Secrets of the Silent Witch - Volume 5 - Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

Homecomings

Cyril’s hometown of Ashendarte was in the southwest of the Kingdom of Ridill. It was famed for its textiles, and all the women there were taught weaving from a very young age.

In his memories, his mother was always sitting behind a loom, reeling in threads of all different colors, weaving them into beautifully patterned cloths.

These days, automatic water-powered looms were taking over the market, and hand-woven products were on the decline. But those of Ashendarte—known as Ashenda weave—had stubbornly held on to their popularity both inside and outside the kingdom, due to their intricate patterns and vivid colors.

It had been quite some time since Cyril had visited, and a lot about the townscape had changed. But he could still hear the clacking of the looms all around, just like he had as a child.

Cyril got out of the coach with his travel bag in hand, then walked alone through the familiar streets. His foster father, the Marquess of Highown, had told him he could borrow a carriage if he visited home, but Cyril had politely declined. The carriage would immediately mark him as a noble, and it would draw too much attention parked in front of his mother’s house.

His mother hated standing out like that. So instead of wearing the high-quality clothing Marquess Highown had given him, he wore simple traveling clothes and a hat.

His deep-blue eyes, lustrous silver hair, and gorgeous facial features all made him look like a noble, and he’d always stood out among the other children. He could still remember how much that had concerned his mother—much more than it had ever concerned him. She always saw his father in him, and that made her afraid—afraid he’d turn into his father someday.

Cyril pulled the brim of his hat down as he walked, his gaze on the ground.

He was used to others looking at him with fear and curiosity. He could deal with that—what he couldn’t deal with was when they looked at his mother the same way.

The house he’d grown up in was the same as it had been several years ago. Marquess Highown had provided enough financial support for Cyril’s mother not to have to work, but she had chosen to remain where she was and continue her life as before.

Cyril gulped and came to a stop in front of the door. He brought his right hand up to knock, then paused and held it there unnaturally.

If he opened the door and announced that he was home…would his mother say, “But this isn’t your home,” and chide him? That thought passed through his mind.

“……”

It was his home, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to say so. After thinking hard about it, he came up with an idea.

I know. I’ll say “It’s been so long,” instead. That will flow more naturally. And then I can see how she responds, and—

“Oh, Cyril. Welcome home.”

The voice came from behind him. He was so startled, he almost dropped his things.

Awkwardly, he turned around to find his mother behind him, holding a broom. Apparently, she’d been sweeping outside the house.

Forgetting about his concerns, he responded in a panic. “I, er, I’m home!”

His voice cracked terribly. He sounded like Monica.

His mother seemed a little dazed as she looked at him, but eventually she put her broom up against the wall and opened the door.

“You must be cold from the trip. I’ll fire up the stove.”

“No, no. I-I’ll do it!”

“You will? All right. Thank you.”

That simple thank you, and the fact she’d let him call this place his home, filled Cyril with such relief, he could have cried.

The inside of the house, just like the outside, was almost exactly as Cyril remembered it. In the corner was his mother’s loom; she was using it to create a beautifully intricate pattern.

The cloth featured a white rose, depicted with glossy thread on indigo fabric. He looked at the rose more closely. It used threads of slightly different gloss and color here and there, giving the full image a sense of depth.

After he fired up the stove, his mother boiled some water and brewed tea.

“Here you are,” she said.

“Thank you,” replied Cyril, accepting the drink. Then he remembered he hadn’t taken out his gift for her—he’d been too tense. Hastily, he dug the item, wrapped in paper, out of his bag. “This is…a gift,” he said. “For you. I hope you can get some use out of it.”

His mother opened the wrapping a little to examine the contents, then blinked.

“Soap?”

“Yes, well. I was with some underclassmen, and we picked these out together. They had a lot of different scents, but…this was the most calming, so…”

“It smells nice.”

Seeing his mother’s little smile relaxed him, and the corners of his mouth began to turn up, too.

It seems I made the right choice… I’ll have to thank Accountant Norton.

He breathed a covert sigh of relief and picked up his cup. The cup had been his ever since he was little. He was happy it was still here, and that his mother hadn’t poured the tea into a cup meant for guests.

As he pondered such things, he put the cup to his lips.

The tea wasn’t too hot—Cyril’s tongue burned easily—and it was already sweetened. This was the same flavor he’d liked as a kid. One sip was enough to make his chest tighten in nostalgia.

For a time, the two of them drank their tea in silence. When their cups were about half-empty, his mother asked stiffly, “How has school been?”

Cyril straightened up nervously. He’d been considering what to talk about the entire carriage ride home. But now that he was in front of his mother, his mind went blank, and he had trouble forming words.

