What Must Not Be Seen (1)
"Phew."
Late at night, Charlotte gave a small nod as she gazed down at the children, finally asleep. She carefully slid her arm out from under their heads, climbed off the bed, and crept toward the door on tiptoe.
Now, which room was Big Sister's again?
The fact that everyone had been assigned their own separate rooms didn't so much as register in Charlotte's mind.
Is she already asleep? Maybe I could beg her to let me sleep with her—just this once. Or at the very least, I might get to see her sleeping face.
Charlotte eased the door open—and found a figure standing right in front of it.
"Kyaa— mmp?!"
"You'll wake them. If you make loud noises."
Zakina, who had clamped a hand over Charlotte's mouth in an instant, pressed a finger to her own lips. Charlotte nodded quickly, and Zakina withdrew her hand. Lowering her voice, Charlotte asked,
"Are you… here for the bathroom?"
"Uh, no, well, um… yes."
"I'll show you the way."
Lamp in hand—a lantern-type magic tool—Zakina strode ahead down the corridor. A woman in immaculate nun's garb. As Charlotte studied Zakina's profile in the lamplight, she tilted her head slightly.
Why does she look so familiar…?
Watching the furrow deepen between Charlotte's brows, a faint smile touched Zakina's lips.
"How are you managing? Academy life, I mean."
"Mm… getting by, I suppose?"
"That's good to hear."
Academy. At that single word, Charlotte found the connection almost immediately.
"Oh— mmph!"
"Shh."
Charlotte gave a small, urgent nod, and Zakina released her mouth. Charlotte dropped her voice to a whisper.
"…Professor Filia?"
It was hardly surprising she'd been slow to catch on—the outfit was completely different. At the academy, the woman wore her flamboyant crimson hair without a hint of shame, along with equally flamboyant robes.
"Please, call me Zakina."
Zakina Filia. Professor of the Magical Biology Department at Eretz Academy—and homeroom teacher of Charlotte's own first-year Class A.
"Still, calling a professor by name so freely feels a little…"
"It's quite all right. Zakina is fine."
At the academy, instruction revolved almost entirely around the specialized departments. The 'class' system, by contrast, had been created as a pretext for inter-departmental exchange—a way to make students of different departments share at least the common curriculum.
First-year, Class A. Charlotte had heard the students were assigned at random, and yet the class somehow boasted an absurdly unusual mix of personalities. With members like her, Sarubia, and the imperial princess, one might think they'd gathered the top performers in one place—
And yet, on the other hand, there was the weirdo who swung a sword instead of casting spells. The girl who'd turned her own desk into a botanical garden. The one perpetually selling something to her classmates.
Eric, of all people, was in Class A too.
"I had no idea at all…"
"We haven't exactly crossed paths often, you and I."
Being a homeroom teacher didn't actually entail much. Checking attendance each morning, and once in a rare while, lending an ear to a student's troubles—that was about the extent of it.
"You were asleep, every morning."
"Ehehe…"
"But please do attend next week's lecture. I insist."
On top of that, the homeroom teachers each handled a common-subject course as well. Since these classes judged nothing but whether a student had shown up, the atmosphere around them was maximally lax. Skipping attendance was practically the profitable choice; most students took it as gospel that the smart play was to miss as many sessions as possible without failing outright.
Charlotte was no exception.
Uh, what was it again…?
She racked her brain trying to recall which common course Zakina taught, with little success.
The course schedule only lists the class names… and there's no one in class I could ask about it. …No, there isn't, is there.
However hard she strained, she wasn't going to dredge up a lecture she had never once attended.
"You do know which lecture it is, I trust?"
"…Of course!"
And so it was, at that very moment, that Charlotte's attendance at every single common course the following week was sealed.
The two of them arrived at the bathroom. Charlotte stole a sideways glance at Zakina.
"Th-thank you. Now I'll—"
"I'll see you back. To your room."
Zakina put on an expression of saintly benevolence.
"No, really, I can manage on my own…"
"Don't concern yourself. I'll wait."
Through those nearly-closed eyelids—half-shut as though sleeping—something odd glimmered. Something uncomfortably close to obsession.
Unable to shake Zakina off in the end, Charlotte fidgeted inside the bathroom before emerging.
"I didn't hear any water running."
"Uh, that's—"
"Shall we head back? To the student's room."
"…Yes."
Charlotte's lips twisted into a pout.
"I never imagined Big Sister's acquaintance would be a professor."
"Ah, what a fortunate connection it's been."
As she trailed behind Zakina, Charlotte suddenly remembered why Alpinia had come to the Magic City.
Right—she said an acquaintance's shop was short-handed.
And that shop was Afternoon Lasagna.
"Don't tell me, Professor—you're the owner of that cafe—"
"I'm not."
Zakina paused mid-stride, considering.
"That place is… hmm. A different acquaintance's establishment. Alpinia and I share a rather different sort of relationship, you see."
"A different sort of relationship?"
"Shall we say… a relationship in which we share each other's secrets? Quite recently, we even worked together through the night."
"Share secrets… through the night…?"
Charlotte's brain spun violently.
An indecent relationship…?
