I've Come to Pick Up My Dad's Bride!
As soon as Marguerite stepped out from beneath the tree's shade, she saw the prince and the Saintess pressed tightly together.
Their bodies rocked back and forth in a steady rhythm.
Under normal circumstances, the sight would have delivered at least some shock.
Not only was she witnessing a man and woman in the midst of intercourse, but it was also a betrayal.
Even if she hadn't loved him, he had been her fiancé. Though she resented him now, there had been a time when she'd tried to build a genuine connection with him.
She had believed the king was the true villain, not the prince.
She had also thought that if the prince's wife could live happily, her father, mother, and brothers might finally rest easy.
But the prince was, after all, a man of the royal family.
He viewed Marguerite's adoption into the marquis household as an act of profound grace.
Poor Marguerite—how fortunate she was to leap several rungs up the social ladder from a humble baron's daughter to the marquis's ward. He was glad she had found happiness. Becoming crown princess would only bring her even greater joy.
The prince genuinely believed every word of it.
He had never once tried to learn what kind of treatment she had received in the marquis household, or whether she had loved her original family.
He simply demanded that loving him—the prince—was only natural.
Once she understood that, the supporting behaviors became glaringly obvious.
Royals were royals, after all.
Whatever affection she once held for him died in an instant.
Even so, this was still a betrayal. Merely witnessing such a filthy display should have been shocking enough.
Yet Marguerite stared blankly at the space surrounding the Saintess.
The scene unfolding before her was so astonishing that nothing else could touch her.
Spirits were swirling around the Saintess.
Good heavens.
Fifty? A hundred? There were too many to count.
She had occasionally glimpsed spirits within the palace, but spirits were free beings by nature. They never gathered like this.
They usually dotted flowers and trees here and there, resting lightly on petals or branches.
She had never heard of them clustering so densely around a single person.
So this was what it meant to be the Saintess.
Ah. So that was why the king had moved so urgently to dispose of her.
Those who could see spirits were vanishingly rare in this world.
She had heard that no one in the royal family possessed the sight.
There were not many in the temple, either. At most, one or two, as far as she knew.
The king had likely ordered someone to verify whether spirits gathered near the Saintess.
Once he learned they did, the handful of spirits Marguerite could summon had become unnecessary.
If that's the case, they should simply send me back to the baron's lands.
Even if her power held no value to them, it was precious in the barony.
Even if she was worthless to the royal family, her own family still loved her.
But the king would never allow it.
If he did, the Saintess would become the wicked woman who had stolen a prince from his betrothed.
The Saintess must remain pure and beautiful.
Ah, how I wish this rotten royal family would simply collapse.
The prince and the Saintess were so absorbed in their passion that they had not yet noticed Marguerite's presence.
Instead of calling out, she continued to watch the spirits in silence.
With that many spirits, the barony could surely thrive.
No matter how hard Marguerite tried, she had never been able to summon anywhere near this number.
For the first time since leaving her family, she felt the sharp sting of envy.
....
There was something strange about the way the spirits behaved.
To most who could see them, spirits appeared only as faint glimmers of light. Often it was difficult to be certain they were spirits at all.
To Marguerite, they appeared as bright lights with clear, distinct forms. She could even see the delicate flutter of tiny wings.
Very few people could perceive them with such clarity.
Because of that gift, she could somewhat discern their emotions.
The spirits drifted toward the Saintess as if drawn by an invisible force, then circled her in visible confusion.
After a moment they would lose interest and fly away, only to return again, hovering around her with the same puzzled air.
What was happening?
She took one step closer for a better look. The soft rustle of her clothing must have reached their ears.
The prince turned in her direction.
His eyes, clouded with vulgar lust, gradually focused.
The moment he recognized her, they flew wide with shock.
When Prince Alf released the Saintess's waist, a throaty moan slipped from her lips.
The lewd sound sent a wave of revulsion across Marguerite's skin.
She stopped observing the spirits and offered a slight, courteous bow.
"Your Highness Prince Alf, Marguerite Bellua greets you. Please forgive this unpermitted entry into the garden. The appointed hour had arrived, yet I could not locate you. I received assistance from Her Majesty the Queen."
"...Ma-Marguerite... why are you here... no, that is... I mean... Marguerite, this isn't... this isn't what it looks like...."
The prince babbled like a parrot, repeating that it wasn't what it appeared to be.
If not, then what was it?
It was hardly some sacred ritual.
If he intended to make excuses, he could at least have chosen something more convincing.
While she waited with her head bowed, the rustle of hurried dressing filled the air.
It took longer than expected—perhaps because of his panic.
A servant must have been waiting nearby, for he soon appeared to help straighten the prince's clothes.
During that time, footsteps utterly lacking in refinement approached with a clumsy clatter.
Ah. So this was part of it.
Marguerite believed she now understood one of the reasons the queen disliked her.
Just as the Saintess appeared to the queen as a crude, mannerless creature, Marguerite herself must have looked the same in the queen's eyes.
Before Marguerite's lowered gaze appeared jeweled shoes.
They would normally have been hidden by her skirt, yet the hem had been deliberately lifted.
Why such an undignified gesture? And in a moment like this?
Perhaps she simply wanted to show off her shoes.
Marguerite could not understand the Saintess at all.