He’d already told her all about school in his letters, and he couldn’t think of any new topics.

Cyril put his cup on the table and thought.

Oh, I know. I’ll talk about the prince.

He was confident he could talk about Felix until the sun went down. Whenever Elliott heard him talking on this subject, he would look at him with pity. But in Cyril’s opinion, Elliott simply lacked the proper respect for the prince.

“Student council work is going smoothly,” he began. “We have a new accountant this year, so things have been somewhat busy. But the prince’s guidance has been sublime. All of our events went smoothly, which has only impressed on me further how excellent a commander he is. His greetings during the academy festival were especially—”

“I wanted to hear about you, not Prince Felix.”

The quiet interruption caused Cyril to freeze. His gaze wandered for a few moments. “Oh, well… I put almost everything about myself in my letters,” he said awkwardly.

“I don’t mind if you tell me again… I want to hear it from you.”

Cyril’s face tightened up, and he fell silent.

When he was little and still attending the school in town, he would often brag to his mother about how good his test scores were and how his teachers had praised him. But now he was scared to talk about himself at all.

“Mother, I scored full marks on today’s test. I was number one!”

Whenever he excitedly announced such things to his mother, she would sigh, say “oh,” and look away.

When he was writing a letter, he could calmly reflect and give a full report. But when it came to telling his mother things in person, he suddenly found himself afraid of how she would react, and his tongue froze in place.

But he couldn’t stay silent forever. And there was something he needed to tell her about.

“Well, it’s been decided that I…will go to the castle for the New Year greetings.”

The New Year greetings took place after the New Year’s ceremony held at the royal castle. The event lasted for a week, during which nobility from across the kingdom would visit the castle one by one and pay their respects to the king. In general, only those with a title took part in the tradition; their families generally stayed at home.

Eldest sons, however—the ones set to inherit the family title—were permitted to accompany their fathers. And Marquess Highown had told Cyril that he’d bring him along this year. In other words, the marquess had accepted Cyril—his foster son—as his rightful successor.

It had been several years since the marquess had taken him in, and yet Cyril was still anxious about his position. It was clear to everyone that his mental faculties paled in comparison to Claudia’s. In an attempt to gain a skill of his own, he’d studied magecraft. But in the end, he’d wound up suffering from mana hyperabsorption.

He was getting nowhere, and he wasn’t meeting the expectations placed on him. If this kept up, wouldn’t the marquess eventually abandon him?

Such thoughts plagued Cyril.

Of course, for the past few months, a certain underclassman had kept him so busy that he hadn’t had time to feel anxious.

Still, when he’d returned to the Ashley estate for winter break and Marquess Highown had broached the topic of the New Year greetings, Cyril had been so happy, he’d nearly broken down in tears.

But at the same time, he felt a new anxiety well up within him—how would his mother react when she found out? No matter how many times he imagined how it might go, his mother always sighed and said, “You really are a noble’s son.” What if she said that to him again…? The fear made his fingers tremble.

He was afraid to look at his mother’s face. If she sighed in resignation, what would he do?

As Cyril hung his head, his mother addressed him quietly. “…Good job. I know you worked hard.”

Cyril’s slender shoulders shook. Slowly, he brought his face back up. His mother, sitting across from him, wore a peaceful expression.

“There was a girl at the academy’s festival who helped me find my way around. She said you always taught her how to do her work…and that you were very kind.”

“…Huh?”

“I think Marquess Highown must have noticed those good qualities in you.”

Cyril’s vision began to blur. He saw his mother’s loom. He loved watching her weave—hearing the loom’s rhythmic rattling, seeing the pretty patterns gradually emerge. As a young boy, he’d always sat right here and watched her.

“When weaving, it’s important to work diligently and carefully, taking each step one at a time.”

Cyril had done just that. He’d taken each step one at a time and never stopped doing his best. He savored his mother’s words—“I know you worked hard”—and smiled, tears in his eyes.

With pride, he said, “I’m your son, after all.”

Felix Arc Ridill completed diplomatic talks with the Kingdom of Farfolia and departed from Duke Rehnberg’s mansion eight days after he had arrived.

Despite—or rather, because of—a major incident involving a cursed dragon, the trade negotiations had gone incredibly smoothly. Count Malé, who had been staunchly opposed to expanding trade with the kingdom, softened up visibly after they’d slain the cursed dragon.

After weathering that crisis together, the Farfolian guests seemed to have developed a sense of solidarity with Felix and the others. When the prince suggested that Ridill and Farfolia might work together against future dragonraids by sharing information and performing joint training exercises, the Farfolian delegation was beyond enthusiastic.

