The Academy Semester-End Party (3)
By the time the sun reached its zenith, Lucy—who had slipped away from the training grounds claiming she had business to attend to—returned not long after wearing an expression soured to an almost painful degree.
Her face had curdled so thoroughly that even Frey found herself sneaking glances at her, and all four of them began to suspect something terrible had happened. The words out of Lucy's mouth, however, had nothing to do with any incident or crisis whatsoever.
"The pervert apostle wanted a look at you guys for a minute, so come along."
Pervert apostle? A question mark bloomed above Joy's head at the phrase, but she kept her mouth shut.
Normally it was Arthur's role to fire back at Lucy's provocations.
Today, though, was different. Arthur merely frowned faintly, keeping a wary eye on Lucy.
Did he get burned so badly last time that he's rationing his words now?
Ugh. Great, now I have to be the one to ask.
"Um, my lady? Excuse me, but who exactly is the pervert apostle?"
"Oh, him. Some disgusting pedophile creep I can't even stand to talk about."
...That's not what I asked! I asked WHO he is!
The answer Joy had been screaming for internally came, unexpectedly, from someone else entirely.
"You mean the Apostle of the Art Order, don't you?"
"Yeah. That perverted bastard."
The Apostle of the Art Order is a pervert?
Studying Lucy's expression of pure revulsion, Joy tilted her head without quite meaning to.
Because the Frete she knew—the Apostle of the Art Order—was nothing of the sort.
Frete.
A man whose renown had swept the continent since before Joy was even born. A priest who had elevated the Art Order's name by cleaning up countless calamities wrought by the followers of evil gods, and a great artist at the very vanguard of continental fashion—his reputation had earned him the respect of the entire world.
If Frete truly were such a strange man, how could he possibly have attended the Patran Festival?
Joy had crossed paths with him any number of times at the festival, and she simply could not fathom how a man whom noble ladies praised until their lips wore thin could be called a pervert.
"Joy?"
"Yes?"
"I know what you're thinking, but you'll understand once you actually see for yourself."
If even Phoebe is saying it, on top of Lady Aln... then maybe there really is something I don't know.
"Any more objections?"
"No. Just one."
"What is it? Out with it. Stop wasting my precious time."
"We can't go meet the Apostle of the Art Order looking like this."
Hair wrecked to a frazzle from the death march of conditioning they'd just put themselves through. Clothes soaked in sweat. Faces smeared with dirt. There's no way I could appear before Lord Frete like this!
"Hm? You've got terrible taste, airhead. What could you possibly like about that pervert?"
"What absolute nonsense are you saying?!"
Yes, Lord Frete is still a magnificently elegant man, but I am not deranged enough to harbor feelings for someone more than twenty years my senior!
"Then what is it? It's not like the airhead stops being an airhead just because she puts on makeup."
"Even you know it, my lady! The influence the Apostle of the Art Order wields over high society!"
Frete was a man of such standing that every word from his lips became the adjective used to describe a noble.
If a man like that were to remark somewhere that the daughter of House Patran had shown up looking disheveled—!
Imagining the vicious gossip that would circulate behind her back, Joy raised her voice despite the sour grimace on Lucy's face.
"Regardless, I'm going to go wash up!"
"My lady, I'll go and make myself presentable as well."
"Then I'm off too. One can hardly greet an apostle of the Order looking like this."
After the three of them bustled off, Lucy, left behind in the training yard, pressed a hand to her forehead as she watched Frey fidgeting about, still visibly awkward in Lucy's presence.
"Dummy swordsman."
"...Hm?"
"You go wash up too."
"Do I have to?"
"Fine. Then I'll spend all day tomorrow sparring with you until you learn your place."
"Understood. I'll be back."
"Your Highness. Is there anything amiss with my appearance at present?"
Standing before the door where the Apostle of the Art Order awaited, Joy examined her own outfit as she posed the question.
"Haah. Joy, that's already the fourth time you've asked."
"But still—"
"And my answer remains the same as the third. Please, stop making such a fuss. The Apostle of the Art Order is hardly a fool who'd speak ill of House Patran's daughter."
Faced with Arthur's unassailable logic, Joy finally shut her mouth. Even she had to admit, thinking it over herself, that she was making a scene.
Once the commotion settled, Arthur opened the door to the room with a sigh.
"Do come in. I've been expecting you."
The moment the party showed themselves, Frete rose from his seat and greeted them with his usual immaculate courtesy.
To Arthur, he offered greetings and compliments in turn.
To Joy, he invoked the Patran Festival and displayed warm familiarity.
To Phoebe, he expressed pure, sincere admiration, remarking on how wonderfully she had grown.
He offered Frey words of praise as well, of course, but not the slightest twitch crossed her face.
Perhaps sensing the futility of complimenting a wall, Frete gave up on adding anything further, shrugged, and turned his gaze toward Joy and Phoebe.
"Lady Patran. And Saintess of the Church of the Chief God. I am to create gowns for the two of you—do you have any wishes as to the design?"
"...I'm sorry, what?"
"...Pardon?"
"Oh my. Did you not hear me? Your ladyship made a request of me, so I'd assumed it was already settled between us."
