Spice and Wolf - Volume 12 - Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

They soon found the path from the back of the village into the forest.

It was narrow, just wide enough to accommodate hunters carrying felled deer. Still, the snow was packed hard with footsteps and brushed free from sticks and branches, so it was well traveled and running was easy.

Lawrence and Holo ran for all they were worth through the trees in the forest.

“What was all that about?”

“No idea. He said that was the governor. Seems like it’ll be…trouble for the village.” Lawrence took a break in the middle of his sentence to jump over a tree root. Lawrence lifted the hem of Holo’s robe to do likewise, which she managed quite lightly.

“He said the forest and lake would be destroyed.”

“He did,” said Lawrence, and just then he thought of something.

The governor and his troops had descended on the village, sending the village’s representative, Mueller, into a panic. And if the forest and the lake were going to be destroyed, that suggested but one thing.

But he said nothing about it to Holo—not for any particular reason, but simply because his breath was too ragged for him to speak.

Holo started to lag, and Lawrence took her hand as they ascended a gentle hill.

“I should’ve taken…my true form,” said Holo, though whether she was joking or not was unclear. Just then, the path made a sudden left turn and brightened. Following the line of sight, they could see the lake. They kept going that way for a time, soon reaching a side path that descended to the lake. Down the slope they slid.

There were footprints—perhaps Col’s and Fran’s—by the lake, but they seemed to run in two directions, both coming and going.

Lawrence looked around, and there were two figures at the entrance to the path that led to the cottage by the waterfall. They seemed to be watching something and were not moving. Lawrence waved his hand and was about to call out to them, but then Holo stopped him.

“Ngh! Hey—what’s wrong?”

“Don’t raise your voice,” said Holo quietly. For a moment he wondered if she was making some kind of joke, but there was nothing funny about her expression.

Lawrence directed his gaze back at Fran and Col, and then he realized they were not looking at anything, much less being affectionate with each other.

They were stock-still. As though they were holding their breath.

“There’s probably someone at the bottom of the hill.”

“…If that’s so, shouldn’t they hide?”

“Fool. In this kind of place, even if they’re in plain sight they won’t be spotted, so long as they don’t move. But even behind the trees, if we move, we’ll be spotted.”

Holo was a wolf, a hunter of the forest, so if she said so, it was true.

Now that she had told him, Lawrence found that when he looked more closely he could see Fran’s and Col’s bodies frozen in place, with Col in a characteristically awkward, panicked pose.

Fran had done exactly the right thing.

But what Lawrence wanted to know was why she was familiar with the tactics for such rough circumstances when even he had been unfamiliar with them?

“Hmph.” Holo sniffed, probably thinking the same thing.

After a while, Fran’s pose relaxed, and she faced Lawrence and Holo, beckoning them over. Despite the good distance between them, she seemed to have recognized them.

Lawrence gave the displeased Holo a nudge from behind, and the two of them ran in Fran’s direction.

“What happened?” Lawrence asked Fran.

Col’s anxiety seemed to evaporate when he recognized Lawrence and Holo, and he collapsed to the ground in relief.

“Soldiers came to the cottage. And you?”

“The same. Soldiers at the village. Apparently the landlord has come in force. They say the forest and lake will be destroyed.”

Lawrence, for his part, could not understand what the landlord was trying to accomplish. But Fran had a sense of the village’s circumstances before they came here. Hearing what Lawrence had to say, she seemed to immediately understand the direction things were taking. She gazed at the river with a troubled expression that quickly turned to anger, as though it was being painted that way.

“I’m impressed with their lack of scruples.”

“You mean—” Lawrence said, but before he could even finish the question, Fran continued.

“They’ve come here to make Katerina no more.”

In that instant, Lawrence understood their goal.

Katerina was already dead, so Fran’s words took on a more literal meaning.

“I suppose you could say we’re in an age of money, where things like Church or pagan no longer matter.” It was a good line. Fran chuckled blackly through her anger at the joke and then sighed. “I’d come so far…and now the landlord decides to act? I was so close…so, so close…,” she said, frustrated, the sound of her clenching fists audible even beneath her robe.