Currently, dragonraid countermeasures varied by country, and different nations seldom worked together. This suggestion could bring Ridill and Farfolia into a cooperative partnership. Together, they could lead other nations in dragonraid countermeasures and—most importantly—firm up relations between their two kingdoms.

Felix had not only won an increase in Farfolian grain imports but also an opportunity to strengthen Ridill and Farfolia’s relationship. These were major gains.

And once the story got out that he’d slain a cursed dragon and achieved success in diplomatic talks with a neighboring nation, the nobles supporting him would be delighted indeed.

…Of course, the cursed dragon wasn’t a natural threat but a man-made one—courtesy of Duke Clockford.

As Felix sat in the carriage on his trip back to the castle, staring idly at the scenery outside the window, he reflected on everything that had happened in the Duchy of Rehnberg.

The previous night, a servant had disappeared from the duke’s mansion—an elderly man named Peter Summs. Felix had been suspicious of him ever since arriving at the estate.

That man was probably the one who had triggered the cursed dragon incident—all to make Felix into a hero.

…They’d planned for me to slay the cursed dragon, but Peter lost control of his cursecraft and very nearly killed me. Perhaps he feared Duke Clockford’s censure and ran away.

Everyone at the mansion, not least Eliane, had been worried about the missing Peter. He’d been acting extremely frightened ever since the cursed dragon attacked him, and it seemed the prevailing rumor was that it had traumatized him, and that was why he had left.

Duke Clockford must be running out of options.

Just before departing from Duke Rehnberg’s mansion, Felix received a letter. Its contents essentially said that the third prince’s faction would capitulate to his own.

Apparently, Queen Phillis—the third prince’s mother—and Duke Clockford had struck some sort of deal. The third prince had few supporters to begin with, and he was the last in line for succession. Phillis had probably decided to ally herself with Duke Clockford in advance, in order to assure her son’s future. The third prince might not become king, but this would guarantee him some degree of status.

The king has fallen ill, while the second prince is being showered with praise for slaying a cursed dragon. And now the third prince’s faction has allied with us… The throne will change hands very soon.

The foundation for Felix to become the next king was essentially complete. And now he, who had always acted like a good little puppet for Duke Clockford, would finally have to take action.

Peter Summs had used shamanic techniques to try to make a dragon into his puppet. Victor Thornlee, a former Serendia Academy professor, had been researching mental interference magecraft. When Felix considered the special talents of the people Duke Clockford had assembled, it was clear what he was after.

You want to make me into a true puppet, don’t you?

Mental interference magecraft could certainly interfere with a target’s mind and memories, but there was still no spell that could bring another person under one’s complete control. And so Duke Clockford had gathered talented mages and shamans in order to find a means by which he could create the perfect puppet and place the whole kingdom under his command.

It would be nigh impossible to make a puppet of the king himself—he resided in the royal castle, surrounded by guards. But Felix was the duke’s grandson. He would have plenty of chances to cast a spell on him.

I need more cards in my hand if I want to fight back… Fortunately, I had a bountiful harvest this week, including on a more personal note.

The first positive outcome had been his exchanges with Glenn Dudley. While Glenn’s master, the Barrier Mage, supported the first prince, Glenn himself didn’t seem to have much interest in politics.

His incredible mana capacity is very attractive. And I’m sure this incident will only make him grow.

Glenn would be a Seven Sages candidate in the future. If Felix could put him under his thumb now, he would be extremely useful down the road. For these reasons, he hoped to continue building a friendly relationship with Glenn. Felix thought highly of his abilities, and he rather liked how he wore his heart on his sleeve.

And the second…

Felix took a sheaf of paper out of his luggage as a thin smile appeared on his lips. It was the report he’d had the Silent Witch correct for him.

He’d worked little by little on his essay, between all the affairs of state and school activities he had to attend to. The fact that the mage he most looked up to would deign to read it still felt like a dream to him.

I’m one step closer to her.

The Silent Witch—that incredible mage served by the Black Dragon of Worgan himself—she was at Serendia Academy. Was she a student? A teacher? Or neither—a servant, perhaps? Whatever she was, it shouldn’t be very difficult to narrow down the options.

According to the Abyss Shaman, the bruises from the curse that had affected the Silent Witch and Glenn Dudley would disappear, but the pain would persist for a month or so. In that case, all he had to do was look for a woman at Serendia Academy whose left arm hurt.

…Soon, I’ll be able to meet her and see her face.

He could barely contain his joy. Stifled laughter clicked in his throat.

