#042
Demian let out a sigh of relief.
"Good thing. As expected, Lady, you've got nine lives—no need to worry about you anywhere."
It didn't sound much like a compliment.
"But who's that auntie?"
"......Auntie? Look at this cheeky boy! You can't toss words like that at a young lady. No manners even after becoming a knight?"
Fontpado Madam seemed awfully sensitive to the word "auntie." She was so incensed she'd even forgotten to tremble in fear of Chezare, positively fuming.
Catherine whispered to Demian. "Quite a lot happened while you were out cold."
Glancing around just in case, the man who'd been hunting nephilim was nowhere to be seen.
Chezare, hands shoved in his trouser pockets, turned toward Catherine and jerked his chin lightly toward the exhibition exit.
"If you haven't eaten yet, shall we go together?"
Asking how he'd known to come here felt too cliché. It suddenly hit her anew: anywhere she went, it was all right under his palm.
"......What about the nephilim?"
Perhaps because the man who'd threatened her was gone, Fontpado Madam was far quieter now than before.
"Doesn't seem like there's cause for worry with some lifespan left. If you wish, I can drop her in the nearby sea on my way out."
That'd be a bit...
"Ahh! To think His Highness Chezare—known to me only by rumor—could be so callous to a lady!"
Fontpado Madam groaned dramatically, stroking her chin.
Demian, who had been stretching casually, narrowed his eyes in warning. "I hear a nephilim with little time left boarding a ship counts as a national emergency."
"I know that, boy."
Urk. Boy? Even nephilim lived twice the average lifespan—there were words you could say and words you couldn't.
Adjusting her twisted hat with slender fingers, Fontpado Madam continued. "Well, I do want to say it was that desperate. If it'd been that jerk from earlier, he'd have wrecked the whole area before dying...... But against the Duke? Not even a peep. Might be better to go out clean like this, all things considered."
There wasn't a shred of interest in Chezare's eyes as he listened.
As expected, his attention was fixed solely on when Catherine might get around to eating.
"Let's go get some food."
See?
From his serene expression and calm voice, he'd already forgotten Fontpado Madam's existence.
So Catherine responded to her lament-like words, partly to reassure her. "He's got no interest in you, Madam. He won't care if you just enjoy the cruise as is."
Fontpado Madam blinked her large eyes, then covered her mouth and laughed. "Ahaha! Right, that's true....... Whether I turn into a disaster or not, as long as the Duke's there, no worries at all."
About time to go their separate ways. Chezare had said there was no need to worry, and Catherine had no desire to meddle further in others' affairs.
But just as Catherine moved to leave, Fontpado Madam grabbed her ankle again.
"Hmm. How about this, Lady? I won't even ask for a contract. Just let me be your escort until we disembark the Lilith Ship."
"Hey, auntie—what nonsense is this? I'm Lady's escort knight."
Fontpado Madam sneered, curling her lip at Demian's indignant shout. "Pfft. A boy who couldn't even properly resist my magic—what kind of escort? If I'd wanted, I could've slit Lady's throat while you were passed out!"
And in that very brief instant, time in the exhibition hall froze.
In the hushed world, black smoke began to erode Fontpado Madam's body.
"I won't do anything weird, so don't stop me, Duke."
She winked playfully before being fully enveloped in smoke.
Catherine first thought she was retreating to her hidden bed. But the smoke headed not for the bed—for the bag.
Her tote bag, to be precise.
"Ugh! This is my mobile carriage!"
"Hang in there a bit, cute kitty."
The smoke vanished, the magic lifted, and the frozen time resumed its gentle flow.
Fontpado Madam's voice came from inside her tote bag. "Lady, you think so too, right? Come on... as long as you don't hand me over just to that rude punk, I'll serve you to the best of my ability. I'm Fontpado Madam, Lady. Told you? I've got tons of connections on this ship. Way more useful than that face-only boy knight?"
"This auntie for real......"
Demian, mid-rant, blinked dumbly at the now-empty spot.
He hadn't noticed this magic.
"Customer? Ready to order?"
At that moment, the clerk who'd been standing quietly in the corner asked timidly.
'Ah, the bed.'
Right—not the time to obsess over a nephilim. If she couldn't snag this bed, what was the point of boarding a passenger liner?
She filled out the half-written order form again.
With the sole obstacle—the man—gone, she completed the purchase without a hitch.
"Here you go."
"Thank you. Please call if you need any assistance."
The bowing clerk stole a glance at Chezare before backing away and vanishing.