Having been cast about between the Church and the pagans, the landlord had chosen a third option. Seeing the visible decline of Church power, he had surely grown sick of being used by them. He would erase every trace of Katerina, distancing himself from religious conflicts and never bothering to clear her name.

Moreover, he would construct a water mill, and in conjunction with a new northern campaign incited by the Debau Company, he would use the mill’s power to attract craftsmen and workers—for in the face of money, what could the Church or the pagans say?

“Did you get the map?” Fran looked up, almost glaring at Lawrence.

“I did…but please, wait a moment.”

Fran started to step forward, but Lawrence stopped her, giving her a look that was every bit as serious as the one she wore.

“Please calm down. If the landlord has decided to destroy all traces of Katerina, then our presence is an obstacle. Arguing with him will be impossible, and he’s hardly likely to let you continue to investigate the legend of the angel.”

Fran’s face contorted at Lawrence’s words. The girl was no fool. Even in anger, she was just as clever as she had always been.

“I know the legend was right in front of you. And I know you didn’t come here on some whim. But it’s too dangerous.

“We must flee.”

When Lawrence said the words, Fran flinched as though physically struck by them, taking one step back, then another. He could understand Col hurrying to her side to support her. Had he failed to do so, she would have fallen to the ground.

“…No…I can’t…I was so close…”

It was so recently that she had been delighted, unable to contain her excitement as she jumped into the cottage. And now her despair was proportional to her anticipation, too heavy to bear.

Holo’s face was pained, and she said nothing.

If they were going to run, they would have to do so now, while the soldiers had briefly retreated.

“I’m sorry, but…,” Lawrence started, and he tried to take Fran’s hand. But then—

“Lud Kieman told me about you.”

Lawrence was at a loss for words, partially because he did not understand what she meant. But it was not because suddenly hearing Kieman’s name felt like she had correctly guessed something that should have been a secret. If she was going to partner with Lawrence and his companions, a simple investigation would have led her to Kerube, where it was reasonable to imagine she would soon have found Kieman.

What gave Lawrence pause was a more rational premonition entirely. Or else his merchant’s instincts had come to a different conclusion on their own, quite separately from reason or logic.

In that instant, Lawrence understood what Fran was trying to say.

“He said you fear no god, you seize opportunities for profit, and you use your connections with skill.” Fran wiped her tears and tried without success to smile a bold smile. Her failure to do so only made her seem more desperate.

Lawrence had to ask, praying he had guessed wrong.

“What is it you would have me do?”

“Please tell them that Katerina Lucci is a saint.”

Lawrence could understand why Col and Holo would look so dubious.

Religious strategies of any sort were becoming impossible. So why would she fixate on that? Surely both Col and Holo were wondering as much—but not Lawrence.

In fact, it was quite the opposite. There was a huge difference between a respected nun and a saint. Both in how they were treated and what that was worth.

“That can’t be…”

“Her candidacy for canonization has been submitted. They hid their identities in Lenos, but she had many among the nobility that supported her. The petition for her canonization to the pontiff has been submitted and even now is on the desk of the cardinalate. What do you think?”

When she finished speaking, Fran closed her mouth, as though her mind was entirely made up. And it was true—what she said carried weight.

Fran, the dauntless, lonely silversmith. She had made an irritatingly pragmatic decision in perfect keeping with her reputation.

Lawrence swallowed. “When Sister Katerina becomes Saint Katerina, everything in that cottage, including her body, will become holy relics.”

At the words holy relics, Col raised his voice in a surprised “Ah!”

That seemed to be the signal for Fran to finally succeed at smiling a thin, faint smile. “When the landlord learns how much holy relics can be worth, he’ll give up on the water mill. If you doubt me, let’s go back to the cottage and look at her diary. It’s filled with the names and details of lords from many different lands. Even the fact that the cottage has been left alone is probably because the canonization proceedings were stalled.”

It was the sort of thing that Lawrence had only ever heard in rumors.

When someone was canonized as a saint, anything connected to their person could for whatever reason be sold for huge amounts of money. If they were reputed to have performed miracles, then pilgrims would come, and not just from the Church, but also the surrounding region. Noblemen would sometimes band together in order to get clergy from their area canonized, but the application required an extravagant amount of money.