“Welcome home, Brother.”

When he got back to the castle, the third prince, Albert, was there to greet him.

Albert would be fourteen this year. He was a brainy-looking boy with straight blond hair and hazel eyes. He always acted politely toward Felix, but his gaze was sharp for his age, and he watched Felix very carefully.

“Thanks for coming to greet me, Albert. How is His Majesty?”

“…Not well, I hear. The doctor says he can’t see anyone. I believe he will still be making an appearance at the New Year’s ceremony, though.”

“I see.” Felix made a sad face, and Albert stared hard at it, as if trying to glean any information he could.

The letter from Duke Clockford said the third prince’s faction had given up on the throne and joined the second prince’s group… Apparently, though, Albert wasn’t happy with the situation.

His mother, Phillis, had probably been the one to make the decision, while Albert himself hadn’t yet accepted it.

Felix narrowed his azure eyes into a gentle, brotherly expression. “Albert, I hear you plan to leave Minerva’s and transfer to Serendia Academy.”

“…I do.” Albert’s face twisted into a bitter expression.

Most people knew Minerva’s as the most prestigious school for mages in the kingdom. But it had one other important characteristic: It was politically neutral.

For Albert, moving from Minerva’s to Serendia—which was under Duke Clockford’s control—meant surrendering to the second prince’s faction.

He probably hadn’t wanted to transfer, and this, too, was something Phillis had put him up to.

“Well, I for one will be happy to see my adorable little brother at school. Serendia Academy’s facilities and teaching staff are both first-rate. I hope you’ll apply yourself earnestly to your studies and meet Queen Phillis’s expectations.”

Queen Phillis’s expectations—in other words, to remove himself from the line of succession, accept a middling position, and make his mother look good.

Albert must have understood what he meant, but the third prince wasn’t yet able to fully control his own emotions. Humiliated, his cheeks twitched, and his body trembled. Still, he managed to squeeze out a few words.

“…Yes. I’ll do my best to become an upstanding person like you, Brother.”

Several ministers were waiting behind Albert; they all seemed to want to talk to Felix. There was no need to drag this out. With a short “I’m looking forward to it,” he slipped past his brother.

Albert set a dark glare on Felix as he watched him greet the ministers and discuss upcoming plans. Felix, however, didn’t even spare him another glance.

Albert left the room, suppressing the urge to stomp his feet. Once he’d turned two corners, his patience ran out, and he started to run.

He stopped at the end of the hallway and called out, “Patrick! Patrick!”

A boy about his age sauntered over to him. “Yes, Lord Albert? Did you call?”

His servant, Patrick, was a plump boy with wavy, light-brown hair. It wasn’t just his hair, either—even his smile and manner of speaking seemed somehow wavy and soft.

Unhappy with his servant’s attitude, Albert stomped his feet. “Patrick! Why are you so relaxed?! When a master runs, his servant should run, too!”

“Oh, but I don’t think it’s good to run in the halls.”

Patrick was correct. But Albert pursed his lips like a sulking child. “Patrick, did you see my brother’s attitude?”

“He seemed the same as usual to me.”

“He doesn’t care a lick about me. It was written all over his face!”

“The same as always, then.”

“It’s his fault I have to leave Minerva’s! I have a talent for magecraft, you know—unlike him! I could have done amazing, wonderful, brilliant things if I stayed there! But he’s making me… He’s…”

Albert began to claw at his blond hair in frustration. Patrick patted it down and straightened it out for him.

As he let his servant fix his hair, Albert issued an order. “Patrick, I want a thorough investigation of Felix’s school life. What subjects he’s good at, which ones he’s bad at, his interests, his special skills, his friends, his marriage candidates, the things he wants to keep secret, and anything else you can think of! Doesn’t matter! Just find out as much about him as you can! Maybe we can spot a weakness or two!”

Patrick’s tone stayed slow and relaxed. “Do I have to?” he asked. “Lord Felix is perfect. Do you really think he has a weakness?”

“It’s your job to find one, Patrick!”

“Well, all right. I’ll give it a try.”

As Albert continued to pompously order around his servant, he thought. Ugh, this is the worst. He resented all of them—the adults pulling him this way and that and his brother, who looked down on him like he wasn’t even a threat.

Albert was better at schoolwork than other kids his age. His motor skills were a little below average, and he couldn’t seem to hit anything with a sword. He was scared of riding horses and a slow runner. But for all that, he tried twice as hard as anyone else in the classroom.

And yet nobody cared. Nobody looked at him. It was like they thought a third prince might as well not even exist.

