15. Frankenstein's Successor (3)
Ella woke just as the train was pulling into the city limits. A conductor walked through the carriage, ringing a handbell, and announced they were roughly twenty minutes from the station.
Through the window she watched the city center slide by at a sluggish crawl. The other troupe members were already preparing to disembark. She had packed before going to sleep; unlike them, she had no need to hurry.
"Oh, Ella, you're up? We're not quite there yet. You could've slept a little longer, you know."
She shook her head at Yurakne's suggestion. She hadn't slept from exhaustion—boredom had simply made her doze off after hours on the train.
"I'm fine. I got enough sleep."
She stifled a short yawn. Boredom was an unfamiliar feeling to her. Even after a full month, she still hadn't grown accustomed to this sluggish, drowsy sensation. In the past, there had always been so much to do during transit that even shutting her eyes for a moment had been difficult...
"Where did Clara get to, anyway?"
"With the boss."
Yurakne pointed toward the front of the carriage. Two heads rose above the seat backs: smoothly combed golden hair alongside a tangle of wavy, seaweed-colored blue hair.
"So, as I was saying... I think this side would be more..."
"Oh-ho, that's not bad."
The atmosphere between them seemed perfectly amiable. From the snippets she caught, they sounded like they were scouting locations for the New Year's festival.
Ella couldn't tear her eyes away from the backs of their heads. The work Clara was doing right now used to be hers.
Before she lost her memory, she had handled every task for the circus: scheduling, training the members, emceeing, keeping the books.
That was no longer the case. Information-gathering fell to Clara, training the troupe to Reina, stage direction to Minova, and financial management to Anais.
It had made things easier, but it also unsettled her. Ever since joining the troupe, she'd developed the habit of running herself ragged until she collapsed into unconsciousness; otherwise, she felt she'd wasted the day.
"Good grief, Charlie's throwing another tantrum."
Yurakne clicked her tongue as she lowered Clara's luggage. The moment Ella heard that name leave her lips, a chill shot down her spine, and her hands clenched.
Charlie.
She'd heard her dead friend's name again after all this time.
She knew, of course, that Yurakne wasn't referring to him. The "Charlie" in question was a weasel locked inside a travel cage on the luggage rack.
In a way, the creature wasn't entirely unrelated to the original. The weasel was Clara's pet.
Ella knew Clara had once liked Charlie—enough to give the weasel he'd given her his name.
Judging by how she treated the animal, though, Clara seemed to harbor considerable resentment over having been rejected. Why else would the top student in the animal-taming course pretend not to know what food her own weasel liked and dump cheap feed into its bowl, or neglect its fur grooming until it looked like a burst pillow, or ignore every single demand it made as though she couldn't understand? She was definitely doing it on purpose.
"Grrrrk, grrrrk!"
The weasel, perhaps thoroughly fed up with its owner, threw fits at the slightest provocation. Ella could read what it was trying to say through its cries, its eyes, its body language.
'You are not my owner!'
'You're a fake!'
The first time she saw the creature, the desperation in those protests had made her wonder if Clara had walked off with someone else's pet. But Rekachev's top graduate could hardly fail to recognize an animal she had personally tamed, and the weasel, whenever it faced Clara directly, betrayed a flicker of half-skeptical affection and expectation. She quickly discarded the theory. It was probably just acting out because it felt wronged by its owner.
She realized, with a jolt, that for the past two months she'd been watching Clara and the weasel Charlie with an unusually close eye. She could call it a trainer's curiosity, but she knew that wasn't the truth.
She'd been observing them to find proof that Clara no longer harbored feelings for Charlie. Hoping to lighten her own guilt, even a little.
The very thought of Clara still carrying a torch for him was painful. Clara didn't know he was dead. Nor did she know that the people responsible for his death were the leader and Deputy Leader of the very circus she'd joined.
It had taken Clara so long to pull herself back from the brink of suicide over her broken heart and chronic illness. What would happen if she learned Charlie had been murdered? And that Wonderstein and Ella herself were the ones who'd done it? She might shatter completely.
"Just leave it to me!"
From the front seats came Clara's voice, brimming with plucky determination. The discussion must have wrapped up. Ella glared at Wonderstein's face as he smiled back at Clara and bit her lip hard.
'You really are shameless. How can you stand there looking so casual in front of her after you killed Charlie?'
Ella had heard from Wonderstein about the curse called "The Smiling Man." She understood, now, his unnaturally placid demeanor—but that didn't erase what he'd done. To her, he was still the enemy who murdered friends as dear as family.
And yet, the look in her eyes couldn't even be called "filled with hatred." Through the grime of loathing, other emotions showed in scattered patches. Ella didn't dare put a name to them. Doing so would betray her dead friends.
But no matter how hard she tried to ignore it, the feeling wouldn't shrink or vanish. Just as she couldn't erase her resentment of him—engraved by those few hours of memory back in her hometown—she equally couldn't erase the sentiments stirred up by more than a year of memories built up at his side.
"Oh, right! Yura said she'd brush my hair before we got off the train!"
"Yura's busy already; there's no need to pester her. Here, come over this way. I'll brush it for you."
"Heh-heh, M-Mr. Troupe Leader, that tickles!"
"Your hair is a mess. Honestly... after you wash it, you have to dry it properly. If you step outside like this, it'll freeze solid."
Even after their discussion ended, Clara remained in the seat beside Wonderstein. The irritable edge she'd always carried at Rekachev was nowhere to be seen in her scatterbrained behavior now.
Hmph. The type who acts dopey in front of a guy. No wonder Charlie turned her down. He could see right through that act.
Jealousy pricked at Ella.
That seat next to him was supposed to be mine, as his deputy... I used to never be far from his side... Now all sorts of riffraff crawl in... Compared to the bond between him and me, their connections are utterly trivial...
