Secrets of the Silent Witch - Volume 4 - Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

He Sends an Invitation Every Year

Trusting Ryn and Nero to guard Felix, Monica left the outdoor stage for the time being. Since she wasn’t involved with the play, staying there for too long would draw suspicion.

The Norton family is keeping watch inside the intermediate building, so…as long as I avoid Mr. Rutherford in the faculty room, I can take a look around the school, she thought, heading back inside. That was when she heard a voice call out to her from behind.

“Hey, Lady Norton.”

“Oh, a good day to you indeed, Lady Norton.”

Monica turned around to see Elliott Howard and his friend Benjamin Mording, the musician. She greeted them with a polite “hello.”

Elliott was glancing around and asked, “Have you seen Cyril anywhere?”

“Lord Cyril?” she repeated. She’d seen him twice since the festival started. Very early that morning when he’d given her the floral decoration and when she happened to spot him in the audience during the first half of the play; she hadn’t seen him again after that.

When she told them as much, Elliott frowned and scratched his cheek. “It’s nothing urgent, but there’s something we want him to check on before the ball gets underway… I thought for sure he’d be with you.”

“With me?” Monica looked surprised.

“You two are good friends, right?”

Monica gave him a confused look. “It seems to me you’re, um, better friends with him than I am,” she replied honestly.

For some reason, Elliott looked astonished; his drooping eyes went wide, and his eyebrows shot up. “Cyril and me? Friends? You have got to be joking.”

She hadn’t meant it as a joke or a snide comment, but he still seemed offended. Monica wasn’t sure what to do.

Then Benjamin pounded a fist into his palm like he’d just thought of something. “Oh, I see. You’re a transfer student, yes? So you wouldn’t know how the two of them were before.”

Had Cyril and Elliott acted differently toward each other before Monica’s transfer? As far as she knew, they seemed like normal friends. Or not friends, perhaps, but Elliott did take a pretty informal attitude toward Cyril. “I thought for certain, um, that they were friends…”

“Again, please stop joking!” Elliott shook his head, scowling. He didn’t look offended so much as like he wanted to leave.

Benjamin provided an explanation for the confused Monica. “You know how Elliott is obsessed with the importance of rank and all that, yes? He’s proud of his noble position, and he doesn’t like it when commoners intrude into aristocratic society. While I consider it an incredible delight to see the noble class accept music born from the masses, he can’t accept such things. He’s rather hardheaded, you see.”

“R-right…”

Monica already knew this. Elliott hated when anyone middle class or below got close with upper-class nobles. It wasn’t because he looked down on them but because he considered such fraternization to be counter to the performance of one’s role in society. That was why he’d acted so aggressively when Monica first transferred in—although he appeared to have shelved the matter for now.

“Um, but what does that have to do with Lord Cyril?”

“Vice President Ashley is Marquess Highown’s foster son,” explained Benjamin. “He’s part of the bloodline, but apparently, his biological father was without a title.”

“…Huh?”

For a moment, Monica doubted her own ears. Among everyone she knew, Cyril seemed especially upper-class—his dignified behavior, his haughty pride, his refined appearance and carriage… She’d never doubted he was a noble by birth.

“Then, um, he and Lady Claudia aren’t…?”

“Correct,” replied Benjamin. “They’re not blood related. Lady Claudia was the marquess’s only child, so he adopted Lord Cyril to inherit.”

There was a time in the kingdom’s history when magecraft was overly emphasized. Certain families, such as those who had gained their rank because of the art or who traditionally oversaw ancient magic tools, would frequently adopt children talented at magecraft to serve as their heirs. That trend had waned in recent times, and adopting a child to inherit one’s title was now rare. Marquess Highown, however, had apparently persuaded the relevant parties and adopted Cyril.

So then, Lord Howard would… Monica was quickly putting the pieces together. Cyril wasn’t noble by birth, and Elliott hated upstarts.