From the perspective of the nobility, it was a large gamble involving their happiness in the afterlife against their wealth while they still lived.

It was said that many had gone bankrupt trying to accomplish it, and yet it kept being tried because the potential gains were enormous.

Katerina Lucci was destined to be dragged into someone’s scheme.

“So you want me to sell…a saint?”

“I have heard that you’re experienced in business.” She smiled the same smile she had used at Hugues’s shop when she claimed a map of the north would cost him fifty lumione. But this time, he could not let it go.

Lawrence delivered his reply. “This is madness. There is no way a merchant like me can handle holy relics. Even if I passed myself off as one, it would last but a moment. With the narwhal in Kerube, it was Kieman who handled the bulk of the exchange, along with another merchant who was former nobility. And in Winfiel, I was on the edges of a deal involving a holy relic, but to be blunt, it wasn’t on a scale that involved me.”

Money was not something that just accumulated. Its quality and nature could change from one moment to another. From an amount that could purchase a good to an amount that could purchase a person’s heart to one that could change a person’s destiny.

A holy relic was in that same company.

But Fran never took her gaze from Lawrence, and standing her ground, she played her final trump card. “In exchange, I’ll draw you a map of the northlands. Right away, if you like.”

A moment passed.

“…What?” he replied out of simple shock.

It was as though she felt it was entirely fair to offer a simple map in return for him fabricating a saint and undertaking the dangerous business of dealing in holy relics constructed from lies.

Fran looked at him evenly.

“Do you truly believe that’s a fair trade?” Lawrence could not help asking.

In that moment, Fran’s face was somehow charming. Her eyes were wide as she looked at him, as though she might reply at any moment, “I do indeed!”

But unlike when Lawrence had told her about the villagers who had come to the cottage, something else poured into her expression, replacing her fading surprise.

That brown skin and those black eyes.

He would not have objected to someone calling her a sorceress. Fran spoke in a flat, low tone. “Are you saying you won’t risk danger to get your map of the northlands?”

Lawrence glanced over at Holo.

Holo was expressionless, staring at Fran, while Col was obviously distraught.

If it had only been about the danger, then of course he could have taken the risk. But to take Katerina, who had already endured being called a witch, and to now claim she was a saint and sell her off to some landlord was flatly impossible.

After doing such a thing, how could Lawrence then take Holo’s hand with a clean conscience?

“To falsely approach the landlord and then negotiate with him on the pretenses of selling a saint? I cannot do it.”

“I see,” said Fran and began to walk away.

Lawrence did not move. So smooth was her motion that after she passed by Lawrence, she held in her hand the map that he had previously tucked near his breast.

“Where are you going?” He knew it was a stupid question, but could not help asking.

Fran stopped as though mulling something over, then came slowly walking back. “You got Hugues to talk to you, so I thought you were made of sterner stuff.”

He thought back to how Hugues had endured Fran’s haughty treatment. His first, biggest priority was to have Fran create paintings of his homeland. And it was true, Lawrence had convinced Hugues to talk.

Fran continued. “I thought you were the same as me. But I was wrong.”

“What do you—” Mean, Lawrence was going to finish, but he did not have the chance.

“Do you think you’re going to get a map of the north with only that much resolve?”

“—!”

Lawrence felt as though he had been stabbed through the heart. Fran started walking again.

His feet refused to move; they felt sewn in place. He could not even think. He felt as though they had all been playing some kind of prank, and she had just dumped freezing water on them.

Why not just say it, plain and simple: To what lengths was he willing to go to find a map of the northlands? His resolve was insignificant.

He wanted to travel with Holo. It was a lukewarm promise they had made to each other, not to give up. Chasing after the wolf bones and tracking down a map of the northlands, these were not meaningless things. Taken individually, they could not be overlooked.

But as to what sort of foundation they made when taken as a whole—he understood that all too well. It was the simple, childish wish to simply stay with Holo. And only a very meager tower could be built upon such a foundation.

Lawrence knew that, but to have it so clearly pointed out made him feel deeply wretched.

He was standing there, nailed to the ground, when Holo took his hand. “She certainly hit you hard.”