…It really doesn’t matter if I’m here or not. I’m just a third prince. Nobody cares about me. Not Father, not Mother, not Felix… Though I guess Lionel’s different.

Albert didn’t resent the first prince so much. In fact, he kind of liked him. Lionel could be a little overbearing sometimes, but he showed Albert affection. He didn’t make fun of him just because he couldn’t ride a horse—instead, he’d ride the horse with him.

Everyone else said Lionel was unrefined for a prince. But while Felix may have looked kindhearted on the outside, Albert thought that Lionel was much nicer.

The adults all say Felix is best suited for the throne. But you can never tell what he’s thinking. What’s so good about him? …And he isn’t even upset that Father’s sick.

When he’d told Felix about their father’s poor health, his brother had made a sad face, but his eyes hadn’t looked sad at all.

I mean, okay. Royalty isn’t supposed to get emotional. But isn’t that a little cold? Even Lionel is sad. He was barely eating.

To be honest, Albert found Felix creepy. He had a pretty face, but it always seemed to be hiding something.

I’ll expose Felix’s true colors… We’ll be going to the same school once the break ends. This is my chance to figure out his weakness!

A week had passed since the start of winter break, and Hilda Everett was at a total loss.

She’d turn forty this year, and while she was unmarried, she was a scientist at the Royal Magic Research Institute and made good money, so she was able to live in a snug house in the royal capital.

Hilda was disastrously bad at chores. That was why she left them all to Matilda, her veteran housemaid. But now Matilda had two weeks off for the winter solstice and New Year’s break.

The ever-considerate Matilda had made a big batch of food for Hilda that wouldn’t go bad and lined it up on the table, telling her to share it with her foster daughter if and when she came home.

Despite all this, one day during the break, Hilda decided on a whim to try making some soup, thus ruining every single one of the meals Matilda had left for her.

“That’s strange. I was only trying to make soup. How did all this happen?”

She’d thrown in whatever ingredients she could find, then turned the heat up to maximum without stirring them at all. As a result, the soup had boiled over and the bottom had burned. It was a disaster.

As Hilda was hastily trying to clean up the pot, she didn’t realize its handles would be hot, too, and she’d wound up flipping the whole thing over.

She was a talented scientist, a genius who had mastered the use of all kinds of experimental devices. And yet, sadly, she couldn’t even figure out how one of her own pots worked.

This alone would have made any housemaid slump to her knees in despair, but the tragedy didn’t end there. In order to clean the soup off the floor, Hilda had tried to wash it away using water magecraft. Unfortunately, the stains weren’t coming out. Frustrated, she continued her chant, strengthening the water pressure, until—

“…Ah—”

—the surging water, strong enough to be an attack spell, destroyed one of the table’s four legs.

Naturally, the table tilted over, and all the food Matilda had left on it fell onto the soaked floor like an avalanche.

And that was why Hilda Everett was now at a complete loss.

Though she claimed she had only been trying to make soup, it was obvious that other factors were at play.

As Hilda was considering improvements to her magecraft formula—partially as a way to escape from the reality in front of her—there was a reserved knock at the back door.

Is that her? she thought, her chest swelling with anticipation. She went over to the door, her boots squelching against the soaked floor, and opened it.

“I-I’m…home.”

A petite girl with light-brown hair delivered her typical, awkward greeting. It was Monica Everett, Hilda’s foster daughter.

“My!” Hilda exclaimed in spite of herself, wrapping Monica’s slender body in a hug. “Welcome home, Monica. When I got your Shelgria card, I was sure you’d come home this year… But why did you come to the back door?”

“Ummm, I used the knocker on the front door. But nobody answered, so…”

Monica had lived in this house until only a few years ago, and she still had a key. She could have just let herself in. But as always, she ended up overthinking it.

“Well, it’s too cold to stand outside talking, so come in—but you’ll need to go back around to the front.”

“Huh?”

“My wonderful daughter is finally home. I want to greet you properly, at the front door,” said Hilda, moving so Monica couldn’t see the disastrous state of the kitchen.

Monica went around and entered the house through the front door. Once inside, she looked around at her former home, to which she hadn’t returned in some time. Hilda’s house was more than big enough for a woman living on her own, but it was a mess, filled with books and experimental apparatuses.

Nevertheless, the place was clean of dust and spiderwebs—thanks to the housemaid’s efforts, no doubt.

It’s been…so long…

Monica sat down on the couch at Hilda’s urging, then took two wrapped gifts from her bag and set them on the table.

“I brought a gift for you, Miss Hilda. Ummm, the other one is for Miss Matilda.”

“Oh! Is this lavender soap?”

