The Night the Full Moon Sets

The wind that brushed past was cold enough, but the heat still lingering in her body offset it just so, and Euphemia felt, if anything, refreshed.

Strange...

It was the sort of thing anyone walking beside him would have noticed at once. When Perzen ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠walked the streets, he did not look ahead. He looked at the ground. Follow that gaze, and his steps gave themselves away: he would not, under any circumstances, tread the lines of the neat road, laid down in a tight grid of squares.

She wondered if there was some particular reason. For Euphemia, though, there was nothing to do but let it pass as an odd habit. There were far too few clues to draw a straight line from a quirk of gait to some severe compulsion over symmetry.

"Here."

"......?"

Their steps stopped before a shop. The pretty name Chanelia caught the eye at once, and beyond the glass lay beautiful paintings of every kind. Was this the gallery of some famous painter?

"Let's go in."

"Ah... a-all right..."

The interior insisted so loudly on its own luxury that Euphemia closed the distance until she was nearly pressed to Perzen's back as they stepped inside.

"Welcome!"

She had expected a painter in work clothes crusted thick with paint. Contrary to that, the man who greeted them was dressed with considerable refinement as he offered his bow.

"I'd like a portrait of myself and my ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠wife, the two of us on a single canvas. Personally, I think oil would suit."

"It takes about a week to dry enough that it won't come off on the hands. Would that be all right? If you mean to frame it and hang it, you'll need to let it cure for about a month..."

"That's fine. And I'd like a margin left on the left of the painting, so an inscription can be set there. Is that possible?"

"Yes! Of course! Then allow me to show you farther in. Please, follow me."

A portrait?

The word was nothing but unfamiliar. Euphemia followed as Perzen drew her deeper inside.

"Please arrange the composition however feels comfortable."

Where she only stood there blankly, Perzen cast a glance around, brought over a chair, and sat. Euphemia wondered whether she was simply meant to fetch a chair of her own and sit beside him, but—

"Euphemia."

"What...?"

"Come here."

Perzen patted his own knee.

"You're serious...?"

"We're husband and wife. What wouldn't be allowed?"

"......"

"Please don't mind me in the slightest."

Certain he could not be in his right mind, she shot Perzen a look, then turned her eyes on the painter setting up his things, and was met with a bright, easy smile. Euphemia sighed, shuffled over, and carefully sat sideways across Perzen's lap.

At once he braced her back with one hand and drew her head in against his firm chest, as if telling her she might rest her face there. It was more comfortable than she had expected, and yet...

"You'll be the only one who's uncomfortable. I could just sit beside you..."

"Euphemia. Once you have become a painter's subject, it is courtesy not to move. If this were going to discomfort me, I would never have begun."

"I mean... a portrait, now, of all things?"

This world had no photographs. And so—

"If one wishes to remember a particular moment forever, leaving it as a painting is the only fitting means."

"That's nothing but your own opinion..."

Perzen did not particularly deny it. His aim was to force this moment into her mind and make her turn it over again and again, so he said nothing more, and closed his mouth.

Euphemia, for her part, held her silence so as not to be rude to the painter at his work, set both hands over her stomach, and let the tension go. It would put a strain on the hand supporting her back.

Not something I need to worry about...

More pressing was the way her eyelids kept growing heavier. She had eaten her fill, wine besides, and a languid after-meal drowsiness seeped in until sleep seemed to spill down over her like stars across the night sky.

"If you're tired, sleep a while. It will probably take about three hours."

"Three... hours...?"

"Yes."

Even so, she worried whether holding up her back for three whole hours might not be hard on him. As if he had already read that thought, Perzen whispered in a soft, coaxing voice.

"I don't have a body frail enough to be worth your worry."

"......"

Right. Did a man like this even warrant her concern? With a hollow little laugh, Euphemia leaned her weight back a fraction, as if to test him—and his large, unyielding palm only went on supporting her back, steady as ever.

Perzen. Would she, even once in her life, see this man sway with nowhere to settle? Holding a meaningless thought that might never come true, Euphemia closed her eyes.

Thump. Thump...

From the ear pressed to his chest, the remarkably steady beat of his heart came through clear. A moment later Perzen lowered his head, brought his lips to the crown of her hair, and with the broad hand at her back patted her gently, as if he were sounding a lullaby.

She wanted to tell him not to treat her like some strange child, but her body, going languid as if she were drifting over clouds, could not be bothered even with that, and slowly drew her floating awareness down. And once Euphemia had fallen fully asleep—

Quite naturally. As if she had been tamed.

She only sought out Perzen's warmth, and burrowed deeper into it.

Jelos, the painter setting a husband and wife into the canvas, paused his hand.

They suit each other.

A wife fast asleep in her husband's arms, and a husband tending her with such careful consideration that she might sleep in comfort. Watching them, they looked deeply, unmistakably fond of one another. Now and then a noble couple like that delivered a fresh shock, as if his prejudices about the nobility were shattering to pieces, and it left him in a pleasant mood.

He did not know how much of that tenderness toward each other he could capture. Still, he would do his best—and Jelos set his stilled hand moving again.

"It's finished. You may move now."

"Is that so..."

I worked the stiffness from my neck with a crack and rose, still holding Euphemia, who had not woken.

"Shall I come for it in a week?"

