Something Withered

Giselle was touching her own lips as if they belonged to a stranger.

I could only stare at her in a daze, my mind blank.

I could barely even grasp what had just been done to me, or what Giselle had said.

"Your cheeks are rough.

Your skin's dry, and the bags under your eyes are sunken and drooping, Ain."

Giselle spoke as if she were offering a review of a meal she'd just finished.

The sinking sun was about to vanish completely beneath the mountain ridge.

Giselle moved toward the dark window, now barely lit by a single lamp.

"It's late, so I'll head out for today.

Next time I come, maybe I'll bring some medicine.

You'd prefer my nursing over Lady Iris's, wouldn't you, Ain?"

Having said only what she wanted to say, Giselle leapt out the window and was gone.

The moment her form left my sight, bewilderment was instantly replaced by rage.

That fucking bitch. Doesn't even make a sound.

I hoped she'd fail to cast her magic mid-air, plummet, and die.

All that came through the open window was the sound of a cool evening wind.

When the breeze touched my skin, the sensation of Giselle's lips rose unbidden, and it disgusted me.

I went to the window and pulled shut the one that no longer locked.

In the silence that returned to the room, I wanted to scream.

The luxurious hardwood floor beneath my feet felt more rotten and decaying than the floor of my own house. The air in this place, ventilated only moments ago, reeked worse than a sewer.

I went to Iris's bookshelf and pulled out a random volume.

Even if I tried to read a grimoire, I wouldn't be able to make out a single word written in it anyway. As long as it could make me forget that lily scent rising again, I didn't care what it was.

I sat under the light and opened what looked like an old hardbound grimoire.

"......?"

I closed the book and looked at the cover again.

Runes that looked like earthworms crawling, scratches everywhere, old pages worn with use. Anyone could see it was a grimoire. What the hell—had I opened it wrong?

Even reading it again, it was unmistakably erotica.

It would have been designated a banned book in the Empire. Knowing Iris's personality, she must have bought it by mistake after only looking at the cover.

Any desire to keep reading vanished, so I shoved it back on the shelf and lit a cigar.

But even filling the closed room with smoke thicker than clouds—even picking the highest-proof bottle among the liquor Iris had brought and pouring it down my throat—the suspicion Giselle had stirred up, far from being dispelled, only grew denser and refused to fade.

Thoughts of Mace's death, and the string of Giselle's incomprehensible words that had started up again.

Maybe I should have slapped her. Instead of just watching her leave, powerless.

...It didn't seem like Giselle was lying.

If she'd really done it out of jealousy over Mace, she would have chosen a far simpler method than something so roundabout. She would have burned Mace to death right in front of me.

So was Mace's death just an unlucky accident? And the malice I'd felt nothing more than the original author's doing, trying to drive me into misery?

But my suspicions about Giselle didn't end there.

The way she'd abandoned me after I returned home from the war, and the coldness she'd shown when I went back to her afterward and begged—that attitude still completely failed to connect with the near-obsessive behavior both past-life and present Giselle showed toward me.

I drained glass after glass in no time, but my mind only grew stickier. I couldn't organize my thoughts. My chest felt so tight it might burst at any moment.

This didn't seem like a problem that would be solved by staying in the room.

I approached the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠window and carefully watched the garden. I could see the servants heading one by one toward the rear gate—apparently heading home for the night, either to the family-grounds lodgings or their own houses.

Perfect. Might as well take a walk, like Iris said.

I pocketed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the cigar and cutter and carefully opened the door. I stood by the doorway for a moment and listened. Not a sound from outside. If I picked a corridor that wouldn't draw attention, I wouldn't have to worry about being discovered.

I walked slowly down a hallway hung with portraits of Douglas and Mother—not my birth mother, of course, but the Countess. Those vivid paintings of faces that always looked repulsive no matter when I saw them felt like they were watching my every move.

It was when I was rounding a corner of the corridor.

In front of yet another portrait of the Countess, I witnessed a ghost-like figure standing rigidly upright. Poppy-red hair that looked as if it had stepped straight out of the painting behind it—but the attire was different. Not a lace-trimmed dress, but an angular jacket with epaulettes on the shoulders, and trousers.

Someone I knew well was wearing an outfit I knew well—someone I had no desire to run into.

It was too late to duck back behind the corner. She had noticed me approaching from the shadows as well. I felt the moment our gazes crossed—yellow eyes the same as mine and Iris's.

"...Ain?"

Hair as scarlet as poppies. An unbending, rigid posture. Not the dull-edged sword I'd once used, but a blade with a golden hilt engraved with the family crest at her hip.

Roxanne Magnolia.

The family's youngest, who—unlike me—had been granted talent and bloodline like Iris. The culprit who, ever since I returned to the academy, wouldn't even set foot near the training grounds. That goddamn human who never treated me as a person, let alone as the older brother I never asked to be.

In a few seconds she'd start spewing every curse in the book at me. Maybe this was for the best. No matter how much Iris tried to stop me from going home, if a member of the family caught me, there was nothing to be done. I'd take a good round of abuse for the first time in a while and get the hell out of this house.

But even as I kept walking toward her without stopping, Roxanne's rough mouth never opened. Not even until my eyes, adjusting to the shadows, made not just her eyes but the rest of her features clear.

"...What's with the clothes."