Ugly feelings surged up, so abruptly and so openly spiteful that even she immediately noticed something was wrong. She took a deep breath to calm herself, then surreptitiously brushed the glass bottle in her pocket and whispered.
'Cappi.'
A snickering giggle answered from inside the bottle.
'Oh dear, you caught me.'
'What are you doing?'
The energy coiling up through her chest—she'd tasted it before. It felt similar to when the Reaper's Scythe had pierced her.
'You gave the order earlier, didn't you? Wake you five minutes before the station. Kik-kik-kik! Nothing beats a nightmare for waking a person up. I didn't realize you were already awake—silly me. Kik-kik, apologies!'
Honestly. The moment he found the tiniest opening, he'd pull something like this. An urge to smash the bottle to pieces flared and then subsided.
She and Cappi were bound by contract. It couldn't be broken midway. If she shattered the glass, she would be deemed in breach of the pact binding him to the earthly plane, and her soul would be dragged away by the pull of the Abyss. Wonderstein, perhaps not wanting that either, had permitted her to keep Cappi with her.
The train soon rolled into the station, and Ella rose from her seat.
"Where's my luggage?"
"Umon, Minova, and Sullivan already moved it up by the exit."
"I see."
Those three were the strongest in the troupe. Thanks to them, the others rarely had to strain themselves hauling baggage. Ella resolved to do something truly befitting a Deputy Leader.
"Everyone, before you get off..."
"Apply the mink oil. There's nothing better for preventing your skin from chapping in winter."
Before she could even begin, Carlson, the troupe's masseur, stepped forward and started applying the salve to the members.
"Ugh, oil's all sticky. Hate it."
At Umon's grumbling, Gaston gave a derisive snort.
"I took the liberty of blending in a few secret compounds from the Alchemy Guild. It absorbs into the skin nicely—won't be sticky."
Near the carriage door, Bartel, Anais's butler, was handing out passports.
"Those of you who've finished with the oil, please take one of these. This is an administrative boundary change point, so we must pass inspection again."
"Good heavens, you should've told us sooner. Filling out those inspection forms takes forever."
"No need to worry. I've already completed all the paperwork for everyone."
"Truly?"
"Wow, old-timer, you're the best!"
Ella could only gape at the efficiency of the three elderly gentlemen, each spotting a task and handling it with practiced ease. True masters of their trades, every one of them.
"Still, to pass a new inspection here, we'll need to grease some palms. The officials in this region, as we all know..."
"I'll handle it."
Nika fastened his coat and stepped forward. His noble status—or so it seemed—allowed him to smooth over negotiations with the empire's thoroughly corrupt civil servants with little trouble. A few prepared phrases, some documents, a handful of words, and officials would set aside their current work to prioritize the circus troupe's convenience.
Perhaps it was also his skill as a masterful poker player. Whether haggling at the market or negotiating lodging prices, he routinely secured terms below even what Anais demanded. Ella had lost count of how many times she'd seen merchants flounder, their every intention an open book.
Anais, one of the few in the troupe who knew he was a woman(?), thoroughly disapproved of him sharing a room with Wonderstein, and consequently demanded he procure every needed item at the absolute lowest rock-bottom price. Unable to defy Wonderstein's orders outright, this was the pettiest mischief she could manage. So far, the silent duel between the two was running at a near-even win rate.
Ella stared blankly at the backs of all these people pulling ahead of her. Their outstanding abilities had let the newest members integrate into the troupe with ease. The older members had welcomed their arrival, too.
She felt herself gradually becoming unnecessary. As if she alone kept falling behind and drifting to the fringe.
That's right. You're the only one who's different. Everyone else joined this circus willingly. You're the only one who was blackmailed into being dragged along. Oh, right—your hometown friend Mickey, too.
'Shut up, Cappi.'
She took her frustration out on the innocent Reaper, knowing perfectly well he hadn't done anything this time.
Given the troupe's present austerity, their travel was arranged in the cheapest possible manner, unlike before. Anais had marshaled luggage carts, ox-drawn wagons, rickshaws—anything to stretch the budget for transport.
"So, who's riding with you?"
The immediate problem they faced was who would ride with Wonderstein. He had decided on a rickshaw, which had room for only one additional passenger.
Maya, who usually bobbed through the air with ease, plopped abruptly onto a pile of luggage, announcing she'd suddenly exhausted her mana. Reina began muttering loudly about a new training regimen for the troupe that had just occurred to her. Yurakne, complaining that sweat between her breasts felt stifling, undid a single button at her chest.
Ella watched their antics with a sullen expression, then pushed past them and stepped forward.
"Why is this such a big deal? Just pick someone and get on. I'm going ahead."
But just as she was about to climb onto an oxcart, Wonderstein called out to stop her.
"I'd like Miss Ella to come with me."
"Wh-what... m-me?"
"Yes. We decided to recruit new members for the New Year's 'interlude' act, didn't we? If I don't discuss this with you, who else am I supposed to discuss it with?"
At his words, she dropped her head low.
That genuinely wasn't a task anyone else could do.
She avoided the smile he aimed at her as she answered, her voice halting and mumbly.
"...Well, it's, an important matter, so I... I suppose I have no choice..."
And so she climbed onto the rickshaw, skewered by envious stares. Perhaps because they'd rented the cheapest model, the seat was cramped even though it was designed for two. Their bodies pressed together naturally.
"It's... it's cramped...! I shouldn't have gotten on... tch..."
"Hm, shall we postpone the discussion then, and... swap you with someone else?"
"Sh-shut up! What do you mean put it off! You know that's what I hate most. I have no choice. I'll just endure it... hmph!"
And so, three hours pressed flush against him.
Not the worst choice, she thought, for keeping warm during the bitter winter of the frozen north.