Secrets of the Silent Witch - Volume 4.5 - Chapter Ep

Epilogue - The Silent Witch's Little Mystery

It was a clear winter day, and the practice grounds for Serendia Academy’s magic-battle club were being used for a magical duel.

The combatants were Cyril Ashley, vice president of the student council, and Byron Garrett, president of the magic-battle club.

Despite it being a holiday, a good number of students had shown up to watch. Entertainment was hard to come by in this closed-off school, so an official magic duel was a bit of a show for them.

The student council, starting with Felix, was part of the crowd; they’d come to cheer Cyril on.

“Lord Cyril, um, d-do…do your best, please!”

“Hey, VP! You got this!”

The rowdy voice next to Monica belonged to Glenn. He wasn’t on the student council, but there he was, in one of the front-row seats reserved for the council members, rooting for Cyril.

Next to him was Neil, who was making a record of the magic battle. Claudia was leaning against him. She evidently didn’t care enough to support her elder brother; her gaze was fixed squarely on Neil.

Five minutes had already passed since the start of the duel. At first, they felt each other out with weaker spells, probing for opportunities. But in a drawn-out fight, Cyril would have the advantage thanks to his quicker mana regeneration.

Byron probably knew that. So after putting a bit more space between them, he went on the offensive. He tried to set up a surprise attack by creating flaming arrows with remote magecraft.

But Cyril realized from the length of his opponent’s incantation that he was using a remote formula. He quickly protected himself from the arrows with a wall of ice.

“This is a good match,” murmured Felix.

Monica had to agree. Byron’s magecraft had improved by leaps and bounds—likely as a result of his secret training.

Maintaining his distance, Byron recited a somewhat lengthy chant. This time, three large fireballs appeared and flew at Cyril all at once.

The fireballs were flashy, but Monica could tell they weren’t very powerful. He’s using them as a decoy, she thought. His real aim is…

Embers scattered as explosions boomed. They didn’t set any of the nearby trees on fire, though; those were protected by the barrier set up for the duel.

The ice wall collapsed along with the fireballs, glittering as it dispersed—and then a single flaming arrow struck Cyril in the left shoulder.

It had been quick-chanted, and Cyril hadn’t been able to block it in time. He groaned in pain and backed up into a tree trunk.

“VP!” yelled Glenn, seeing the predicament Cyril was in. Claudia covered her ears, evidently annoyed; the tall boy’s voice was painfully loud. She didn’t seem to care much about her brother being in trouble.

As his face scrunched up in pain, Cyril counterattacked. Pillars of ice began to sprout from the ground, surrounding Byron.

Each of those pillars is meant to support a multilayered strengthening formula, thought Monica. Which means he’s about to trigger a twice-enhanced attack spell in the middle.

Her prediction was right. In the center of the icy perimeter, right at Byron’s feet, a magic circle emerged—and from it burst a powerful blast of freezing-cold air. It froze Byron’s feet to the ground.

Panicking, Byron chanted another spell, trying to protect himself from the chill. It didn’t go off, though. He was out of mana.

“The duel is over, you two. Ashley has won,” declared Macragan, their referee.

Byron sunk to his knees in frustration.

As Cyril left the barrier, Felix smiled and congratulated him. “That was a very good duel.”

The vice president’s face lit up in a sincere expression of happiness. “Your words do me honor, prince!”

The defeated, on the other hand, was heading away, his gait unsteady. But a female student was following him—one Monica knew.

Wait, that’s…

Suddenly a little curious, Monica went after them. She located the two quickly. They were on the path leading from the woods back to the dormitories, facing each other. Byron had his head down.

“That was an embarrassment,” he said. “As your fiancé, I’ve brought you shame.”

“But I—”

“No, you don’t need to say anything. I promise I will defeat Ashley before we graduate.”

With that, Byron quickly headed back toward the dorms.

The girl, left behind, reached a hand out toward his back—but then lowered it again, choosing to stay quiet.

Monica wondered whether she should say something. But in the end, she didn’t need to. There was a small crackle at her feet—her boot had just crushed a twig.

The girl noticed her then. It was Sheila Ashburton, the vice president of the embroidery club.

The black-haired, bespectacled girl had a kind heart; she’d shown Monica the ropes at their club workshop. Sheila watched Monica, knowing the girl wanted to say something.

Fidgeting with her fingers, Monica spoke. “Are you, um, his fiancée?”

“I suppose I am… Though, well. You know. Our parents set it up,” she said simply, not criticizing Monica for spying on them.

Monica decided to go for it and ask the question that had been on her mind. She doubted she’d get another chance. “The lily of the valley embroidery on Lord Garrett’s handkerchief… Did you make that for him?”

“Where did you see that? …Well, you know. I suppose a boy wouldn’t be very happy to receive such a thing.” Her flat tone had a whiff of self-deprecation to it.

Suddenly, Monica raised her voice. “Lord Garrett said it was very important to him!”

Sheila widened her eyes slightly behind her glasses. Her expression was more astonished than happy.

Monica thought back to Byron’s handkerchief. The lilies of the valley had been embroidered very neatly, and when you turned it over, you could clearly see blue threads. A hidden message, based on that charm that said if you wrote a love letter in blue ink, your love would be returned.

“He didn’t seem to notice the blue thread, though… Um, are you okay not telling him?”

“I’m more surprised that you noticed at all, Miss Norton. You’re like… Well, you know. Like a detective,” said Sheila, smiling wryly.

Her eyes were no longer on Monica; they now gazed longingly after Byron.