Benjamin continued, his index finger dancing through the air like a conductor’s baton. “Once upon a time, Elliott and Vice President Ashley were on very bad terms… Or rather, Elliott was always going after him.”

“C’mon, quit talking about that stuff. It’s ancient history.”

“And as Elliott continued this behavior, he met with utter defeat on a certain written exam—”

“I said, quit it!” pleaded Elliott, covering his face with a hand and waving the other in the air.

But now that Benjamin had started, he wasn’t about to stop. “After this loss, he very immaturely challenged the vice president to a game of chess. At the time, the vice president had little experience in the game and couldn’t hold a candle to him. Elliott got very cocky, saying, ‘How can you call yourself a member of House Ashley when you can’t even play chess?’”

“Hey, look. Can’t you just say he lost miserably and leave all that other stuff out?”

Elliott’s remark made clear his rotten personality, but nothing he said could reach Benjamin now. “However, Vice President Ashley hates losing, so that wasn’t the end of the matter. For a whole month, he studied the game furiously, barely sleeping, and then challenged Elliott once again. He came very close to defeating him, too, but his lack of sleep unfortunately led to him passing out right on the chessboard in the middle of the match.”

Monica remembered hearing this story somewhere before—it must have been when she reported to the student council that she’d been chosen as a player for the chess competition. Cyril and Elliott had different characters but were well matched in terms of pride. It wasn’t hard to imagine them flaring up over a game like that and things getting heated.

“Oh, I shall never forget how frightened Elliott looked at the time!” said Benjamin.

“Please forget. I’m serious.”

“In any event, the president mediated, and the two of them made up.”

Monica nodded in understanding. This made sense to her.

Elliott, though, looked sick and tired of it all. “Well, we didn’t exactly make up. I just, well, acknowledged his hard work and persistence, and…”

“And thus was forged a passionate bond of friendship! Quarrels arisen from differences in their birth! A new harmony, born from that conflict, each raising the other up! Ahhh, yes, yes, there it is! A melody has descended upon me! I can weave this into a composition… A new piece of music is born!”

As Benjamin set off into a world of his own, Elliott looked up at the sky with a mournful expression. “I keep telling you we’re not friends! And the same goes for Lady Norton! I’ve just been keeping an eye out for the time being—it’s a temporary truce! As soon as she slips up, I plan to laugh in her face and taunt her for being a commoner!”

“O-oh…” Monica sort of understood but also sort of didn’t. At the very least, she could tell her relationship with Elliott was not as simple as “friendship.”

“Ugh… How did we even get on this topic? Oh, right. It’s your fault, Lady Norton—for somehow thinking Cyril and I are friends.”

“I’m s-sorry…”

Still, Monica didn’t think Elliott and Cyril were on bad terms. She wasn’t going to say as much, of course; if she did, Elliott would probably get mad at her.

“At any rate, I’m certain you’re better friends with him than I am,” he pointed out. “You work together a lot… And weren’t you going around the festival together?”

“No, I really only met him for a moment this morning…,” said Monica, shaking her head.

He pointed to her floral decoration. “But he gave you that, didn’t he?”

Monica looked at him in confusion. “How did you know?”

Come to think of it, she remembered Felix saying something similar. The blue ribbon tying the rose stem was the one he usually wore, but it wasn’t so unique that a person would make the connection at a glance. Monica turned it over, thinking his name was written on it or something.

“Wait, you’re not aware?” asked Elliott, exasperated. “Those decorations are meant to match the hair or eye color of the giver. For a plain guy like me, I’d probably just grab any old flower and put an inoffensive brown ribbon on it. Cyril’s colors stand out, though, so it’s pretty easy to tell.”

“I didn’t know that…” Monica looked carefully at the floral ornament at her breast. The blue ribbon binding the gorgeous white rose did remind her of his silver hair and blue eyes. “Oh, I get it… It’s that kind of charm.”

“Hmm? What’s that? A charm?”