"I'm so sorry, Miss Marguerite. It is Marguerite, isn't it? The one betrothed to Alf. I'm truly sorry. I... I fell too deeply in love with him. I knew it was wrong, but... I'm sorry."
False sobs poured from the Saintess's lips like a poorly rehearsed stage performance.
It was clumsy. Even a woman freshly debuted in society could have feigned tears with far more skill.
The marquis household had employed tutors who taught exactly this sort of artifice.
When Marguerite remained perfectly still, a flustered voice broke the silence.
"Sohee, y-you shouldn't say such things here."
"Alf, didn't we agree to drop formalities with each other? Given how close we are."
"Well...."
At the Saintess's words, Prince Alf's voice died away.
It seemed the two were already on a first-name basis.
Such intimacy was reserved for the closest of relationships. Even married couples did not always speak so casually.
Whatever had passed between them could be discussed when they were alone.
For now, Marguerite simply wished he would permit her to raise her head.
Without the prince's permission, she could not move.
Maintaining this elegant posture was difficult, and her back and legs had begun to ache.
She was nearing the point of muscle cramps.
"Still, Miss Marguerite seems to be ignoring me. Is it because I'm not nobility? She won't even answer."
The Saintess grumbled in a coquettish tone clearly meant for the prince to hear.
Unfortunately, the fault lay with the prince.
Without royal permission, she could neither raise her head nor speak.
She believed the Saintess had received etiquette training as well. Could she truly be ignorant?
Belatedly realizing his error, the prince spoke.
"You may raise your head, Marguerite. There is no need for stiff formalities between us."
Even though that relationship had just shattered, the prince did not seem to realize it.
Or perhaps he was only pretending.
Either way, something felt off.
His reactions were sluggish, and his speech sounded strangely slurred.
It was different from the prince she had known.
When she lifted her gaze, she found his face twisted with panic.
He was properly dressed, at least.
Marguerite breathed a secret sigh of relief.
Earlier, distracted by the spirits, she had not considered it, but a man's naked body was far more unsightly than expected.
The prince attempted to speak to her several times, but the Saintess interrupted each time.
She clung to his arm, pressing her breasts against him.
The prince looked troubled, yet he neither stopped her nor asked her to step away.
In the end, Marguerite withdrew without having spoken a single proper sentence.
Even as she left, the spirits around the Saintess continued their strange dance—approaching, retreating, then approaching again.
They looked utterly confused.
...Shouldn't I tell someone about this?
She thought so, but who could she possibly tell?
She could not speak to the king or queen about the Saintess's strangeness.
The priests were no different.
The High Priest acted solely on the king's orders.
Anything she said would reach the king immediately.
Getting involved with the Saintess for no reason could easily cost her her head.
On the path back, her father stood in the same spot she had noticed earlier.
When he saw her, he smiled once again.
A storm is coming.
The prince's behavior had been strange, but the spirits around the Saintess were far stranger.
She could not predict how it would affect the kingdom.
The only certainty was that something unnatural was unfolding.
Marguerite moved her lips toward her father.
Father, beware the Saintess. Stay far away from her....
The servant walking ahead suddenly glanced back.
Seeing the sharpness in his eyes, Marguerite closed her mouth with an innocent expression.
No further glances were exchanged as she left the area.
She wondered whether her father had understood the words her lips had formed.
With an uneasy heart, Marguerite returned to the marquis estate.
Having returned empty-handed, she received a harsh scolding from the marquis.
Yet he seemed to understand that there had been nothing she could do.
His rebuke was shorter than she had feared.
That night, long after she should have been asleep, Marguerite continued thinking about the Saintess and the spirits.
Why had they been drawn to her?
And why had they flown away in confusion?
What is the cause?
She was still lost in thought when a strange cry reached her ears.
Pipi.
She looked around, but saw nothing.
Strange. Did I imagine it?
Marguerite paced the room briefly before returning to her seat.
That was when it happened.
"Pipipipipi! Pipipi! Pipipipipipi!"
This time the bird-like cry was unmistakable.
It seemed to come from beyond the window.
Birds at this hour?
Finding it odd, Marguerite approached the window.
The expensive glass panes created beautiful patterns of light during the day.
Now it was night, with no sun to cast shadows, yet part of the window glowed with a bright, inexplicable radiance.
As if entranced, Marguerite unfastened the latch.
The moment a small gap appeared, something tiny shot inside like an arrow.
She gasped in surprise as the small orb of light spun rapidly around the room before diving straight into her chest.
Pipi. A cry filled with clear intent sounded right against her.
What is this?
When she gently cupped the light clinging to her chest with both hands, a soft, fluffy presence wriggled busily in her palms.
"...Oh."
It was a tiny creature that resembled a ball of cotton fluff.
As if someone had plucked a small piece of cloud and given it form.
Its round body had eyes, a nose, a mouth, and tiny limbs.
She seemed to meet its gaze.
The fluffy being tilted its entire body as though cocking its head.
"Pipi?"
"Good heavens."
It was a spirit.
This was a spirit.
She had always believed they were beings of pure light, but perhaps this was their true appearance.
It might be an entirely different kind of spirit from those she had seen before, yet there was no doubt—this was unmistakably a spirit.
"Spirit," Marguerite whispered.
The fluffy ball of light cried "pipi" with clear delight and grasped her finger.