The Spirit Sleeps in Her Hair
The spirit was sound asleep, clutching Marguerite’s hair in its tiny fists.
The carriage that had been rolling along for some time finally came to a stop.
What could it be? Marguerite wondered. It’s not time for a meal or rest yet.
Thinking it odd, she looked out the window. The carriage stood in the middle of a quiet, empty road.
There was nothing nearby. Just an ordinary stretch of path.
Wondering if some obstacle lay ahead, Marguerite opened the carriage door. There might be something too heavy for her to move alone, and if so, she ought to help.
Just as she was about to step down, the coachman approached with his hat removed and stood before her.
“My lady, we’ll arrive very soon. Less than an hour now.”
“Ah…”
She had heard they were nearly there yesterday. Still, she had expected to reach the destination by evening. It seemed they were already on the verge of arrival.
The coachman hesitated, then spoke again.
“There is still some leeway in the schedule. We’ve arrived several days earlier than planned, after all.”
Without soldiers accompanying them, the time wasted on trivial matters had shrunk considerably. The favorable road—perhaps thanks to the spirit—had also shortened the journey. It was well known that traveling with a spirit brought good fortune.
“If we turn off the road here, there’s a small settlement. It isn’t a proper village, but peddlers stop there to rest, refill their water, that sort of thing.”
The coachman kept his head bowed as he continued.
“If you sell them the soldiers’ share of food or drink, you should get a decent sum. You could rest there for a day with the money, or simply keep it…”
Marguerite’s eyes grew hot.
This man had been kind to the very end. Even if it was because of the spirit, he could have simply delivered her safely and considered his duty done.
“Thank you,” she said, bowing deeply.
“There’s no need for that. The money from selling the goods is yours to keep.”
“But my lady, I may not know the local situation well, yet I’m certain a bribe will be necessary.”
“My brother prepared everything. It’s truly all right.”
At her words the coachman hesitated a moment longer, then bowed deeply.
“I’m sorry, my lady.”
She had already heard several times how sorry he was that he could not let her go free. Marguerite poured her whole heart into every word.
“May the Spirit’s Blessing be with you.”
May the Spirit’s Blessing be with you.
The coachman bowed once more, then returned to his seat.
After another forty minutes of travel, Marguerite reached her destination.
Kenson was the kind of man who found even twelve months and twenty-four hours a day insufficient for all he had to do.
The territory designated as the pioneer land was staggeringly vast, and he alone bore responsibility for governing it. Naturally he could not manage every village across that enormous expanse by himself, so he had subordinates. In consideration of that, he received a portion of the pioneer land’s revenue in addition to his salary and modest subsidies.
It might sound reasonable at first, yet problems abounded—far too many.
The profits from pioneer villages amounted to less than specks of dust clinging to dried snot. The reclamation project was hardly new; by now some villages ought to be turning a profit. Instead, the only thing that grew was the number of places where people starved or were devoured.
Tilling the soil was difficult enough. Surviving in a land teeming with demonic beasts and wild animals was far harder. Children were snatched by wolves without warning. Demonic beasts broke into villages and feasted on the inhabitants.
The number of villages and people refused to increase. No matter how many were sent, the population only dwindled.
In such conditions it was impossible to hire many permanent servants. Left with no choice, Kenson operated the pioneer villages through peddlers and guilds. The recruitment fees that should have gone entirely to him were partially surrendered to those who gathered settlers. As a result, Kenson was perpetually short of both money and time.
The pioneer villages needed to multiply quickly. The population had to grow. Only then could revenue rise.
Still, that village should be all right.
Thinking of the newly established settlement, Kenson smiled without realizing it. The small spirit of that village was impossibly adorable.
Others did not know, but Kenson could see spirits. He saw them far more clearly than most. Among even the greatest mages, few—if any—could match his vision. Yet his ability ended at seeing. He could not cast magic, converse with spirits, or draw their attention. Even when they learned he could see them, the spirits showed no interest in him.
Those beloved by spirits surely possessed something special within their souls. Kenson had occasionally met such people, and each time he thought the same thing.
Was he envious? Of course. Seeing them only made the envy sharper. Yet he felt no jealousy. He knew that simply being able to see spirits made his life profoundly meaningful. No one else could laugh at the sight of spirits rolling in the grass or startling inside water droplets. That alone made his existence special.
Now he understood just how special he truly was.
Kenson recalled the village chief of the new pioneer settlement. Even before reaching the village, spirits had begun gathering in the area. He had sensed at once that something unusual waited there. He knew it was special, yet he had never imagined a person like that.
He had never seen a spirit follow anyone so devotedly.
That village chief’s soul must be extraordinarily special.
Merely witnessing the exchange between the man and the adorable spirit had made Kenson’s life remarkable. That spirit is no ordinary being either. Other spirits dared not approach it, keeping a respectful distance. It had to be a high-ranking spirit, or one possessing some unique power.
Just what is that spirit’s true identity?
Contemplating that question had become Kenson’s greatest pleasure of late. In the capital or a large city there would be other distractions, but here entertainment was scarce—little more than laughing at someone caught defecating in an empty lot. Pondering spirits was therefore a rather productive use of time.
Suddenly he remembered the words an old man had once spoken to him.
In the distant past, spirits were born naturally from flowers, trees, and sometimes even the very air. But after the Spirit King perished, no new spirits have been born.
Perhaps the Spirit King had been reborn into this world. Could that explain the appearance of a spirit in a new form? Or was it because of the Saintess? Or maybe that tiny spirit itself was the Spirit King…
No. No matter how bored I’ve been, that’s going too far.