“Yes… I—I was shopping at the winter market with, um, my friends, and I saw them, so…”

Hilda looked a little surprised when Monica said the word friends, but then she smiled warmly. “It smells really nice… Lavender staves off mold, so I’ll put it in the storehouse right away.”

She didn’t even think about putting it in the bathroom. It was just like her. If Matilda saw it there, Monica was sure she’d move the soap to its proper location.

“So, how long can you stay, Monica? The Seven Sages need to take part in the New Year’s ceremony, right?”

“Um, yes. So I’ll need to go to the castle the day before…”

“Then you can stay here and relax until then! You’re more than welcome. This is your home, after all— Oh.”

Hilda’s soft, motherly smile was interrupted by a sudden moan. Then her eyes darted toward the kitchen.

“Actually, um, about the food… Well… I’m really sorry. We might be eating bread and pickles for a while… B-but I moved the ginger cake to the cupboard, so it’s safe!”

Monica could basically guess what had happened. Her foster mother had proved time and again that she had absolutely no talent for housework.

“Um, I’ll just…go make some tea,” she said, trying to be considerate.

Hilda blanched. “Wait!” she called. “The kitchen is, um… Well… You know what, just let me make the tea!”

Her warning fell on deaf ears, however, as Monica had already opened the forbidden door to the kitchen. When she saw the disaster inside, she smiled dryly. Hilda was the same as always. She’d done something similar almost every year since taking Monica in.

Ultimately, Monica and Hilda spent the day cleaning up the kitchen.

Hilda seemed extremely embarrassed, but when Monica found out the only thing they had to worry about were stains on the floor, she breathed a sigh of relief. When Hilda really messed things up, the ceiling would get burned black by fire, or a cabinet would get smashed to smithereens. Hilda’s lack of skill in the kitchen was just that devastating.

Once they were finished cleaning up, Hilda set sliced bread, honeyed nuts, pickles, and the ginger cake on the table. Apparently, she’d pulled out every last bit of preserved food she had in the house.

“Nero? Nero, wake up. It’s time to eat.”

Nero was curled up at the bottom of Monica’s bag, but despite her calls, she got no response.

He’d still been awake in Rehnberg—where the temperature was milder—but ever since entering the chilly royal capital, he’d gone straight into hibernation mode. He’d been asleep most of the day.

She was worried that he was sleeping too much, but no matter what he looked like, he was a dragon. A little chill probably wasn’t enough to weaken him.

Monica set Nero down in front of the woodstove, then took a seat across from Hilda.

“I’m really sorry, Monica. I wanted to have something better waiting for you when you got back…”

“No, it’s, um, okay. Really, this is more than enough…”

Monica wasn’t very particular about food. In fact, she privately regretted not getting Hilda something edible as a gift, instead of the soap.

“Ummm… Miss Hilda…”

“What is it?”

Hilda already had her mouth wide open and was stuffing bread into it. Monica waited for her to swallow, then continued.

“…Was there anyone, um, researching cursecraft who worked with Dad?”

Her foster mother’s face tensed, and her eyebrow twitched.

I knew Miss Hilda would know something.

That servant working at Duke Rehnberg’s mansion, Peter Summs—real name Barry Oats. He’d been behind the cursed dragon incident, but he also seemed to know something about her father’s death.

“The world is filled with numbers.”

When Monica had said that old phrase of her father’s, Peter had clearly become agitated.

That shaman knew Dad.

Hilda had been an assistant to Monica’s father—and the one who spent the most time in his laboratory. For that reason, Monica had thought that if anyone knew something about the shaman, it would be Hilda. And it appeared she was right on the mark.

“…Monica, why are you suddenly asking about something like that?” said Hilda, wiping the bread crumbs from her mouth and looking searchingly at her daughter.

Monica returned her gaze and straightened up. “I can’t tell you the details, but I ran into a shaman who knew my father. When he saw my face, he said my father’s name… And he also made a remark implying he was involved with Dad’s death…”

“Monica, do not involve yourself with that shaman,” said Hilda in a low voice, dropping her gaze. She folded her hands on the table. Monica could see the veins standing up on the back of her hands. She seemed to be trembling slightly. She must be very, very angry. “He’s allied with someone very powerful. If you go poking around, even you could wind up in danger.”

As one of the Seven Sages, Monica held the rank of count of magic, which was equivalent to that of a regular count. If Hilda thought this person posed a danger to Monica, they must have been royalty, or else someone of equally high status.

Monica watched her foster mother’s face carefully, not wanting to miss even the slightest reaction. “Is it that shaman’s fault that Dad was executed?”

