Chapter 10
"Catherine."
Her shoulders quivered at the low call. She didn't have the courage to face Chezare directly, so she just nodded, keeping her head down.
"Catherine, look up."
She didn't lift her head—instead, she rolled her eyes to glare at him sideways. Right beside her, Chezare wore his signature sly, utterly shameless grin. In her life, she'd never met anyone more brazen and thick-skinned than her half-sister Anne. But in the end, wasn't he helping her? Their relationship defied any simple label. To put it bluntly, they were just landlord and freeloader—nothing more, nothing less. The issue was them being together at this hour, nearing midnight. Digging that deep, his stunt didn't seem all that absurd. Catherine rationalized it to herself in an instant.
"Admittedly... it's not exactly pleasant to have such a steamy night interrupted."
Worried her lie might show, she forced a more serious, stiff expression. At the same time, she nudged the fallen shovel with one foot, sweeping it into the corner.
"It was a night perfect for some grand affair, after all."
The knight snapped to attention, clamping his gaping jaw shut. He still looked like he couldn't believe she was real.
"I'm sorry."
"And your boots are caked in mud."
"I'm sorry."
"The rain won't stop, making cleaning a nightmare already."
"I'm sorry."
For an Imperial Knight to grovel to a woman of unknown origins—how much must that bruise his pride?
"Is 'sorry' the only thing you know how to say?"
"Sorry... No, I'll be more careful."
She'd only asked out of genuine curiosity, but seeing the knight's mud-streaked face made her feel like she was the guilty one. Wondering what to do next, she looked up at Chezare. He had the delighted face of a man who'd found a fun new toy.
Her throat burned for no reason. Uncrossing his arms, he turned to the knight.
"Anything else to say, Sir Demian?"
"No, sir."
"Nothing? Ah, you still haven't come to your senses. Come find me before you head home for the holidays."
The knight let out a silent scream. His ashen face, pale as a sheet, and unfocused eyes said it all.
Poor guy—that's almost pitiful.
Chezare glanced at the knights slumping in defeat by the door, quirking a brow.
"What are you standing around for? We're done here—get out. I've got to rekindle the fire after you lot doused it."
It's the fireplace, the fireplace, she chanted in her head, hypnotizing herself. The embarrassment faded a bit. No, chasing off the Imperial Knights with just this much embarrassment was something to be grateful for. Though she still couldn't bring herself to smile at Chezare.
Click.
The door opened, and the knights' footsteps faded in an instant. The hall, now just Catherine and Chezare, echoed only with the patter of rain. With fewer people, the already dim room felt even darker.
"That should square us for saving my hide from freezing to death."
Chezare's voice and tone were coolly matter-of-fact, without a hint of edge.
"Or more than square. Either way, best to avoid swinging shovels like a brute. Even treating him like a dog, he's still got some dignity."
With that, he turned slowly and headed to the first-floor parlor. Catherine stared at his back wordlessly before hurrying after him.
As they entered the parlor, where the fire had died and the chill returned, she spoke awkwardly.
"Thank you."
The chessboard was gone. Chezare approached the table and picked up an overturned book. The cover was faintly familiar in the gloom, but she couldn't quite place the title.
"This book..."
He walked over to Catherine at the parlor entrance. Gone was the mischievous lover act—his face was calmly composed now.
"Quite entertaining. I'll borrow it for a few days. Don't say no; I'll take it anyway."
Scratch that—she'd have to retract her earlier thought. With his usual shamelessness no longer surprising her, Chezare brushed past her. When she turned, the hallway back to the hall was empty.
"...Chezare?"
The only reply in the eerie mansion was the pounding rain.
Left alone, Catherine slowly made her way to the sofa. With just one person gone, the space felt impossibly quiet. Big houses like this often left her wistful when empty—the sudden wave of loneliness swept over body and soul.
As she straightened the rumpled blanket and turned to leave the parlor—
"Almost forgot. How long can I borrow the book?"
Chezare reappeared from the vanished hallway. His lightly worn shirt and vest, the few clean silver strands falling over his forehead—all unchanged. Catherine, who'd straightened up, froze stiff in place.
She'd nearly—so nearly—run to him.
"Miss Panya."
The quiet call snapped her from her thoughts. She shot upright.
"Three days—three days."