Monica remembered a book she’d once read a long time ago. It told of a place in the southeast of the kingdom where people would keep part of someone else with them—usually a lock of hair—believing that it would let them borrow that person’s strength. Thus, the hair of a famed warrior or mage was a welcome good-luck charm for those going to war. Monica had decided this floral decoration was derived from that tradition.

“If I wear this, I can borrow the giver’s strength… In other words, it’s a charm that will let me act like Lord Cyril!”

“…Uh? Huh?”

So that was why Cyril had said it would prevent her from embarrassing herself. If she could act like him, she wouldn’t do anything shameful, even at the ball. “I think I’m feeling a little more confident… Maybe I can, um, be dignified like Lord Cyril if I’m wearing this flower.”

Elliott stared at her for a few moments, his mouth agape. Then he slowly bent over and held his stomach. He was trembling.

“Um, Lord Howard?” she asked. “Does, um, your stomach hurt?”

“No, it’s… Heh-heh, ha-ha, ah-ha-ha-ha… No, no, it’s nothing… Pfft… Lady Norton acting like Cyril… That’s… Why, that’s the funniest thing I’ve ever… Please, I’ll die from laughing too hard… Pfft-ha-ha…”

“L-Lord Howard? Lord Howard?” Monica wasn’t sure what to do—he looked like he was having spasms.

Eventually, he slowly rose and wiped the tears from his drooping eyes. “You might’ve suggested I was friends with Cyril, but I think this makes us even. Actually, I’ve got a great way to tease him now.”

“…Huh? Um, uh…”

“Anyway. If you see Cyril, tell him I’m looking for him. I’ll be around, on the first floor of the advanced building.”

“Y-yes, sir!”

Monica bowed slightly and pattered away.

A sardonic grin rose to Elliott’s lips as he watched Monica go. I swear…, he thought. Between him, Cyril, and Lady Norton… Everyone around me is a total weirdo.

He didn’t appreciate commoners crossing the boundaries of social class.

But he could no longer reject outright every person who did so.

“I still don’t like the music of the masses, though,” he said. “Benjamin, if you’re going to compose something, please make it grand and dignified.”

Benjamin didn’t answer him. He was already using a tree branch to write out a score in the dirt, lost in the world of music.

After leaving Elliott and Benjamin, Monica found a place away from the crowd. She looked around to make sure nobody could see her, then glanced up at a tree.

“Nero… Are you there?”

“Yup. Right here.”

The black cat climbed smoothly down from the tree and onto her shoulder. Unlike Ryn’s bird form, Nero was pretty heavy as a cat. But they needed to speak in whispers, so there was no other choice.

“Um, I’m looking for Lord Cyril… Have you seen him?”

“Oh, the chilly guy, right?”

Cyril suffered from mana hyperabsorption, so he always wore a magical broach that would release the accumulated mana back into the air. It was converted to ice mana, his specialty, so Nero always referred to him as “chilly,” forgoing names as usual.

“Yeah, I saw him around that huge building,” he said, pointing with his front paw to the grand hall used for balls and ceremonies.

It was connected to the school building by a walkway. Monica and Nero were currently about halfway between the school and the grand hall, where they’d be holding the post-festival ball. Currently, it wasn’t open to the public; staff members were probably inside preparing for the event.

Huh? Wait, but I thought Lord Maywood was in charge of those preparations… Why would Lord Cyril be over there?

Monica turned to look, taking Nero off her tired shoulder and holding him up in the air.

From this position, the cat prodded her in the arm with his paw. “Hey, Monica. There’s a suspicious-looking woman over there.”

“…Huh?”

“Over there. Right over there!”

She followed his gaze and spotted a woman loitering in the area. She was probably in her mid-thirties—thin, with dark-brown hair, simple clothing, and a stole. She looked a little out of place at an academy for noble children like Serendia. Most of the people at the festival were men and women of high rank or their servants. But this woman didn’t look like a noble or a servant.

“She’s all fidgety and sneaking around… I got it! She looks just like you when you walk through a crowd!”

“I guess I’m just a fidgety, sneaky girl…,” Monica said, miffed.