“I’m not very good at choosing the right words,” she said. “I keep saying ‘Well, you know’ and all. I’ve always been like this. I can never find the right way to express my feelings.”

Her voice was soft, marked by a lack of confidence. Her expression, which made her always seem off in her own little world, was now twisted in servility.

“Someone asked me once, during an embroidery club workshop, what my type was. I really admire Lord Byron for how hard he works… Yes, I suppose I should have simply said that. But I got embarrassed all of a sudden, and so…”

Sheila clasped her fingers in front of her.

“So on a whim, I said that I liked people like Lord Ashley. Because he and Lord Byron are both hard workers.”

And Byron had overheard her, which made him think she loved Cyril, not him.

I don’t really think it’s right for me to butt into other people’s business, but…

Monica made up her mind and spoke. “Um, Lord Garrett keeps dueling because, well…”

“Because he loves me? How am I supposed to believe that? I’m sure he’s just, well, you know… He feels his pride as my fiancé has been slighted.”

Monica could tell Sheila had little confidence in herself. That was why she couldn’t simply express her feelings. What if she caused him more trouble? What if it made him like her less? The anxiety had her trapped, and in the end, she’d never say what she wanted to. Monica was very familiar with that feeling.

“Was that the reason for the blue thread?” Monica asked.

“Yes, well, you know… It was supposed to show my love for him. I know how roundabout it is. Maybe somewhere deep down I’m okay if he doesn’t understand it.”

Would you really be okay with that? wondered Monica. She didn’t understand love or romance, but she definitely knew how hard it could be to express your feelings. Even just saying “thank you” took courage. But she also knew how happy it could make you feel when you did convey something like gratitude or goodwill.

But I don’t think it would be right to push my way of thinking on her… Monica fell silent, unsure of what to say.

Seeming to remember something, Sheila said, “Oh, Miss Detective. I wanted to ask you about something.”

She took a card out of her pocket. It was a Shelgria card. There was a small hole in the upper-right corner with an orange ribbon tied to it.

“Happy Shelgria. From Byron Garrett.”

Next to the curt message was something round drawn in yellow. Sheila pointed to it and said, “I received a Shelgria card from him. But I don’t really understand the strange yellow symbol here.”

A strange symbol—yes, it did look like that, didn’t it? Byron had probably used paint for it. But why get paint out for this?

Monica thought back to the card he’d bought. There had been so many, but Byron only had his eyes on one with a flower.

The moment she remembered that, everything clicked into place.

“Oh, and the ribbon… So that was…,” Monica muttered to herself. Sheila looked at her dubiously.

Eyes still fixed on the card, Monica said, “I, um, saw Lord Garrett buy this card. But before, it was just a blank white card.”

He’d been looking at the ones with roses on them, but he hadn’t taken any. The stall had been selling cards with red, white, and pink roses—but not yellow ones.

“Lord Garrett drew this,” Monica continued. “It’s a yellow rose. Also, I think he put this ribbon on, too.”

“But why would he go through all the…?”

“It’s a floral decoration.”

Boys gave girls floral decorations—roses tied with ribbons—during the school festival. Elliott said the sender was supposed to choose colors matching his own hair and eyes.

“Lord Garrett has yellowish-blond hair and a little orange in his eyes. I think that’s why he put the yellow rose and orange ribbon there,” Monica explained, pointing to the picture that looked like a yellow rose and the orange ribbon tied onto the card.

Sheila slowly widened her eyes. She studied the poorly drawn rose on the card.

Monica interpreted it as a sort of charm from the sender to give courage. I think Lord Garrett wanted to tell her to be brave…, she thought.

“Now I’m looking forward to the dance at the graduation party…,” she said. “I must strive to express my feelings before then.”

“…Huh? The dance?”

Monica tilted her head, confused. She didn’t know the flower decoration was a reservation for a dance.

Sheila smiled a little, convinced. Then she bowed.

“…Well, you know. Thank you for this little bit of courage, Miss Detective.”

“I’m back.”

Monica returned to her attic room to find Nero on her bed reading. He deftly used his front paw to slip a bookmark between two pages, then shut the book.

“Heya. Welcome back. How was it? I mean the duel or whatever. Bet the chilly guy rolled over the other one like an avalanche.”

“It was a good match, but yes, Lord Cyril won.”

She took a seat on the bed, then grabbed Nero’s front paw as if to shake hands. Nero waved his tail, expecting some new kind of game.

But she just smiled and said, “Thanks for everything you do, Nero.”

“Uh, sure thing. But what brought this on?”

“I just felt like saying it for some reason.” She let go of his paw, then moved to sit at her desk.

Nero meowed pleasantly, then flopped over on the bed. “I mean, I am pretty great. Only right that you should thank me. And keep it coming! Write me a song, literally sing my praises. The title can be ‘Nero, the Coolest of Them All’… Hmm? What are you writing?”

“A Shelgria card. I wanted to write one,” she said, thinking about what to put down.

There are…so many things I want to write.

That she had someone who adored her and called her elder sister. That she’d made wonderfusl friends. That she had upperclassmen she respected. That she’d made a delinquent friend in secret… Of course, she was still on a top-secret mission, so she couldn’t write everything.

“Good. Okay… It’s finished.”

She looked over all the words she’d written and smiled in satisfaction.

Nero jumped onto the desk and stared hard at the paper—then he stepped in the inkwell with his front paw and stamped it in a blank area on the card.

“Nero?!”

“What do you think? My incredible paw makes a good accent, eh?”

The card Monica had chosen was a simple one without much in the way of decoration. The cat was right—his pawprint was a good accent…maybe.

Well, whatever, she thought, stuffing the card into an envelope.