He looked at her, and her eyes seemed almost relieved, like a girl whose mischief had been uncovered.

“But do you suppose she truly plans to sell that dried-out, old thing?”

Impossible, Lawrence immediately thought.

In which case, the course of events was obvious. Holo’s eyes said as much as they admonished Lawrence.

Holo’s righteous anger had been roused before, to say nothing of when it was for the sake of helpless villagers.

But he was not thinking to use Katerina for their own aims after she had died following a lifetime of abuse at the hands of the villagers and the landlord.

So many regrets remained. And yet he could not approve Fran’s proposal. In the worst-case scenario, he could end up killed to keep things quiet.

“We should run,” said Lawrence, and Holo nodded.

It was Col who raised his voice, having listened carefully to the conversation. “We’re going to leave Fran behind?”

Lawrence and Holo exchanged a look. There was no argument about Fran’s importance.

“Once we’ve escaped to a safer place, we can ask Holo or even Hugues for help. We’ll make sure she’s safe. There are many people who need Miss Fran, after all.”

No one was going to let her die pointlessly.

But Col seemed on the verge of tears. “No, I mean…are you giving up on the legend of the angel that Miss Fran was chasing?”

Lawrence was at a loss at how to honestly reply. The legend of the angel had been Fran’s own reason for coming and had nothing to do with Lawrence and his companions. But then he soon corrected himself.

Had Col not heard Fran’s goal? Had she not confided in him the reason why she was so determined to claim Katerina’s sainthood and deceive the landlord?

Lawrence was just about to explain how unreasonable it would be to take the risk of chasing the legend now—but bit the words back because of a book.

Col, nearly crying now, thrust a single volume at him. “I know I forced myself off on you and Miss Holo, Mr. Lawrence, but I just can’t abandon Miss Fran like this,” he said, and handing the book to Lawrence, he shouldered his pack and set off after her.

Lawrence never even had a chance to say anything.

Col was a kind, gentle boy. If Fran’s quest was a sincerely felt one, then once he heard her reason, he could not help but be moved by it, Lawrence assumed.

But his assumption was soon scattered to the wind.

The book Col had handed Lawrence—from the writing on its cover, he could tell that it was a book of scripture.

Lawrence’s face stiffened, but not because he had just had a holy book shoved at him. It was because the cover of the book was discolored by large bloodstains.

“What’s that?” Holo asked, bringing Lawrence back to his senses.

“Seems to be a book of scriptures…” Lawrence gently opened the book. The pages’ edges were torn here and there, and some were stuck together with blood. It didn’t seem like overstatement to say it had been through the hell of war.

Then Lawrence noticed there were several folded pieces of paper stuck between the pages of the book. He opened them and saw the terse notes there, written in needle-sharp handwriting.

“Dear Kira…vai…en…Kirjavainen Mercenary Troop?”

There, on a piece of paper between the pages of a bloodstained scripture book, was written the name of a mercenary band. Lawrence brushed the soot away and looked more closely, reading the writing there. Next to the band’s name, there was another name, the addressee of the letter.

“Fran…Vonely.”

It had come from the pack Col had carried in Fran’s place, so it was not surprising he had been carrying something that was addressed to her. Lawrence found himself murmuring her name, because in front of it was also written a title.

“Troop Chaplain, Fran Vonely.”

The moment he saw those words, Lawrence felt a great shock, as though he had been struck on the head with an iron rod. He did not even hear Holo trying to get his attention as he paged through the letter.

The characters were blurred in places and smeared with blood, soot, and grime, sometimes too badly to be read. But Lawrence could tell that it had been written by someone in the Kirjavainen mercenary troop—and by someone who was far away from Fran. At the top of the second page, the scribe had written, “May they reach your prayers from this far-off land,” followed by a simple list of facts, all in a peculiar hand.

“Decurion Martin Ghurkas killed in the battle of Lydion.”

“Betrayed on the Lavan plains. Pursued by the soldiers of Marquis Lizzo. Cursed by God. Lienne the sutler died that night of injuries. He went in his sleep and left no will.”