But Nero’s comment was right on the mark. The woman was moving along the edge of the path, keeping her head down to avoid eye contact. Whenever she passed a large gathering, she’d dart into the shadows like she was scared, and if a group was particularly loud, she would reflexively hide. As a result, it was taking her forever to reach her destination. Her behavior was just like that of Monica when she made her way through a crowd.

“Something’s gotta be up with her. She could be an intruder,” Nero suggested.

She didn’t look like an intruder to Monica, though. If she was an assassin, she’d have dressed less conspicuously. Dressing too plain would make a person stand out even more.

From the side of her downturned face, Monica could make out her expression—clouded, brows lowered. She seemed unsure of what to do. This, too, resembled Monica.

Was the woman having some kind of trouble?

“I, um, I’ll… I’ll go talk to her.”

For someone as shy as Monica, speaking to someone she’d never met took a monumental degree of courage. But she just couldn’t leave the woman alone.

Nero looked up at Monica and grinned. “Hey, look how much you’ve grown! All right. Now get going already!” He jumped off Monica’s arm and back into a nearby tree. He clearly wanted her to do this on her own, without any help.

Monica bunched her hands into fists and headed over. She hated crowds. They still scared her. They were full of people she didn’t know—it was frightening.

But when she remembered Lana kindly leading her by the hand through all those people, it made her want to do something similar for someone else.

I’ll be okay. Today…I have Lord Cyril’s charm with me. She looked down at the white rose on her chest. Cyril would surely speak up if he saw a guest in need. I’m part of the student council, after all…

Monica approached the woman, rallied her courage, and called out.

“Um, e-excuse me… I-is there something troubling youph?!”

And then she choked.

Monica had failed to live up to Cyril’s example, and her spirits fell. Meanwhile, the woman looked at her, unsure. She had plain and simple features—the kind of lady you might see anywhere. Monica thought they were similar in type. Her only unique characteristic seemed to be a mole near her mouth.

The woman lowered her lashes once in hesitation, then quietly asked Monica, “Cyril… Where might Cyril Ashley be?”

Monica’s eyes went wide. She hadn’t expected to hear Cyril’s name. Did this woman know him? “Um, Lord Cyril is in the grand hall right now…”

“The grand hall?”

“I’ll… I’ll showph you there!”

She choked once more.

As they walked side by side, the woman would occasionally look up from the ground and glance at their surroundings, then anxiously go back to hanging her head.

Monica wondered if she was supposed to talk about something. Her mouth opened and closed, then opened and closed again.

Oof… This is so awkward…

What was she supposed to talk about at times like this? Lana would probably compliment the lady on her stole and make conversation about her clothing. Felix would probably ask if she was enjoying the festival and if she’d seen the play. He’d watch for her reactions and make conversation on a wide range of topics. Glenn would probably recommend she try some meat from his family’s shop.

Monica could imagine what the people she knew would say, but she didn’t feel like she could mimic any of them. In the end, she continued to rack her brain, unable to come up with a topic.

Eventually, the woman looked at her and said in a quiet voice, “Are you a student here?”

“Y-yes, that’s right! I’m a student!” Monica nodded.

“I’m sorry,” said the woman, sounding guilty for some reason. “That was a rude question. It was obvious from your uniform. You just don’t…seem very much like the others.”

She was right—at Serendia Academy, a commoner like Monica was an anomaly. She could wear the same uniform, but her behavior alone was enough to give her away.

“Do you happen to know Cyril?” asked the woman.

“Y-yes! He works with me a lot!” Monica nodded furiously.

The woman let her gaze drift in hesitation. Finally, she looked down at her feet and murmured, “You’re a quiet girl. Does Cyril act haughty with you? Or yell at you or act overbearing?”

“U-ummm…”

Cyril didn’t act overbearing just with quiet girls like Monica. Aside from Felix, he pretty much treated everyone like that.

Monica struggled to come up with an answer for a few moments. He was haughty and prone to anger. But she knew that wasn’t the whole story.