Maybe because he was a newspaper regular, it seemed no one in the world didn't know his face.
"Want to ask if you're all right."
Catherine glanced at the bag before answering Chezare's question. "If it's about the bed, I'm great. If it's about Fontpado Madam... well, short-term should be fine."
"Do you pity her?"
"Not sure. She doesn't seem like she'll harm me, at least."
"Nephilim staring death in the face aren't trustworthy folk, Miss Catherine. You wouldn't know."
Hearing something negative from him felt refreshingly rare.
Chezare smiled warmly, shrugged, and tacked on, "People will do anything to survive, after all."
Maybe because it was him saying it, it left a queasy aftertaste.
Catherine shook the bag idly. "Then should we just leave her?"
Chezare shook his head. "Though our souls are shared, you don't need my permission for everything. I just offer the advice I can. The decision is entirely yours, Miss Catherine."
His words often plunged her into strange emotions.
Even her mother and father, who'd raised and taught her, hadn't been as purely devoted to Catherine as Chezare.
They'd never once patted her shoulder and said they'd follow her decision.
Lost in such thoughts, she wondered what blood ties even meant.
In the end, the one who'd spend a lifetime with her was a demon she'd known less than a season.
"Just be cautious of that man from earlier."
The flashy-faced mage who'd threatened Fontpado Madam.
She'd assumed he'd vanished for good, but what a foolish illusion.
Chezare's expression turned somewhat colder. "Belief can be scarier than death."
Belief? Why belief all of a sudden...... So that guy was a cultist!
Yeah. Cultists who devote their lives to belief were scary.
"Good to learn, but can we eat first? My stomach's about to stick to my back."
With Demian's grumbling full of complaint as the cue, they left the exhibition hall.
She didn't remember the exact amount, but it'd been a king's ransom—thoroughly satisfying spending for Catherine.
Just the fact she'd splurged like that melted away all her recent stress.
After the meal, Catherine headed straight for the stern.
Chezare had wanted to accompany her to some small gathering, but she'd refused flat-out.
A gathering at his level meant an alarmingly high chance of running into Percival Benedict Parhenrine.
Upon reaching the stern, Catherine scanned the surroundings thoroughly for any sign of the cultist before settling into a suitable spot.
The bag had gone quiet again—probably asleep, with only soft, snuffling breaths.
"So, Lady, when did you start dating the Duke? First I've heard that guy has a woman. Headline material, this is."
As the surroundings quieted, Fontpado Madam whispered as if she'd been waiting.
How does she hear everything?
With a small sigh, Catherine denied her curiosity. "We're not dating."
"Eh? But you shared souls? With that beaming face saying it, looked so romantic. Seems awfully sentimental, contrary to public opinion."
"Sentimental humans are all dead."
Yaong, whom she'd thought asleep, snorted at Fontpado Madam's admiration.
Even half-asleep, he apparently couldn't let "Chezare is sentimental" slide.
"What's the public opinion like?"
"Didn't you see my colleagues' reactions yesterday? Terrifying."
Demian seemed eager to chime in about Chezare too.
His constant swiveling glances, fearing a sudden appearance, were almost pitiful.
Maybe not others, but hearing him say it made it hit home even more.
"That's just for boy knights."
"That 'boy' talk, seriously."
Hmph. Fontpado Madam snorted at Demian's irritation.
"Among us mages... he's an object of utter reverence. The Duke is practically heavenly fortune for Shagweed II—a heaven-sent ally. An archmage of that caliber in one era, one nation, and born blood kin? Near impossible. 'Genius' feels too modest. The geniuses of the age all kneel before him! Even this Fontpado fully acknowledges—truly acknowledges—the Duke! Hearing his exploits, sometimes he feels less man, more god."
"Hmph."
This time, Yaong's snort. Its meaning was easy enough to parse.
'Cause he's not human for real.'
While enduring a lengthy ode to Chezare from the Madam, Catherine pulled a small business card from the back of her bag.
She'd first noticed it when the waiter returned the bag after the meal.
From Giovanni Busperfield
He'd clearly slipped it into her bag while vanishing.
Busperfield, and Giovanni.
Where had she heard Giovanni before?
Busperfield was a name no one in this era could possibly not know.
They were lawless outlaws belonging to no nation—an armed group advocating for nephilim humanity and freedom.
Though they'd seemed awfully coercive for that.
To think that street-thug-like man was none other than Busperfield's supreme commander, Giovanni Busperfield.
"Madam."
"Yes."
"Then you know a lot about this Giovanni person?"