“Heimann Rosso, the centurion who’d been sheltered by the count, was betrayed and arrested. He passed in the dungeon in fine form and was always worried about you.”

And then, the last piece of paper.

“In the town of Miligua in the Nacculi diocese, in the month of Saint Rafenne, executed by hanging. A last message for you was ‘I’ll see the angel before you…’”

The last page was badly crumpled, and there was more written, but it was so thoroughly blurred that it was not legible.

Lawrence stood there silently, and when he finally spoke, it was a simple, low “Ah” of understanding.

Young but trusted by nobility. Used to hard physical labor. Bold and fearless as a mountain bandit. And for all that, still graceful and refined.

Kieman had said she was a silversmith born on the battlefield. Fran herself had told Hugues she had been a slave—and those two meanings now connected.

In her mercenary band, as arrows and swords rained down upon them, to protect her comrades-in-arms, Fran had raised the shield of faith against the fear and despair of death.

Given all that, Fran’s reason for seeking out the legend of the angel must have naturally changed. The last piece of paper was wrinkled, the writing blurred—and it pointed to one thing.

The dear friend of whom Fran had spoken had been the centurion that was hung.

He had only to recall the legend of the angel. The doors to the heavens were flung open, and the angel ascended.

He had been looking for a special meaning in those words, but all that was needed were the words themselves.

There were countless stories of the misery that was life in the latter days of a mercenary troop. For Fran to have lived through it meant she passed through that hell. The words “from this far-off land” betrayed that much.

And it was just as Hugues had said. Those with teeth and claws are the first to die.

The troop chaplain could do nothing but pray. And since prayers did nothing to stop a sword, they were spared participation in battle.

And so Fran had lived.

“Come, you.”

Holo’s words brought Lawrence out of his reverie, but she said nothing more.

“Sorry.”

She could probably guess what he was going to say next just by his expression. A wind blew from downriver, skimming along the surface of the waning flow, through the space between Lawrence and Holo and up into the forest, taking some snow with it as it went.

“Can we not help her?” Lawrence said simply.

Instead of replying, Holo held out her hand as if asking for the scripture book.

“So?” she said, looking up after she finished reading the letters and the scriptures.

She might not have worked out the details, but she probably understood the larger plan. After all, Col had expressed his own opinion for once and had gone chasing after Fran. That alone was not something they could ignore.

“I know all I’ve got is my cheap sympathy.”

“So why, then?”

Lawrence smiled in response, but not because he was trying to fake it. What he had to say was simply embarrassing.

Holo glared at him dubiously and grabbed his ear. But Lawrence’s smile remained. His thoughts were just that foolish.

“I was just thinking that it would be nice if the world were a gentler place.”

Holo did not let him go.

Lawrence’s eyes remained on her.

“I was thinking how lovely it would be if things would go just a little more smoothly. How nice it would be to get past reality and common sense. Something like that.”

Fran’s mercenary troop had been unable to avoid reality. Fran had lived on, and Lawrence could not imagine that she truly believed she could find the miracle that had so eluded her comrades.

A water mill would be constructed, and if her luck was bad, Fran would be killed. And even if things did not go that way, comparing those who had died to those who had lived still showed the truth of the world. Any child who had been beaten for misbehaving knew that much.

But Katerina had contented herself with being called a witch, with being reviled, abiding in that cottage with nothing but her faith, all to glimpse a legend that common sense dictated she would surely not see.

She concerned herself with neither cheap sympathy nor false miracles.

The world had its kinder moments. That was what she had believed.

“You truly are a fool.” Holo made a baffled face and sighed a deep sigh. She let go of his ear as though she could no longer stand to go along with such a fool. But with her other hand, she curled her little finger around Lawrence’s ring finger. “You know the world really isn’t that happy a place?”

Holo was a wisewolf. She could see right through the silly notions of her companion.

“I know. Still—”

“Still, what?”

If he answered wrongly, she might leave him right then and there—or so he would have thought until quite recently.

Lawrence took Holo’s hand and drew her close. “Don’t you want to help this stubborn girl, with her painful past and a goal she can’t give up?”

Holo bared her fangs. They were very white. “If you fail, I won’t forgive you.”