“Lord Cyril is…nice,” she said slowly, recalling when they’d first met. “He has been very thoughtful toward me.”

Back then, when she’d fallen down that staircase, he’d been worried about her. Nobody had asked him to—least of all her—but he’d looked into the circumstances surrounding her fall and handed down a fair and impartial judgment.

“He always does a really, really good job teaching me how to do my student council work. One time I collapsed, and he took over for me… A-also, he gave me some really tasty chocolate!”

The woman finally lifted her head to look at Monica.

Monica puffed out her chest a little and touched the white rose adorning her breast. “Lord Cyril gave me this flower, too. It’s a charm to lend me courage, um…s-so I don’t embarrass myself today.”

For a moment, the woman looked like she was about to cry. “Cyril did that…… I see…,” she nearly whispered, coming to a stop.

The grand hall was right in front of them now. But the woman stayed put—apparently unwilling to go any farther.

“Um,” said Monica nervously, “Lord Cyril is inside, so…”

The woman shook her head slightly. “Actually, I changed my mind… I still can’t meet him.”

Despite her words, the woman’s expression was tranquil—she seemed relieved. She lowered her gaze in apology, then looked up at Monica. “I’m sorry. You took the trouble to bring me here, but I… Thank you for talking with me, kind young lady.”

“No, um, I’m sorry I couldn’t, well, be much help…,” replied Monica, playing with her fingers.

The woman smiled faintly. “I’m glad I heard what you had to say. If he can…be kind to a girl like you, then…” She trailed off, mumbling the last bit, then walked off toward the front gate.

She never once turned back toward the hall.

“E-excuse me…”

When Monica opened the doors to the grand hall and peeked inside, she saw Cyril and Neil busy at work instructing a group of servants. There was a lot to check before the ball got underway: the amount of food, drinks, and utensils needed; where the band would go and where the chairs would be; and all sorts of other things besides.

Monica wasn’t sure if she should speak to them because of how busy they looked, but Neil noticed her and shouted, “Lady Norton! Is something wrong?”

“Um! I needed, um, to see Lord Cyril…,” replied Monica, fidgeting.

Neil called Cyril over immediately. The vice president stopped going through his list and walked quickly over to Monica. She felt a chill at her feet.

“Accountant Norton?” he said. “Is there trouble in the school building?”

“N-no, nothing like that. Lord Howard was searching for you, and… He said he wanted you to check on something, um, before the ball and asked me to send you over. He should be on the first floor of the building right now, so…”

“Something I need to check on? Oh, there might have been a change with the band. All right. I’ll head over as soon as I’m finished here.”

Cyril spoke quickly. His hair, usually tied, was hanging loose, and he still hadn’t replaced the ribbon at his neck. It was all proof of how busy he was—usually, he was quite picky when it came to appearances. The chill at Monica’s feet was probably because his magic broach was in his pocket. Normally she felt it from a little higher up.

“Lord Cyril, did you, um, watch the play?” she asked.

“I did, but only the first half with Officer Maywood.”

Neil grinned wryly. “We were working next to the stage, so I’m not sure you could call what we did watching.”

“I guess not,” said Cyril. “Were you able to see the second half, Accountant Norton?”

Apparently, the two of them hadn’t caught the conclusion and weren’t aware of all the commotion it had caused. If Cyril knew how badly the stage had been wrecked, he’d probably faint on the spot, so Monica just smiled vaguely and changed the topic. “Um, Lord Cyril… There was a woman a moment ago, um, looking for you.”

“For me?” Cyril frowned dubiously.

Belatedly, Monica realized she didn’t know who the woman was—in fact, she hadn’t even asked her name. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t get her name… Um, she had dark-brown hair and… Oh, and she had a mole by her mouth.”

Cyril sucked in a breath. “Where is she right now?”

“Um, I was with her a few moments ago, but she said she couldn’t meet you yet and left…”

The vice president raised a hand to his face. Through his fingers, she could make out a teary-eyed smile.