"If it doesn't rain, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the sixth day would be perfectly fine as well. And even if you take it then, it will only be dry enough not to come off on the hands. As I said, if you mean to set it in a frame and hang it..."

"About a month, you said."

"Yes. That's correct. And I've set aside the margin you requested beforehand. Will this much suffice?"

At the painter's words I nodded, sat for a moment, drew out a pen, and wrote an inscription in the ancient tongue across that blank space. Later, Euphemia growing curious about those ancient words and struggling to decipher them would be an amusement all its own.

"If... if it wouldn't be an imposition, please allow me to display this canvas until you come to collect it."

"That... do as you please."

"Thank you!"

I paid, and left the shop. Euphemia still showed no sign of waking. Rather, when I settled her hands near my neck so she would be easier to carry, she naturally wound her arms around me and buried her face against my nape.

If she were this obedient on ordinary days... I could rest easy.

"......"

Perhaps because the wine had worn off entirely, the night wind was a little cold. I tightened, just slightly, the arm that held her, and set off at a slow walk back toward the mansion.

"Do you like my gift?"

The fifth of March—the twentieth birthday of Lizzie Paul Liana Claudia. Pushing Lizzie's wheelchair from behind, Uriel pressed her, bright with excitement, for what she thought.

"Yes. Very much. Thank you."

"You're so stiff about it I can't even tell if you mean it."

"This is the first time Lizzie has met Professor Uriel since coming to the Academy... I hope you'll understand if she's shy."

"Professor, what professor. Lord Loer, you can just call me Uriel too."

The one trying to draw closer was the one left awkward. Brother and sister alike kept their distance from her, and the strength went out of her for it. Her elder sister's betrothal was already a settled fact. Couldn't they treat her a little more easily?

Or perhaps not...

Worn down by Perzen of late, she seemed to have forgotten, for a while, just what weight the name of House Alfred carried. Yes. This was only natural.

Having settled on that, she was wheeling Lizzie along when a thoroughly familiar man came into view from across the way—so familiar she could not possibly dismiss him as a trick of the eyes. Perzen, walking toward them while quietly scattering a presence that belonged to no one else.

"......"

"......"

The moment their eyes met, Perzen stopped. Loer, Lizzie, and Uriel all held their silence with him.

"Out, are you. Uriel—you haven't been abusing your authority, I trust."

"Today is this child's birthday. Abuse of authority? What are you talking about..."

"Is that so."

Perzen lowered his gaze to Lizzie in the wheelchair, hesitated a moment, and barely managed to open his mouth.

"...Happy birthday. May you have a good time with your family."

She did not want to take it. She did not want to, and yet—

"Th... thank you."

Only because she had no choice, Lizzie accepted his congratulations. A moment later, as if nothing at all had happened, Perzen passed them by with the green-haired woman gathered in his arms. That woman was surely the wife the rumors had been so loud about of late.

"That goddamn bastard. Of all days to run into him out here and have the whole mood ruined... Lizzie. Don't mind him."

At the words of her older brother, Loer, Lizzie nodded.

"I won't... mind him."

Even if she wanted to, she would not. She did not want her life swayed by him any longer. Even so, there was no helping the way the mood sank from what it had been at the start. It was not only Loer and Lizzie. Uriel, whether she liked it or not, had been paying Perzen considerable mind as well.

A small creak.

"Ah..."

They had been waiting for the carriages to finish passing so they might cross to the other side, when Lizzie's gaze was caught by the beautiful canvases lined beyond the glass of a shop dressed in a splendid front. The instant she saw one painting there, her violet eyes fell, desolate.

"Hm? What..."

Following Lizzie's gaze to ask what was wrong, Uriel too burned into both eyes the painting of Perzen gently holding Euphemia. The Perzen caught on that canvas wore a faint smile, cradling the sleeping Euphemia in his arms like a princess as he pressed a soft kiss to the crown of her head.

Jelos the painter had added a touch of embellishment of his own, but Uriel and Lizzie had no way of knowing it.

Her fingers clenched tight.

"Hh—ngh...!"

Curling her two small, delicate hands into fists, Lizzie barely held back the sob that surged up all at once. The tears spilling from the corners of her eyes, though, were not ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠something she herself could stop.

"Lizzie...!"

Loer hastily pulled her into his arms. That only became the spark that made her spill the crying she had barely been holding in.

"Hhk... hhuuk...! Hhaaah...!"

The life you ruined goes on flowing like this. Why are you, the one who did the harm, living with a happiness that beautiful gathered in your hands? At the very least, if anything like a conscience existed in you, that happiness was never something you ought to have shown me. If you were a person who could love someone while looking at them with eyes that gentle, then why had you been like that to her?

The fury in her heart that she could not spit out—still, like the girl she was, not yet grown—Lizzie had no choice but to pour it forth in the only shapes left to her. Tears, and sobbing.

"......"

And unlike Lizzie, Uriel, who could read the ancient tongue, read the words set into the left of the painting and let out an empty laugh.

Could those lines truly have been meant in earnest? She could hardly believe they had been written by the man who had once spat this venom.

If I'd known he was capable of speaking like that...

To her, who had grown up from childhood hearing that all she need do was receive the seed of Brutein—could he not have refused her a little more gently?

Honestly...

What a detestable man.