“Of course,” Lawrence said, lightly bumping Holo’s forehead with his own. “Of course,” he said again.

“But what exactly do you plan to do?” Holo finally gave in and asked as they made their way back to the cottage.

“Nothing too difficult. I’m just going to refer to Katerina as a saint.”

“…So you’ll sell her?”

“No. Not at all—all I have to say is that we’ve been employed for the service of confirming her application for canonization.”

That implied nothing less than that the powerful figures responsible for canonization decisions were paying attention to this region. If Lawrence and his companions met with an unnatural accident or if mysterious action was taken against the villagers, the landlord would immediately find himself in serious trouble.

“But even the most foolish lord would investigate the matter, especially if he’s a coward. Even if she is being considered for canonization, he’ll soon discover that we’ve nothing to do with that. So what would that possibly…?” Holo said but trailed off as she realized.

Her displeased expression was just as Lawrence predicted.

“I did say I needed your help, didn’t I?”

“…I thought you meant my knowledge,” grumbled Holo, her lips twisted in a sneer. But she said nothing further.

“In the legend of the angel, it’s said that there was the howl of a great beast. If you’ll lend your help, it’ll be simple to put on a show that will prove Katerina’s sainthood beyond any doubt.”

“Mm.”

“The truth is that Katerina’s canonization proceedings have stalled. So long as the Church doesn’t publicly confirm her sainthood, there will be no financial incentives in the form of valuable holy relics. And if there’s nothing of value, how could I sell it?”

“A rather makeshift plan, if you ask me,” Holo interjected, unamused.

“You could at least call it ‘cunning.’”

Holo sighed, as though to say they were one and the same.

“So all we need to do is tell the landlord as much. As money and faith are intertwined, if rumors start to spread, it won’t do him any good, we’ll say.”

For a landlord trapped between the Church and the pagans, this would constitute a strong argument indeed. He ought to stay as quiet as a well-trained hound.

Of course, there was no telling whether they would be able to hold the landlord off for long. But Lawrence was sure this would buy them enough time.

Enough for Fran to be able to give up on the angel legend, anyway.

“Well, I suppose it’s better than turning tail and running away,” said Holo, tossing another piece of firewood onto the cottage’s hearth.

Katerina Lucci was one step away from being publicly declared a saint by the Church.

Her diary was less a diary than it was a simple record of her daily activities. But that was more than enough to come to understand the person Katerina had been and the circumstances in which she had lived.

She had been consulted by an archbishop whose name was known even to Lawrence, as well as a noblewoman and a wealthy merchant. She spent her days replying to such correspondence, as well as studying topics of concern to the Church and translating the scriptures and copying important documents.

Those activities alone were evidence of a serene and pious life, but in her diary, Katerina had also recorded some of her innermost thoughts.

She had turned over her translation of the scriptures to a bishop upon receiving his request to do so, but when the lending period had ended, he had refused to return it. A book merchant had held her manuscript against her will in exchange for money. The Church council had deemed theology not a subject suitable for women to consider, and she had been forced to write under a false name.

But the greatest revelations were the letters from the many powerful figures who had heard of her reputation and written her for advice. Though the archbishop’s letter was phrased in all sorts of complicated religious language, the ridiculous gist was that he was constantly being invited to this or that nobleman’s banquet and eating to excess, and he wanted to know what he should do.

The noblewoman wrote to complain at nauseating length about her quarrels with her husband.

The wealthy merchant very directly posed the question of exactly how much he would need to give to the poor in order to assure his own entrance into heaven.

Katerina replied seriously and conscientiously to every letter she received, and some of her drafts remained. However, in between her replies to these absurd questions were written short sentences, apparently to herself. Are these trials God has sent to test me? she wondered. They wrung distress from this nun, who was only trying to deepen her faith.

It seemed that the process for canonization had taken place entirely outside of Katerina’s participation. She had written many times attempting to decline, but the letters that came back only showed growing support and that sainthood was close.

As Lawrence committed to memory the names and doings of the many powerful people in the letters, he felt progressively worse and worse.

It was written in the diary that a representative of the village had come to her one day and, having explained the circumstances to her, asked for permission to begin calling her a witch.