“…So she came?” he muttered, so low Monica almost missed it—he was talking to himself, not to her.

“Lord Cyril?” she asked, looking up at him, a little confused.

Cyril hung his head low. “She’s a precious guest of mine. Thank you for assisting her.”

His voice shook a little as he spoke.

The woman left through Serendia Academy’s front gates, then climbed into a carriage parked next to the school. The emblem on the carriage was that of Marquess Highown, and the vehicle itself was suitably luxurious. Too luxurious for the likes of me, thought the woman idly, shrinking into a corner of the seat.

Her name was Myra Wayne. Myra was an altogether ordinary woman in her late thirties. She wore the clothing of a regular townsperson, terribly out of place in the fancy carriage. She understood that, and so she huddled up on the seat, trying her best to touch as little of it as possible.

It would be a while longer before the carriage’s owner, Marquess Highown, returned.

For a time, she looked down, letting her mind wander. Then a thought struck her, and she removed a letter from her bag and unfolded it.

Dear Mother,

The winds have grown colder lately, and we sometimes have frost near the dormitory. His Royal Highness’s clothing is thicker now, and I train daily to control my mana so as not to make him any colder. I will continue to devote my energies to molding myself into an heir who will not bring shame on House Highown.

That was followed by another few paragraphs relating recent events.

She’d read this letter several times. In fact, she’d practically memorized it. But she still traced her finger slowly over the neat letters on the page.

She knew that its author rewrote letters several times, revising their contents. It was easy to imagine him worrying over what to write, using the back of discarded drafts to work out mistakes.

Serendia Academy’s school festival season is fast approaching again this year. I’m sure you’re busy, but if you happen to have the time, please stop by. Marquess Highown has told me he would be willing to arrange a carriage for you.

This year’s school festival will be my last. The prince is a skilled leader as student council president, and I will spare no effort assisting him. I hope you will look forward to it.

The weather grows ever colder, so please take care of yourself. Yesterday, I received chocolate made with cutting-edge techniques. Melting it in hot milk to drink is delicious and warms the body. I’ve enclosed some for you. Please try it out if you’d like.

Love,

Your son

Once Myra had read the letter a fourth time, the carriage door clattered open. A middle-aged man with black hair and a mustache climbed in. It was Marquess Highown, a man of incomparably higher rank than Myra.

“Oh?” he said. “Back already?”

“…Yes, my lord.”

“And Cyril?”

Myra softly shook her head.

“I see,” said the marquess, neither acceptance nor rejection in his voice.

If he’d returned to the carriage, he must be finished with his business. But he hadn’t yet instructed the driver to depart.

Myra remained silent as Marquess Highown toyed with his mustache.

“In all honesty,” he muttered, “I hadn’t expected you to want to come to the school festival…” As Myra tried to apologize out of reflex, the marquess quickly held up a hand. “Oh, not to say you’ve inconvenienced me or anything.”

Whether or not she was at fault, Myra would often say she was sorry again and again. Whenever she did something her late husband didn’t like, he would hurl abuse at her and hit her. That was why her gaze always wandered at her feet, and even when she looked up, she unconsciously checked everyone’s faces to make sure they weren’t upset. She was doing it right now, in fact, to the marquess.

He lowered his blue eyes and continued. “It always seemed to me that your son…that Cyril was too much for you.”

The words were like a knife to her heart. She covered her face with her hands and looked down. “Yes, you’re right, my lord. He’s just… He’s too much like his father.”

Myra’s husband had been part of the Ashley family’s bloodline, though he hadn’t held any title. Even so, he’d acted arrogantly, bragging he was of noble blood. This had alienated his peers, lost him his job, and eventually driven him to drink until his body failed and he died.

Their son looked just like him. He’d always been too much for her.

“…Every time he talks proudly about having the best grades in school, I get so afraid that he’ll end up like his father.”

