This Is Daddy's Gift, Pipi
The explosion-like sound sent the soldier flying backward.
The man who crashed to the ground lay completely still, impossible to tell if he was dead or alive.
“Hii… hiii… Oh god… A spirit… It’s a spirit…”
The soldier whose nose had been pecked by the bird stumbled back in terror.
“Pipipipipipipipipi!”
The spirit let out a raucous cry and charged straight at him.
The soldier spun around and ran, but the spirit was far faster.
“Dear god,” the coachman’s faint voice drifted over.
Marguerite’s eyes widened in astonishment.
It looked as though the air itself had gathered around the tiny spirit, forming a massive barrier. The air seemed coated in the spirit’s sparkling light. The dark night sky filled with a glowing dome that shimmered like silver dust.
The spherical shield raced forward with the spirit. When the enormous semicircular wall of air slammed into the soldier alongside it, the man was hurled away like an ant swatted by a giant’s hand—far, impossibly far.
The spirit flew to the second soldier and struck him with the air barrier once more.
This felt nothing like what she had witnessed back at the palace. This time, the spirit seemed truly furious. Had it always possessed such power? She had thought of it only as a cute little thing that twirled and danced in circles.
Marguerite wondered if she had been too casual with it. Surely this was a being far more noble than ordinary spirits. A flicker of awe—and just a touch of fear—stirred inside her.
At that moment the small bird waddled hurriedly toward the scene. Despite its tiny body, it moved with surprising speed.
Ah, that’s right. The little one had been waiting for the spirit all along.
She wondered if it was simply happy to see its friend. But the bird ran straight to the fallen soldiers, hopped onto one of them, and began spinning in circles while flapping its wings wildly. It even cried out at the top of its lungs—cheep, cheep, cheep!
…Perhaps the little bird was pretending it had defeated the soldiers itself.
“Pfft!”
Marguerite couldn’t hold back her laughter.
The spirit must have heard her. It spun mid-air and turned toward the sound.
Pipi?
When it tilted its head and chirped, the enormous air barrier that had loomed until a moment ago vanished like a dream. It was as if it had never existed.
“Pipipipipipipipi.”
The spirit fluttered over to her.
It was clutching something to its chest. Marguerite was curious, but she knelt and held out both hands. The moment the spirit landed on her palms, she bowed her head respectfully.
“Thank you, dear Spirit. You’ve saved me twice now. I’m truly grateful.”
“Pipi?”
The spirit cocked its head. It tilted the other way, then back again, repeating the motion while making soft pipi sounds. It seemed puzzled by her unusually formal behavior.
Apparently the spirit disliked being treated with such deference. Strangely, that made Marguerite feel awkward too. She had thought a noble being deserved polite respect, yet they had already shared so many moments together.
When she smiled, the spirit brightened. It jumped and spun with delight. The little bird, which had been dancing atop the soldier, now came racing over as well.
“Cheep! Cheep! Cheep! Cheep!”
Its beautiful golden eyes sparkled even in the darkness.
…Golden eyes.
She had noticed it before, but those eyes were truly extraordinary—like sunlight itself had been sprinkled across the irises. Suddenly she recalled reading something about eyes like these.
Her tutors had forced her to study countless subjects unnecessary even for royalty, all at the queen’s insistence. Much of it had been pointless, so Marguerite had let half of it go in one ear and out the other. But stories about magical beasts had been interesting, so she remembered those. And that tale… yes, it must have been…
Oh.
Marguerite watched the little bird hopping after the spirit.
Burning red feathers and golden eyes…
That was the description of a phoenix.
This bird’s feathers were scarlet, slightly different, but it was common for juveniles and adults to have different coloring.
No, no. It couldn’t be.
Spirits were rare, but a phoenix was legendary—so rare that many people believed the creatures no longer existed. Every credible sighting was from dusty records hundreds of years old. Marguerite herself had assumed that even if they had once been real, they were all gone by now.
Yes. It can’t possibly be a phoenix.
Such a bird would never wander around a place like this. Even if it was accompanying a spirit, it was still a creature of legend.
Marguerite gently lifted the little bird and set it beside the spirit.
“Thank you for saving me, little one. Thanks to both of you, I was able to escape those men. Dear Spirit… thank you again.”
Realizing they were being thanked, the spirit and the bird shook with joy, crying pipi and cheep-cheep.
“By the way, dear Spirit, what are you holding?”
At her question the spirit’s body sparkled like it was scattering motes of light. It had never shone this brightly before; the glow had grown far stronger, and the particles far more numerous. Perhaps it was connected to the air barrier it had created earlier.
Do spirits grow stronger with time?
Even though it was a spirit. Marguerite tilted her head in thought. The spirit mimicked her, tilting its own head. When the little bird copied them both, the sight was so adorable that Marguerite let out a soft laugh.
“Pit!”
As if suddenly remembering, the spirit gave a little shiver and held out what it had been cradling.
“Is this for me?”
“Pipipipi!”
The way it stretched its arms forward with shining eyes made it clear the gift was indeed for her.