She heard the gnashing of teeth from inside Hilda’s mouth. Her usually calm and gentle foster mother’s face now looked fierce. She seemed to be desperately suppressing some intense emotion.

“…Once, there was a shaman who wanted to do joint research with Professor Reyn. He was looking into ways to control animals or something—right on the line of the forbidden. Since the professor was researching the link between human bodies and mana, there was a lot of common ground in their areas of study.”

Professor Reyn refused the offer in no uncertain terms. A week later, the incident happened. Someone reported to the authorities that Venedict Reyn had been researching ways to revive the dead—class-one forbidden magecraft. Necromancy was one of the greatest taboos in the kingdom, along with black flames and weather control. Even just researching it—let alone actually using it—warranted the death penalty.

“Naturally, Professor Reyn wasn’t researching anything like that,” said Hilda. “He respected life. He always had. Trying to resurrect the dead is a desecration of life. He would never have done that.”

But after an official conducted an on-site inspection, he claimed to have found several forbidden tomes and documents regarding techniques for reviving the dead. And so Monica’s father, Venedict Reyn, was put to death as a criminal.

“It’s obvious that man planted those confiscated documents in the professor’s lab. But the official never changed his tune. Everything went suspiciously in that man’s favor.”

Hilda, knowing something was wrong, had looked into the shaman on her own…and, unfortunately, found out that a high-ranking noble was backing him. And by the time she’d arrived at the truth, Venedict Reyn was already dead. He had been executed without a trial, and they’d sped through the whole thing—all because that high-ranking noble was putting pressure on them.

Monica clasped her fists on her lap. Her blood had already run cold, and yet she was still sweating. Her palms were soaked.

“…Who was…that high-ranking noble?” she asked.

Hilda slowly shook her head. “You’re a Sage now. You may end up having to interact with them… So I can’t tell you.”

If Monica got close to that high-ranking noble and it came out that she was Venedict Reyn’s daughter, her own position would be in jeopardy. Hilda was staying quiet to keep her safe.

Under the circumstances, Monica couldn’t press her foster mother any further.

Monica’s room at the Everett residence still had its bed and desk, and it was all kept clean.

She laid Nero down on the bed. He’d shown no signs of waking up ever since they’d arrived. Maybe he’d stay asleep until spring.

It would be lonely without anyone to talk to—a realization that came as a surprise to Monica. When she’d been living alone in her mountain cabin, she’d never felt lonely. But at some point, she’d grown very accustomed to being around Nero.

“I wonder if you’ll wake up once you’re all nice and warm.”

Monica pulled the blanket up and covered Nero with it, then petted him through the fabric. He still showed no signs of waking, however. She sat there with him for a while, but eventually she stood up, got a pen and a piece of paper, and sat down at her desk.

She wanted to write down all the questions she had before going to sleep so that she could keep it all straight.

Questions

• Peter’s remark about selling Dad out to His Excellency   Who is His Excellency?

• Powerful person backing Peter   Is this the same person as His Excellency?

• Reason His Excellency is helping Peter   Does he need cursecraft for some reason?

• Peter’s statement that he won’t become like Arthur   Who is Arthur?

• The prince knew that cursecraft had created the cursed dragon   Why didn’t he say anything? Did he know Peter was the culprit?

After writing everything out, Monica sighed. The question she was most curious about was the identity of the high-ranking noble backing Peter. This was more than likely the same person Peter had referred to as His Excellency.

Since Peter had worked at Duke Rehnberg’s estate, any “excellency” he might refer to would be, presumably, Duke Rehnberg. But the duke was, to be blunt, rather forgettable. He’d made almost no remarks during the negotiations with the Kingdom of Farfolia, letting Felix take the spotlight.

I suppose you can’t judge a book by its cover, but still…

Monica couldn’t help feeling that His Excellency must be someone else.

Right now, Monica was having Bartholomeus look into how Peter had ended up working at Duke Rehnberg’s mansion. In addition, she’d entrusted the cursed tool he had left behind to Ray Albright. Monica hadn’t told Ray about her father’s name coming up, only about how Peter had died.

I hope I can get some kind of clue from that shamanic tool, but maybe I shouldn’t hold my breath…

Monica slowly exhaled. Then she burned the note she’d just written with unchanted magecraft and threw the ashes into the wastebasket.

I know you’re just trying to keep me safe, Miss Hilda. I’m sorry for going against your wishes. But I need to know the truth—even if it means losing my status as a Sage.

Monica lay down next to Nero, then pulled a book out of a cloth pouch next to her pillow. It was her father’s book, purchased for two gold coins at Porter Used Books.

