana’s and the second, Isabelle’s.

Felix’s eyebrows lowered in a sincere expression of sadness. “Oh. That’s a shame…”

Monica quickly submitted the papers, then excused herself with a bow and left the room.

The prince watched her as she went, a meaningful smile on his lips. “I do hope you have a nice day,” he said.

“…?”

That’s a weird thing to say after classes are already over, she thought, confused as she headed for the tearoom.

The tearoom Lana had indicated was rather small—it was a private room, consisting of one round table with a white cloth, laden with a cake on a plate and a pot of black tea.

The cake in the center was covered in all the cream you could imagine, with plenty of berries on top to boot. Lana seemed to be more enthusiastic than usual about this tea party.

“The snacks today are so…well, so grand. Did you invite someone special?” asked Monica.

Lana pouted, seeming a little exasperated. “What are you saying? You’re the special guest today.”

“………Huh?”

Lana usually had a servant prepare the tea, but today was a rare exception. She took the teapot in hand and poured Monica a cup. “Today is your birthday, isn’t it?”

“Oh,” Monica blurted.

Lana was right. It was the first day of the first week of Shelgria, Monica’s birthday. She had a feeling she’d mentioned her birthday at some point, but she was shocked her friend had remembered.

“In my family, we always have berry cakes for birthday celebrations,” explained Lana. With unpracticed motions, she cut the cake and carefully placed a slice on a plate. It fell on its side, spilling the decorative berries.

Frustrated, she cut a second piece and put it on another plate. This one didn’t fall over; it stood up perfectly.

She nodded, satisfied, then placed the upright one in front of Monica. “It’s all yours.”

“Th-thank you,” said Monica.

For Monica, birthdays were family occasions. The last time someone had celebrated hers was before she enrolled at Minerva’s; she’d spent it with her adoptive mother, Hilda Everett.

The woman had done something truly extraordinary with the cake, with one half underdone and the other half burned. But she’d dug out the tiny sliver between the two halves—the edible part—and given it to Monica.

The best part of the cake, served just for her. It was a gentle, happy memory. She basked in it as she ate the better plated of the two slices.

It was was luxurious, the butter imparting both scent and moisture. The sweet cream practically melted in her mouth, and the slightly tart berries were the flavor of bliss.

As her face relaxed into a smile, Lana sniffed pridefully and ate the slice that had tumbled over.

Suddenly, Monica noticed something—a handkerchief, perhaps—hanging out of Lana’s pocket. It was about to fall to the floor.

Monica swallowed. “Lana,” she said, pointing, “something’s falling out of your pocket…”

For some reason, the girl’s face went very red. She immediately brought her hand up to her pocket. Then, as if she was debating something with herself, her gaze wandered, and she stumbled over her next words.

“This is just, well, I thought it would be good to put a comb in, and… But it’s not very well-made, so…”

“…?”

She fell silent for a few moments, then pulled the cloth out of her pocket. It was a drawstring pouch, made of plain, undyed fabric. The corner of it featured an embroidery of small flowers—violets.

Monica recognized that fabric. Lana had been working on it during the embroidery club’s workshop.

“A present like this, well… I figured it wouldn’t be too much of a burden, so…”

Normally, Lana didn’t attend those workshops. But she had this time. Monica had thought she was interested in the charm, but she’d been wrong.

Lana had wanted to hide the embroidery hoop from her to keep the present a surprise.

Lana was the daughter of a wealthy merchant. If she’d wanted to, she could have bought an expensive, luxurious gift. But she hadn’t. Monica’s heart pounded in her chest at the reason—at Lana’s awkward thoughtfulness.

What should I do…?

She was so happy her face had grown hot.

“I-if you don’t need it, then that’s—”

Monica reached out with a shaking hand and grabbed her friend’s sleeve, interrupting her.

“…I like it,” she said.

She almost never gave her own opinion so clearly. The edges of Lana’s mouth started to squirm, and she held the bag out in front of her. “Then here.”

“Tha…thank you!”

Lana wasn’t exactly a genius at embroidery, but the violets were neat and charming. Monica looked at the bag, chuckling to herself, then suddenly remembered.

“Lana, um… When is your birthday?” she asked.

“The fourth day of the fourth week of Alteria.” Lana took a sip of her tea, then stole a glance at her friend. “On that day, will you make coffee for us?”

“…Of course!”

Lana’s birthday was right after winter break ended. At that point, Monica should still be at the academy. She could celebrate Lana’s birthday with her.

I’ll have to get some good snacks to go with the coffee, thought Monica happily.

***

When Lana’s tea party was over, Monica went to Isabelle’s, which also turned out to be a celebration of Monica’s birthday.

“I so wanted to throw a grand party, but the situation being what it is… I hope you’ll forgive a smaller one,” Isabelle had said, giving her a brand-new feather pen.

Clutching the drawstring bag and feather pen to her chest, Monica headed back to her attic room, a spring in her step. Once she arrived, she’d switch feather pens right away and put the comb she’d bought with Lana into the bag.

As she opened the door to the storage room, she found a small basket placed in front of the ladder leading up to the attic.

“…?”

The basket was packed full of baked goods, plus a single card. The card was pretty, with gold foil in a starry pattern on it, and it read:

“TO MY DEAR FRIEND IN DELINQUENCY, PLEASE ACCEPT THIS AS AN EXPRESSION OF THANKS. MAY THIS DAY ON WHICH YOU WERE BORN BE A GOOD ONE.”

The “thanks” was probably for her help with his plot to sneak a peek at that library book a few days ago.

Looking more closely, the baked goods were familiar. Pâte sablée crust featuring berries stuck on top with honey—the first thing he’d ever given her after she’d come to the school.

With an awkward grin and a half chuckle, she picked up the basket and went up the ladder. A drawstring bag with violets embroidered on it, a brand-new feather pen, and a card decorated with stars.

She had more treasures for her drawer again.