I couldn't bring myself to ignore it. I should have just walked past, but I stopped and slowly looked Roxanne over.

When I'd only seen the epaulettes I'd wondered, but up close it was certain. The girl who'd said she aspired to knighthood was wearing a military uniform. And not just any uniform—the same color as the officers' dress I'd seen on the battlefield.

She'd had more than enough talent in both swordsmanship and magic to become a knight. Had she developed some patriotic desire to serve the Empire as she grew up?

"Huh? Ah.... It just... kind of happened...."

Something was wrong with my ears. I should have been hearing arrogant curses—but what came back to my question was a voice more composed than Iris's, if you set aside the slight stumbling over words.

I must have drunk more than I thought. Because I could see the lifeless, drooping eyes on Roxanne's face. The overbearing gaze she'd inherited from Douglas was gone. Looking closer, even her once-healthy complexion was oddly pale. Dark eyes and a gloom that seemed more worn down by the world than mine. An attitude that didn't match her irritatingly dazzling hair color at all.

"Have you been... well? Um, what brings you to the manor?"

"...What?"

This bitch was asking after my health. I thought today's nightmare was Giselle, but apparently it was the scene right in front of me. I'd been sure she'd treat me like an intruder and draw her sword first thing.

I didn't have a single memory of ever getting along with Roxanne since the day I was born. Truth be told, aside from Iris, I'd never received proper treatment from any of the family's retainers either.

Crawling out from between some nameless whore's legs—

Even when I tried to treat her well, all I got was a cold response. Roxanne was the product of Douglas's early education bearing fruit.

I just stared at Roxanne with a look of pure bewilderment.

"Ah, yeah. Sorry.... Was I being too familiar? Um."

Roxanne scratched her head as if embarrassed. Had she gotten her personality beaten into shape by some brutal hazing in the military?

Well, not my problem.

My head was already complicated enough. Planting more questions would only overheat me into craving more booze and smokes. I shelved my curiosity about Roxanne and decided to keep walking to the garden.

"Wait. If you're not busy, there's something I want to talk about."

Roxanne's gloved hand caught the hem of my sleeve at the elbow.

I had more than enough time—the problem was my ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠patience. The filthy feeling Giselle's visit had left behind still hadn't cleared. And the person standing in front of me was Roxanne, whom I despised in this family second only to Douglas and Mother. Unlike Iris, I didn't have so much as a speck of good memory with Roxanne. And unlike with Giselle, Ain's body didn't force me to listen to her words.

"I've got nothing. Move."

I roughly shook off the hand holding me. Roxanne stared blankly at the hand that had been knocked away. A moment later she followed behind me as I walked again, persistent.

"It'll only take a second. Just give me a little time."

"I only talked to you 'cause you look like such a fucking idiot in that uniform. I'm already in a shit mood, so don't follow me."

"I-it's about my sister. That's why I wanted to ask. I won't bother you anymore after this...."

—Thud

I stopped walking, grabbed Roxanne by the collar, and shoved her against the wall with the painting. Maybe a softhearted Ain would hesitate, but I had no reason to hold back violence against Roxanne—not when I didn't have an ounce of familial affection for her.

I lifted her smaller body by the collar until our eyes were level. Her yellow irises were trembling left and right in what looked like panic.

"You're already enough of a nuisance. Stop yapping and get lost."

"I understand that you're angry. Once I'm done with what I need to say...."

"I said I don't want to talk to you, you fucking bitch. We're not even on terms to exchange hellos. Why the hell are you clinging to me?"

Her saying she understood my anger only made it worse. It reminded me of the calm attitude Giselle had shown, as if she already knew how I felt.

When I finished speaking, Roxanne's head dropped so low I couldn't see her expression. From the way she was trembling, it looked like she was done playing the good little sister ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and was about to lash out.

"...You crying?"

But what fell from beneath Roxanne's lifted body was tears. Tears I'd never seen once in my entire life from Roxanne streamed from her face to the floor. She was biting down hard, trying to swallow the sobs without making a sound.

A moment later, still with trembling eyes, Roxanne opened her mouth. It was a tiny voice, strained from holding back the hitching breaths.

"Sorry. I've been doing this a lot lately...."

"What the fuck is this. Don't you need to see a doctor?"

She would have enlisted after the war, so it couldn't be postwar trauma.

"It'll stop soon.... Just wait...."

When I let go of her collar, Roxanne sank to the floor and began frantically rubbing her eyes and mouth with her hands until the tears stopped. Her pale face was a mess of tears that wouldn't dry.

I felt no guilt—just pure disbelief. I wanted to leave before my already tangled feelings got worse.

Roxanne's clingy hand this time caught the hem of my pants. I was about to kick it away on reflex—until I saw those tear-brimmed yellow eyes looking up at me.

"Um, I'm done crying now.... Sorry for startling you."

"......"

Contrary to her words, tears were still streaming down. The window for feeling better by leaving her and walking the garden had closed long ago. I should have just stayed in my room. My luck was absolute garbage.

That bastard Douglas must have completely botched raising all three of his kids. The eldest daughter is a stutterer who pretends she's fine. The eldest son is a cripple. And even the second daughter—whose personality was shit but who had the best public reputation—had ended up like this.

"...Stop blubbering and I'll talk. Keep it as short as you can."