Lingering Doubts and a Reluctant Outing
But the stain of suspicion doesn't fade so easily. So while Bathory Mirhane and Eclair au Chocolat were talking in the study, where was Urtic Mirhane, who could be called the study's guardian spirit without exaggeration?
"Come on in... big sis..."
"Yeah. It's been a while—good to see your face. Have you been well, Ur?"
She had come out of the study on her own two feet, a rare occurrence, to greet Frederica Mirhane.
"You've lost some color since I last saw you. Are you eating properly?"
"Ah, that... I came down with something recently... just a cold..."
"A cold? Are you better now?"
Unlike with Bathory, Frederica and Urtic's relationship was an exceptionally close one. Frederica had a strong protective streak toward those she considered her own, and Urtic was kind-hearted by nature. To Frederica, who was even gracious to the servants, this sweet little sister sharing her blood was impossible not to love. Sure, Urtic was a bit lazy, but to Frederica, that only made her more endearing. Urtic, in turn, adored the sister who cherished and looked after her, so despite their differing personalities, their bond was rock-solid.
"Yeah, thanks to Bathory nursing me..."
"...Bathory did?"
Frederica's hand, lifting her teacup to her lips, froze at Urtic's words.
"If that's a joke, it's the funniest one you've ever told."
"...Am I really that unfunny...? Anyway, it's not a joke. She really nursed me. Super attentively, too..."
It was the plain truth, not some idle jest.
"Hmm..."
Even knowing Urtic had no reason to speak well of Bathory, Frederica couldn't easily accept her sister's words. It was behavior far too distant from the image of her youngest sister, Bathory Mirhane, that she'd built over the years—a jarring disconnect.
"The girl I know wouldn't do something like that."
"I thought the same... honestly, I still do..."
It wasn't just Frederica who felt that way. Urtic thought so too, as did all the servants in the Mirhane household.
"Oh, and the head chef mentioned it—Bathory suddenly showed up in the kitchen and made soup all by herself."
"That... must've been when I had the cold..."
Frederica had asked the servants before tea time with Urtic if anything unusual had happened in her absence. The responses varied, but most were stories about Bathory. One maid complained of getting smacked around by her; another said she'd been ordered to clean the side room near Urtic's study. That was all within expectations. To Bathory, servants were no different from brooms—mere tools, not people.
But what came after exceeded Frederica's expectations by miles.
"She doesn't wheel you to the bathroom in a wheelchair one day, barge into the kitchen to make onion soup the next, then start dragging around some kid from who-knows-where..."
And the last one wasn't just hearsay—she'd witnessed it herself. Bathory parading around with a little girl in a maid outfit.
"I'd thought I'd seen every shocking thing life had to offer, nothing left to surprise me. But coming home to that? Never saw it coming."
"Has... Bathory changed...?"
Changed. Can people really change?
"Do you think she has?"
"..."
"I don't."
People don't change. They just pretend to. That was Frederica's conviction, born from experience—as the emperor's hidden blade, as the raven who forced truths from lips.
"Either she nearly died and it scrambled her brains for a bit, or she finally realized she needs to play nice with you or me."
Frederica didn't trust Bathory. A few minutes' encounter couldn't overturn over a decade of memories.
"You know what she was like."
"...Yeah."
It was a fact both Frederica and Urtic knew all too well.
"I don't think people change that easily either."
Urtic knew Bathory better than anyone, having endured her torment for over a decade.
"But... I hope she has."
And yet, Urtic was opening her heart to Bathory because of that very hope.
"I hope she's gone back to that pure, innocent time..."
A small, impossible wish—to return to the distant past.
"...Yeah. If she's really gone back to that cute little Bathory from when she was a kid, like you say..."
Frederica didn't deny or dismiss Urtic's wish.
"...It wouldn't be so bad."
Frederica's feelings toward Bathory were a mix of love and hate, just like Urtic's—though hers leaned far heavier on the hate.
"...Let's test it."
There was still a faint thread of familial affection left, after all.
...Even if it turned out to be fake.
"...What did you just say?"
"You heard me right."
The thunderbolt news hit the moment she woke up, straight from the mouth of a burly butler she'd never seen before.
"The eldest miss's orders: prepare for an outing and come to the front gate as soon as you rise."
"So why..."
"She said something about going out to Louvre Street together."
No, seriously, why?
"...You know, right? That woman and I aren't the type to giggle over trinkets."
Frederica, you hate me. What's this sudden urge to see my face now?
"I'm just relaying the eldest miss's words."
"So you know how I'll react too."
As usual, Bathory crumbled before Frederica. If Frederica gave an order, she'd follow without a peep. Instead, she'd take it out on the messenger servants. Unable to lash out at Frederica, she'd vent on those beneath her.
"It's fine. I'm prepared to take the hit."
"...Hah... whatever. I don't even want to look at you—get out of my sight."
But she didn't want to do that. Unlike the last maid, this butler had done nothing but follow orders.
"...Schuett... still not in yet."
She's later than usual. Send her home early and she shows up late—what a mess.
"Hia, wait in the room... no. Go to the study and wait with Urtic sis or Eclair. Listen to them, got it?"
"Yeah."
If Schuett were here, she'd hand Hia off to her, but with Schuett absent, only those two knew the situation. Not the most reliable, but what choice was there? Pray nothing went wrong.
"Hah..."
How many sighs was that? Too many to count.
Not that she'd been counting from the start.
Her feet wouldn't move. She just couldn't bring herself to step outside the mansion. Yesterday she'd made it to the garden, even.
"What are you standing there like a statue for?"
"Ah..."
But honestly, with a tiger looming right in front of her, even a familiar path felt impossible to take, right?
"Your clothes are a mess."
"My maid hasn't come in yet..."
"Can't you manage basic grooming without a maid? And you're a noble lady, no less."
What about Urtic, then? The retort nearly escaped, but she swallowed it. Mentioning Urtic now would've gotten her pulverized.
"Let's go."
"Where..."
"Didn't you hear? I told them to say Louvre Street."
"So why..."
Louvre Street was, simply put, a shopping district. A street of luxury boutiques frequented by nobles and wealthy capitalists—a parade of extravagance.
"Because, Bathory, you're about to enroll at Ecole Berger, aren't you?"
"I haven't even taken the entrance exam yet..."
"A child of the Mirhane house will pass the exam with flying colors. You couldn't possibly fail something like that."
Not so sure about that. I haven't studied enough.
"Anyway, to set foot in the paradise of arts, you need at least one decent outfit, don't you think? It's not like the military academy with its uniforms."
Ecole Berger had no mandatory uniforms—more like department-specific casual attire, but nothing enforced. Compared to real-world schools, it heavily encouraged creativity and autonomy, so some students wandered around in "artistic" outfits that barely qualified as clothes, infused with their aesthetic visions.
"Th-those clothes there... aren't they way too expensive for a student?"
Of course, she had no intention of wearing such things or decking herself out head to toe in luxury. Plain, inconspicuous, neat clothes would do. Anything else would make her die of anxiety.
"...Never thought I'd hear that from you."
"..Ah."
Then it hit her—this was the total opposite of Bathory. The original Bathory was the epitome of excess, plastering herself in so many luxury brands she looked like nouveau riche royalty.
"W-well, I love luxury! Luxury is the best! Let's go buy some right now!"
"..."
Too late to backpedal. Frederica's eyes brimmed with thick suspicion.
"..."
Ehe, I'm screwed.