Katerina had sympathized with the villagers and had agreed, as long as she would be the only one to suffer the consequences. Just as Fran had said, she had lamented the weakness of humans, writing in a tangled and distraught hand.

And then suddenly, the diary became much more diary-like. She wrote of the changing seasons, of her dogs, and later their puppies. When she had to hunt birds, she asked God’s forgiveness for doing so. So her diary went.

Meanwhile, letters from nobles continued to come, but no evidence remained of her replies. She had even ceased to write about the condition of the villagers.

Lawrence wondered if she had freed herself of their burdens, realizing that her own faith could not change them, nor could it change the world.

Toward the end, her diary seemed filled with pleasant, joyful things. Lawrence slowly closed it. It was beginning to grow dim outside, and the sun would soon set.

He added a log to the hearth and went past the skin partition into the back room. Holo wanted to check the bookshelves for anything else that might be of use, but upon reaching the room, Holo opened a wooden window there and gazed out of it.

Katerina seemed to be sitting in the chair, and for a moment it seemed that she and Holo were looking out the window together.

“I can see the falls,” Holo murmured. “’Tis a good view.”

Drawn over by her words, Lawrence stood behind Holo and looked out the window. He could indeed see the waterfall past the trees. Looking opposite the waterfall, there was a small space that seemed to have been plucked free of underbrush and was covered in a layer of snow.

It wasn’t hard to imagine it being a flower garden, perhaps.

“She might have just sat down here and closed her eyes for an afternoon nap,” said Holo, and she poked Katerina’s head very lightly.

One might reasonably conclude from her diary that she had indeed had such a lovely last moment. Lawrence smiled a sad smile, and Holo put her hand to the window. “The wind’s gotten cold,” she said and closed it tight.

Holo wasn’t usually the type to close a window. Perhaps she was scared of continuing their conversation here.

Any conversation carried out in the presence of a body, no matter how happy the memories it might be regarding, would always end up sadly—all the more when the person in question, who had been called a nun, a saint, and both in life and death, was at the mercy of the whims of others.

Once she had closed the window, Holo returned to the room with the hearth. Lawrence followed, but could not help looking back over his shoulder once.

They might call the villagers or the landlord presumptuous, but he, too, was using Katerina’s sainthood for his own purposes. But he decided not to think about it and followed after Holo.

A merchant chased profit and only profit. He held that indulgence, that excuse in his heart.

Later, Fran and Col returned. Fran was unable to hide her surprise at finding Lawrence still in the cottage. She gasped a little at seeing the bloodstained book of scripture in Lawrence’s hand.

Fran looked at Col and then back to Lawrence.

In his hand was her past and the present that continued from that past.

Fran’s gaze dropped to the floor.

A merchant had to pursue profit at all times.

“You’ll be drawing that map for us, then.” Lawrence felt he could hear the sound of her fists clenching the fabric of her robe. “We have our own convictions, too, after all.”

Fran nodded, still looking down. A droplet of water fell to the floor. “…I understand. I promise.” She wiped the corner of her eyes and then looked up. “Thank you.”

Lawrence smiled, accepting Fran’s thanks, but his gaze was elsewhere.

The embers in the hearth collapsed, sending up a puff of sparks.

Lawrence’s eyes were directed outside the cottage. “It’s still a bit early for thank-yous.”

Fran, having been a chaplain, seemed to understand what he meant. She nodded again and asked him the question directly. “What do you plan to do?”

“As before, you’re a silversmith dispatched by the bishop, that should be fine. But as another goal, I’d like to add that we’re here to confirm particulars regarding the canonization.”

Fran seemed confused for a moment, but she was a clever girl. She soon realized Lawrence’s aim and slowly nodded.

“I’ve no intention of selling Katerina off. Instead, I’ll state that her canonization is ongoing, so that the landlord won’t give us any trouble.”

Fran nodded again and spoke more clearly this time. “Understood.” The sound of distant hoofbeats could be heard. Fran wiped her tears again, holding close the bloodstained scripture book she had taken from Lawrence. “Let us go, then.”

When she looked up, her face was firm and undaunted, the words she spoke worthy of the girl who had lived on the battlefield.