For a split second, time seemed to stop. Chezare's gaze, standing still, felt fixed on her—though she couldn't be sure. Moments later, he turned and vanished from sight.
Knowing he was gone, Catherine still rushed out to check the empty hallway.
Unlike Catherine, who had tossed and turned all night, Roze was in high spirits come early morning. Her face glowed with vitality, her voice booming—likely from a rare deep sleep. If she knew what had happened while she slept, she'd faint.
"By the way, miss, did you hear the news?"
When Roze got this excited, it meant she'd picked up some juicy gossip somewhere.
"Maybe... no."
Today, she seemed extra thrilled—not just from good sleep, but something more.
"What news has you so worked up?"
Even when she'd shared that Sir Mel was over seventy or the florist's girl was two-timing, Roze hadn't been this giddy. Catherine wondered what bombshell had her maid bursting at the seams.
"Well, Sir Percival is passing through town!"
"...Percival?"
"Yes! That Sir Percival! Oh, you do know the Lily Saint Knight Percival, right?"
Roze, sitting across from her, hurriedly unfolded the newspaper she'd brought. It must have an article on him.
Catherine watched quietly before murmuring just loud enough to hear.
"How could I not?"
Anyone out in society knew the name. Percival Benedict Parhenrine. The Pope's golden boy, the Lily Saint Knight, handsome mad dog—the nicknames rivaled even Duke Chezare's. A descendant of the Parhenrine royal line, he lacked for nothing in background or skill—a perfect specimen. And in demon subjugations, the casualties under his knightly command were so few they could be counted on one hand, earning him the title of the Papal Court's hero.
Yes, that's the public story.
But the truth differed. Or rather, there was a stark gap between image and reality. Percival wasn't a handsome mad dog. He was the real mad dog (features: handsome).
"On his way back from demon subjugation, he's stopping in Christopher, I hear. You know about it, right? They took down some massive demon this time..."
She vaguely recalled hearing something.
"Eh, folks like me don't get the full picture. But they say Sir Percival is so dashing?"
"Not dashing... but handsome, yes."
"You've seen him?!"
Roze's eyes sparkled as she stared at Catherine.
"When did you spot a celebrity like that? Spill the details! What's the Lily Saint Knight like up close?"
Urk. Catherine barely swallowed the nausea surging at "Lily Saint Knight." What kind of man was Percival? Describing him point by point would take all night. For starters, the "Lily Saint Knight" moniker mortified him.
"Just handsome in a manly way."
"Hair like warm chocolate, soft and smooth?"
"Not chocolate, but deep brown, yeah."
"Intense rose-red eyes?"
"Eyes were red, sure."
"Lips so delicate and glossy you'd steal them?"
By now, Catherine wondered what nonsense Roze was reciting. The creepy, grotesque descriptions left her dazed.
"Where do you even hear this stuff, Roze?"
As if waiting, Roze spread the newspaper wide across the table.
"It's right here! 'He is a man as noble and pure as a single lily, with hair soft like warm chocolate and intense rose-red eyes...'"
That was a mistake. She hadn't expected the drivel about Percival to flow so flawlessly. If it weren't Roze speaking, Catherine wouldn't have endured it—her ears were half-rotted already. Still, fresh emotions did stir faintly.
Percival.
How many years since she'd heard the name? In Orleans, she'd been too busy fending off her stepmother to remember. What their relationship had been, the encounters they'd shared, how it all ended... What was the point of dredging it up now? Back then, she was younger, more impulsive, living wildly. In Orleans, she'd played the dutiful eldest daughter, suffocating inside—but outside, she'd unleashed it all. Percival was a tie from that reckless youth.
Just a "there was that time" memory now. Like hers, he probably remembered "Catherine" as vaguely as a lakeside after rain. Or maybe not even that—a bad ending left no fond traces.
"So, I can go watch the procession, right?"
Catherine snapped back, staring at Roze. Her maid's dark eyes shone with ecstatic anticipation. No way could she say no to that face. What was so great about a saint knight's parade? Catherine couldn't fathom it.
"Go ahead."
"Yay! Thanks, miss! They say the Papal saint knights are as tall and handsome as the Imperial Knights... Time for some eye candy."
Ah, that was the goal. Roze's face beamed pure bliss and excitement at the thought of hot guys.
Well... his face is fine, at least.
They wouldn't even talk, anyway. The proverb "ignorance is bliss" hit home like never before.