B-but I never picked up on any signs of that?!
Just as Charlotte was sinking deep into rich, fertile delusion, her face steadily flushing, Zakina spoke again.
"Well, in my case—how should I put it."
"How should you put it…?"
Zakina declared, in the most solemn of tones:
"I'm a fan. Of Alpinia's."
"…I'm sorry, what?"
A… fan? What does that even mean?
Instead of any outrageous notion, pure bewilderment settled into Charlotte's mind.
What does it mean to be Big Sister's fan?
Some kind of metaphor?
Or an abbreviation? Like a pet name?
Finding no answer, Charlotte shot her a questioning look, and Zakina elaborated.
"A presence you find yourself wanting to watch over, always, from up close. To be with. To cheer on,"
"Uh, um…"
"Surely you can relate to some degree, Miss Charlotte?"
Zakina's face was endlessly earnest. She leaned her own in close, closer and closer, and swept along by the sheer momentum, Charlotte found herself nodding before she knew it.
Then, as if nothing had happened at all, Zakina drew back and clapped her hands softly.
"Oh, that's right. I have the autograph Alpinia gave me when she first came here—would you care to see it?"
And thus Charlotte set foot in a place she should never, ever have entered.
…
"What about this photograph? Her expression after the head maid chewed her out—just the faintest bit sulky. Doesn't it make you want to reach out and pat her head?"
"It… it really does. Ahaha."
Gazing at the photographs filling an entire wall from floor to ceiling, Charlotte broke out in a cold sweat.
Compared by building alone, the Magic City's Investigation Bureau was larger even than the one housed inside the capital's headquarters. A five-story structure above ground, with detention facilities below.
Those detention cells currently held the criminals connected to Morg. But there was a problem with extracting information from them directly: the blood magic carved into the roofs of their mouths.
The Investigation Bureau's Magic City branch had no one capable of lifting it. And so the Bureau requested support from headquarters—and I, who happened to be staying in the Magic City, was summoned.
Are they really that short on talent?
Not a single officer who could undo one lousy spell? Wasn't that a bit strange? The Inspection Unit would have handled it just fine without me, thank you very much.
Come to think of it, wasn't it the same during that… what's-his-name incident? They couldn't break the blood magic then either, and ended up letting him die for it.
Hm. Not my problem, really.
I was sitting idly in the first-floor lobby, watching the Security Bureau agents bustle about, when a voice came from behind me.
"Would you happen to be the 'expert' from headquarters?"
"'Undisclosed identity,' if you please."
"Even so, 'nightwork' requires proper credentials."
A long black coat. If you were someone who 'knew,' you could recognize the outfit at a glance.
Once we'd completed the identification exchange, I rose from my seat and we took stock of each other's faces.
A face I'd never seen before.
"Where's the person I met last time?"
I'd expected the individual who'd ultimately dumped the criminals' medical bills on me, but this was an entirely different agent. At my question, the young man scratched the back of his neck awkwardly.
"Th-that is, my senior was originally assigned, but he fell suddenly ill, so I came in his place."
"I see."
Well, it didn't matter who showed up, really.
"First, I'll escort you to the Director's office."
"By all means."
I gave a light nod and started after him—then, noticing where the agent was headed, stopped dead in my tracks.
"…What seems to be the problem?"
"We walk."
At my words, the agent's face crumpled.
"It's the fifth floor?"
"…We walk."
Exhausting and tedious as it might be, walking was unconditionally the better option. Those elevator contraptions—touch one wrong button and the whole thing explodes. I can tell you from experience, it is not a joke.
Clack.
The Director, buried in an expensive leather chair, slammed his teacup down with none of the grace one might expect.
"So you're the young lady from the headquarters' distinguished Administrative Division, hm?"
"Ah—, …yes."
I nearly blurted out a denial on reflex, but the agent standing beside me jabbed me discreetly in the ribs and shut me up.
Right, he said he'd only recently been promoted to Director.
The pig in front of me—the Director—was still one of the 'uninitiated.' But opening and closing the detention facility required, without exception, the Director's authorization. Rather than settle the matter with a paperwork report, he'd apparently insisted that he 'needed to see the face of headquarters' pride with his own eyes.' And that was why I was sitting across from the man now.
Well. Whatever. I'd heard that, for the record, I was being processed under the identity of a 'support agent dispatched from the capital headquarters.'
Why, of all things, the Administrative Division?
The cover identity assigned to me was a total mismatch. Even here, I could smell the Administrative Division's sneaky little scheme to pad their own performance metrics.
"I do wonder what a desk-jockey from the Administrative Division could possibly accomplish."
"I couldn't agree more."
"?"
The elbow came again.
"Access window is two hours. If you think that won't be enough, say so now. Don't come crawling to me later asking for an extension."
"That's plenty."
Extension, my foot. All I need is one hand laid on a face, and it's over.
"It had better not be empty talk."
I had no idea why he kept picking fights with me.
Hm. Eh, whatever.
Once this job's done, we'll never see each other again anyway.
And so, having secured the Director's authorization, I headed down to the underground level with the agent.
…
"Don't tell me it's the stairs again."
"It is."