The world is filled with numbers. The book began with those words, and Monica had read the entire thing several times now.

She didn’t know much about biology or medicine, so she struggled to understand the book’s contents. But she’d been looking up all the unfamiliar terminology, and slowly she’d come to understand just how incredible the ideas in the book were.

Her father’s research analyzed the characteristics people inherited from their parents, and this book explained how mana in particular was extremely hereditary. Eventually, by analyzing people’s mana, he’d hoped to create a way to appraise individuals and pinpoint their bloodline.

If he was still alive, the Kingdom of Ridill’s medical expertise would surely have developed even further. Research into hereditary diseases in particular would have progressed by leaps and bounds.

She was flipping through the familiar pages when, suddenly, she remembered what the owner of the used bookstore, Porter, had said.

Oh, that’s right. Mister Porter was Dad’s friend, wasn’t he?

Porter wrote novels under the pen name Dustin Gunther. He’d also valued her father’s book at two gold coins. That price implied to Monica that Porter acknowledged the importance of her father’s research, or else that he was a very good friend.

I wonder if Mister Porter was a frequent visitor to Dad’s lab…

When she was very young, Monica had spent a lot of time in her father’s laboratory. But she didn’t remember many of the people who passed through it, since she was usually engrossed in whatever book she was reading. The only person she clearly remembered a face and name for was Hilda, because she always brought Monica snacks.

And Monica had never been good at remembering people’s faces to begin with. She’d only started assigning numbers to faces and bodies after her uncle’s abuse, when she began escaping into the world of numbers.

As she thought back on her childhood and continued to flip idly through the pages of the book, something caught her eye. The flyleaf at the back was stuck to the colophon page.

“…?”

Gently, she separated the two pages and found a piece of paper caught in between them. It looked like a scrap of writing paper. She carefully peeled it out so as not to damage the book, then took a closer look at it. Someone had written something on it.

“Visit the shop again when you discover the truth of the Black Grail.”

Monica put the paper under a lamp and observed it. Neither the paper nor the letters changed color very much. It must have been written sometime in the last few months.

The letters were ill-formed, like they’d been written in a hurry. It had probably been scrawled quickly on a piece of writing paper, covered in a thin layer of glue, and stuck between the last few pages of the book.

And speaking of writing paper, Porter had been in the middle of penning a novel when she’d visited his shop. There had been stationery all over the counter—not just writing paper—and a bookstore would always have a supply of glue on hand.

“Did Mister Porter write this?” she wondered aloud.

The shop mentioned in the message was probably Porter Used Books. But what was the Black Grail?

Monica searched her memories but didn’t turn up anything. The term never appeared in her father’s book, either.

Is it code for something? Or a cipher?

She tossed and turned in bed, racking her brain for what the words “Black Grail” could refer to.

But in the end, she came up with nothing. Eventually, she surrendered herself to drowsiness and fell asleep.

That night, Monica dreamed of her father.

In the dream, Monica was absorbed in her book on mathematics, and her father was sitting in his chair, drinking coffee and watching her.

A guest sat next to him. The hair and clothes were a blur, but Monica could tell it was a man.

The guest sipped his coffee, then exhaled.

“Hmm,” he said. “It certainly is bitter, but I don’t taste any impurities. Not bad. And it wakes you right up, too—it’d be perfect for writing drafts… I’ve always wanted to try this stuff out, ever since I saw your coffeepot.”

“Hilda took one sip of it and said she couldn’t stand the bitterness,” said Monica’s father. “You’re the only weirdo who actually drinks my coffee.”

“I try never to forget my sense of adventure. When you lose that, it’s the beginning of the end, Venedict.”

The guest downed the rest of his coffee, speaking words that Monica seemed to remember from somewhere, sometime.

“I have to say, your daughter is a strange one,” the guest continued. I wondered what she was reading—and lo and behold, it’s a book on mathematics. Does she even know what any of it means?”

“Yes, she understands all of it. She’s a smart girl.”

“No interest in the novel I brought her, I suppose.”

“Sorry about that. I’ll read it instead.”

“But I brought it for her. It’s an adventure novel. I thought lofty scholars like you weren’t interested in that stuff.”

“I enjoy your novels. They take place in fictional worlds, but they cleverly incorporate cultures and customs from other countries. The key item from the last book was something close to my research topic, too, which was extremely interesting to me. Did you get that from another country’s legends, too?”

“Oh, that? Well, the model was the  , actually.”

As her father and his guest talked, Monica sat next to them in silence, reading her book on mathematics.

It was a simple, frivolous dream.

Yes. That was all it was…