Kenson gave a small shrug. The Spirit King was not some village dog’s name. There was no way such a small, adorable creature could be a king. A Spirit King ought to possess a sacred, majestic form. He had simply let his imagination run wild because the spirit looked unlike any he had seen before.
Kenson chuckled briefly, then let out a long sigh.
Time to work. A mountain of tasks awaited him.
His gaze fell on a small wooden box resting at the corner of his desk—the village chief seal for the new pioneer settlement. A servant must have placed it there.
It has finally arrived.
Every pioneer village was newly founded, so none possessed official seals at first. Each time a village was established, a craftsman was commissioned to create one. A pioneer village chief held the status of a quasi-official. The identification papers and marriage documents they issued carried legal weight in most cities and towns. To prevent impostors, they were granted official seals. Wax impressions of each seal were kept by both Kenson and the kingdom.
As Kenson reached for the box, his servant burst in, flustered.
“Master, a criminal has arrived from the capital.”
“Why would a criminal be sent here?”
Again. Kenson responded listlessly and sighed. He wondered what the kingdom’s officials thought the pioneer lands were for; they dispatched criminals at the slightest excuse. They seemed to believe that a place lacking people would be grateful for extra bodies. In reality, such individuals were nothing but trouble.
Most criminals sent here were murderers, robbers, former bandits, political prisoners, or corrupt nobles. No matter which village they were assigned to, they caused disturbances and refused to farm properly. Kenson often wished he could return every last one of them to the officials who had sent them.
But of course I cannot.
Those who dispatched the criminals usually outranked him or possessed higher status. He had no choice but to accept what arrived.
It was genuinely infuriating.
The servant shook his head and stammered.
“Th-that is… they say she is to be a bride for one of the pioneer villages. She is an incredibly beautiful woman. In all my years since I first grew hair, I have never seen anyone so lovely.”
“…”
His servant had lived too long in this empty, tedious place and was now hallucinating. There was simply no way an extraordinarily beautiful woman would be sent to a wasteland like this. Even criminals, if pretty, were usually intercepted along the way—taken as secret lovers or sold to brothels. They were not dispatched as brides for pioneer villages.
“It’s true! An astoundingly beautiful woman has come. I am not mad!”
Well, if the man insisted so vehemently, perhaps an unusually attractive woman really had arrived. Maybe even strikingly so.
Only half-listening, Kenson wandered outside. The house had been built recently for the pioneer administration and was modest. Unlike grand noble estates, it contained only a few rooms; a single step beyond the door put him outdoors.
He opened the door, took one step, and froze mid-motion.
“…”
His eyes must be mistaken. Or perhaps the desolation had finally driven him to hallucinations.
Spirits were swarming everywhere.
He had been told a criminal arrived, yet here were spirits. Normally he pretended not to notice them, but the scene before him was impossible to ignore. Hundreds upon hundreds of spirits circled and fluttered around a single woman.
What in the world is happening?
While Kenson stood dumbfounded, the woman—dressed in plain commoner clothes yet breathtakingly beautiful—offered him a flawless, perfect bow.
“It is an honor to meet you. My name is Marguerite.”
A noblewoman. Moreover, one of exceedingly high rank. Kenson himself had been born into nobility, yet he had never witnessed such impeccable etiquette and grace. She had to be from at least an upper-count family—perhaps even a ducal or marquis household. The fact that she omitted her family name likely meant she had been sent here as a criminal.
Only then did the name Marguerite register in his mind with a slight delay.
Wait… Marguerite? Could she be…?
A letter he had received from an acquaintance in the capital some time ago rose to mind. It had spoken of the First Prince’s fiancée being a terrible wicked woman who treated the Saintess with hostility. He was almost certain that malicious fiancée’s name had been Marguerite.
Information reached the frontier slowly. Nearly a month had passed since he received the letter; many things could have happened in the interim.
But there is no reason for the Prince’s fiancée to be sent here as a criminal.
No matter how wicked she was said to be, the worst that should have happened was the dissolution of the engagement. Moreover, with this many spirits gathered around her, something was clearly amiss.
As Kenson stood there dazed, the coachman approached and presented a document sealed with wax.
“There were originally two escort soldiers, but they were killed by a beast attack along the way.”
The wax bore the royal family’s crest. It appeared this woman truly was Marguerite, the former fiancée of the prince.
Has the royal family lost its mind? Sending someone who commands spirits in such numbers as a criminal?
Kenson’s own elder brother had also possessed the gift of sight. Like him, his brother could only see; he had no other powers. Yet because of that seemingly useless ability, the royal family had taken him and he had died. It had been called an adoption. A family carrying royal blood had expressed interest, and their parents had gladly agreed, believing it an honor. The royal family had apparently wished to further develop his brother’s ability to see spirits. The exact details remained unknown. All Kenson knew was that his brother had been experimented upon and ultimately died because of it.
His father had learned the truth too late and tried to rescue him, but the adoption had severed all official ties. After that tragedy, his father had never revealed to anyone that Kenson could also see spirits. The royal family remained unaware. Had they known, Kenson would surely have been taken under some pretext as well.
That spirit-obsessed royal family let this woman slip from their grasp?
It was profoundly strange.
Suddenly Kenson’s gaze drifted to Marguerite’s hair.
“…”
It was that spirit.
The adorable spirit that had stayed with the pioneer village chief. The one named Popcorn was fast asleep, its tiny hands firmly gripping Marguerite’s hair.