When he was young, Cyril had probably just wanted her praise, for her to tell him what a good job he’d done. Easy, commonplace words—but Myra couldn’t even manage that. She could never quite shake the uneasy feeling that if she were to praise him, he’d grow up into a man like his father.

“If only his grades had been average. If only he’d been average…”

But Cyril was a hard worker. And he was talented, too. He kept putting in the effort, believing that if he worked hard enough, he’d get that praise from his mother eventually. When Marquess Highown acknowledged the results of his labor and proposed financial support and adoption, Cyril probably thought this:

Now my mother will praise me. She’ll finally be pleased.

Myra, however, had pushed him away.

“Ahhh, you truly are the son of a noble.”

She’d never forgotten the hurt that filled Cyril’s face when she said that.

“To tell the truth, today… I wanted to meet him one last time, then never see him again.”

Cyril sent a letter every month, so she was up-to-date on her son’s life. He’d been selected as the second prince’s aide, became the student council vice president, and lived a fulfilling life as a student—behaving as would befit a noble child. He was doing just as everyone expected of him.

Cyril was living life as a proper noble. Myra had wanted to believe he no longer needed a commoner for a mother.

“But…the girl I met earlier had nothing but praise for him. She said that he was…kind to her.”

The girl had clearly been meek, reserved, and plain. But even she had earnestly complimented Cyril, fidgeting all the while.

Myra sniffed and spoke with difficulty, her voice hoarse. “She said Cyril had given her a flower.”

When her husband was still alive, he would often berate her until she cried. Then, young Cyril would say, “Mother, I think looking at pretty flowers will cheer you up,” and he’d go pick some for her.

Cyril always did things like that. He wanted to make her as happy as he could. And yet she’d spurned him. She hadn’t replied to any of his letters, either. She hadn’t even opened the chocolate he’d sent her.

“After hearing what she had to say, I finally realized…I was so afraid of my husband’s shadow that I never tried to see my son for who he really is.”

Marquess Highown looked out the window, as if to gaze at the scenery. He knew Myra would wither if he looked at her directly. Keeping his eyes averted, he spoke softly, as if to himself. “Cyril has always wanted approval, ever since I met him. That’s why he’s so driven to improve himself. When he realized he would never match his sister Claudia’s knowledge, he decided to study magecraft and gain a weapon all his own.”

By the time the marquess realized Cyril was too driven, the boy had pushed himself to the point of contracting mana hyperabsorption. At the time, he’d been terrified that his adoptive father would abandon him.

“He is still immature in some respects, but he is earnest, hardworking, and wants to better himself. In time, I plan to officially instate him as my heir.”

The marquess paused, gauging Myra’s reaction. He was a smart man. He didn’t try to hurry along her understanding—he simply waited in silence. Myra had always been grateful such a wise and kind man had adopted Cyril.

“…Thank you, my lord,” she said in a ragged voice.

The marquess nodded and continued. “I have no intention of forbidding Cyril from meeting his biological mother. However, he is always hesitant to return home… I think he’s scared you’ll reject him.”

Myra’s hands balled into fists on her lap. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m such a weak mother. I’m sorry I couldn’t put my faith in you.

As she shook, not saying a word, the marquess gently made a suggestion. “I think you should write him a letter. When two people fall into conflict, it is best to patch things up with haste.”

Then he signaled the driver to leave, and the carriage lurched off. Myra closed her eyes, letting herself feel the shaking. A fond memory played in her mind’s eye.

“Mother, why does that man always hit you?”

“Now, Cyril. He’s your father. Don’t call him ‘that man.’”

“I just don’t understand. I would never hurt someone I cared about. If they were crying or depressed, I’d make them a sweet, delicious drink.”

“I see. Well, then, if there’s ever a girl you like, I hope you’ll do that for her.”

He’d remembered her words. He hadn’t forgotten.

Idly, Myra decided that once she got home, she would finally open that package of chocolate. Then, while drinking it, she’d write a letter to her son.

In it, she’d ask him to come back home for winter break, if he was willing.