What the spirit offered was a flower petal rolled into a neat little bundle. It was tiny. The petal had been wrapped round and round with slender blades of grass, like a carefully wrapped present.
When she looked at the spirit, it was watching her with an expression full of eager anticipation. It really was a gift.
The little bird standing on the same palm also stared at her with sparkling eyes. It clearly had no idea what was happening and was simply copying the spirit, but still— if this was a present, she ought to open it.
After a moment’s hesitation, Marguerite took hold of the long grass string.
“Pipipipipipipi!”
The spirit’s face lit up as though it had burst with joy. That must have been the right choice.
She gave the string a gentle tug. The wrapping unfurled like a flower blooming.
“How wonderful,” she murmured.
The spirit urged her on with excited pipi cries, pushing the petal closer. On it rested a single tiny droplet of water.
“Pipipipi!”
The spirit gazed at her expectantly. So the petal had only been the wrapping.
Does it want me to eat this?
When she lifted it toward her mouth, the spirit clasped its hands together, watching with pure hope. It really did want her to eat it.
She gave the petal a light shake. The droplet fell onto her tongue.
…
She had expected something sweet or refreshing, but it was simply water with a faint salty taste. Yet the moment she swallowed it, the spirit erupted with joy as if it had witnessed the greatest happiness of its life. It raised both arms and spun in wild circles. The little bird joined in, twirling beside it. Its short wings stuck straight up like tiny hands.
So cute. Both of them were utterly adorable.
“Thank you for the gift. I don’t know what it was, but…”
At her words the spirit stopped spinning, thrust out its chest, and tilted its bottom to one side in a strange pose. Standing like that, it cried pipi as if showing off. The little bird immediately copied the pose, wobbling until it toppled sideways—but it stubbornly held the position anyway.
Marguerite laughed softly. Her heart felt lighter than it had in ages. She thought she could make wonderful rain right now.
My rain makes the spirits happy, after all.
Perhaps this could be her way of saying thank you. She quietly chanted the spell.
A gentle drizzle began to fall around her. The spirit and the little bird grew even more delighted. They flew from her palm, dancing through the raindrops.
While they played, something sparkling approached from the distance. Butterflies, bees, birds smaller than fingernails—dozens of spirits in various forms.
Oh my goodness.
She usually perceived spirits only as forms of light. She had never seen them so clearly. Now every distinct shape was visible. Making rain felt far easier than before, and the spirits approached the shower with astonishing speed.
Is this because of the droplet?
What kind of power had that water drop contained?
When the other spirits hesitated to enter the rain out of politeness, her fluffy little spirit gave a single pipi. That seemed to be permission. The rest of them slipped into the drizzle and flew gracefully through it. Elegant lights swayed within the gentle rain.
It was beautiful. More beautiful than anything she had seen in her entire life. Her eyes grew misty.
Several spirits, as if drawn to her, flew over and settled on her head. Tiny hands—so small their touch could barely be felt—gently stroked her hair. Even the ones that looked like butterflies or bees had hands. It wasn’t only her special spirit; all of them possessed delicate hands and feet. She had never known.
More and more spirits gathered as time passed. It felt like a festival of spirits. Countless beings danced and swirled together, and the sight was so enchanting it seemed like a dream.
The coachman was not a good man.
He occasionally accepted bribes and adjusted his treatment of passengers accordingly. Not because he held any real power, but because even trivial things like emptying a chamber pot or providing water could mean life or death for prisoners.
Escorting convicts brought decent side income. Like the soldiers, he had sometimes laid hands on female prisoners. He was no saint.
Yet he had refused to take part in this particular matter because he had received secret orders beforehand.
Before they set out, his superior had instructed him to watch whether a spirit approached the woman and report back later. The fact that the order had been given to him rather than the soldiers was likely because the coachman spent more time near her while handling various chores.
Besides emptying pots and supplying water, he was the one who loaded and unloaded luggage, tied and untied it, and stacked it inside the carriage. He had more opportunities to observe her than the soldiers did.
There had been no further instructions beyond confirming the presence of a spirit. No warnings not to touch her body, no orders to keep her unharmed. The lack of such words suggested the higher-ups did not care what became of her.
Or perhaps—knowing exactly what the escort soldiers were like—they had given tacit permission.
They must have known what would happen to a noblewoman subjected to such treatment. Maybe they had even hoped she would be broken.
Normally, higher-quality soldiers were assigned to escort noble ladies. The fact that they had deliberately chosen thugs suggested it was intentional. This woman must have been a thorn in the side of those in power.
Even so, the coachman had stayed out of the abuse for one reason: the mention that a spirit might appear. If a spirit truly came, he knew better than to touch someone under its protection.
That decision had been correct.
The coachman now lay flat on the ground, bowing deeply toward the spirit and the woman at its center. He could not see them, but he was certain other spirits surrounded her. The way she occasionally turned her gaze, the way several strands of her hair floated in the air as though lifted by invisible hands—all of it told him there were many.
Dear god.
What were the great ones of this kingdom thinking? Why would they turn a woman so beloved by the spirits into a criminal and send her to a remote pioneer village?
A chill ran down his spine. The coachman trembled.