Midway through Frete's explanation, Joy turned her head toward Lucy standing behind them.
My lady?! What on earth is this about?!
Yes, I did ask her to help me pick out a dress, but this—!
"What? Don't want to? I suppose that's fair. A dress made by a disgusting pervert like him would give even me the creeps."
"No! It's not that I don't want it! It's just! ...I. That is. I'm simply stunned because it's far more than I ever expected."
Just wearing an accessory this man made could make me the center of an entire salon—and he's crafting us full gowns, personally?!
It's too much!
It's overwhelming!
I never asked for anything on this level!
"Pffahaha. Airhead lady, that's hilarious. Like anything that pervert makes is such a big deal."
"...Are you being serious right now?"
The Apostle of the Art Order only grants his accessories to those he personally acknowledges—so of course it's a monumental thing for him to craft a custom gown for a private individual!
You're joking, right?! Right?!
"Joy. Have you stared at that man all this time and learned nothing? Lucy Aln understands not one whit of the value the Apostle possesses."
"That's impossible."
"Ahaha. Lady Patran, please calm yourself. Lady Aln isn't entirely wrong, you know."
Reined in by Frete himself, the man in question, Joy had no choice but to fall silent.
"So—any particular requests?"
At this point, refusing would be rude in itself.
Joy forced a composed expression and shook her head.
"I'll leave everything to the Apostle's judgment."
"As will I. Please do as you see fit, Apostle."
"Very well. Then allow me to give it some thought."
Ugh. However Lady Aln feels about it, this is a debt of staggering magnitude.
There's no way this can be brushed off as a friendly little gift exchanged between friends!
What on earth could I ever do to repay this?!
While Joy was groaning inwardly, Frete rose from his seat and moved to Lucy's side.
"Now then, everyone. Please wait here a moment. I'm about to dress her ladyship, and I'd like your evaluations when it's done."
"I'm asking because I don't trust a pervert's eye. No matter how shabby his taste, it's still better than this vomit-inducing pedophile."
"Ahaha. As you can see, her ladyship distrusts me utterly. Please bear with us—it won't take long."
The instant the two of them left still bickering, Arthur let out a laugh of sheer disbelief.
"Lucy Aln. What on earth is her relationship with Lord Frete?"
"I genuinely have no idea."
Lord Frete, who has refused even the King's requests to his face, agreed to her ladyship's ask and is making gowns for the two of us.
What kind of history could the two of them possibly share, that such a thing is possible?
Oh. Now that I think about it.
"Phoebe. You know something, don't you?"
When her ladyship called Lord Frete the 'pervert apostle,' Phoebe was the only one who understood what she meant.
Which means Phoebe knows something about the two of them.
Under the combined gazes of Arthur and Joy, Phoebe wore an awkward smile.
"...I do know something, but. Umm. It's a bit... difficult to say out loud."
Joy's eyes went wide at her reaction.
Phoebe, who would have delivered a perfectly textbook answer without a flicker of expression if it had been anything ordinary, is actually flustered?!
What on earth could the connection between them be?
...Don't tell me?!
"Has her ladyship grown... close with Lord Frete?!"
"Joy! Do you hear how that sounds?!"
The moment the words left Joy's mouth, Phoebe's voice rang out sharply.
"That would be an insult to both of them! Please be careful!"
"I-I'm sorry, Phoebe."
That's not it, then?
Then what is it?
What connection could they possibly have that would make Phoebe this reluctant to speak?
I can't come up with a single plausible guess. Ideas surfaced and sank in Joy's mind, over and over—until the sound of the opening door made her look up, and she felt every last one of them evaporate, her mind bleaching pure white.
The very first word etched into her blank-slate consciousness was noble.
The crimson eyes that gazed down upon the world with distant indifference.
The gently pressed lips. The silk-smooth hair slipping down to brush against a faintly exposed collarbone.
The snow-white dress, as if sculpted from snow fallen from the heavens, and skin every bit as flawless yet pulsing with unmistakable life.
It was all so exquisitely noble, so radiantly pure, that behind the girl's back Joy saw the phantom image of wings.
Wh-what is this?
Am I dreaming?
Yes. That must be it.
Because if this isn't a dream, it makes no sense for an angel to appear before me.
...Huh?!
Wait, why is the angel walking toward me?
Did I do something wrong? Did I make some kind of mistake again?!
"...Can you hear me?"
"Y-yes?!"
"Haah. Honestly. This is exactly why I call you the airhead, you airhead of airheads."
"...Lady Aln? Is that you?"
"Are you an idiot? There's no way two people this beautiful and cute could exist in the world."
...Right, of course. Only her ladyship talks like that.
Oh. Now that I look at it, this dress does look familiar somehow.
Did I pick this one out for her?
No, but when she wore it last time, it didn't feel like this at all...
And yet this design is definitely the one I chose—
"...Wha—?!"
It really IS her ladyship?!
THIS is what happens when her ladyship actually gets dressed up?!
"Stop spouting idiotic nonsense. How does she look to your pathetic eyes?"
"She's... truly noble..."
"Pffahaha. Aren't you a bit short on vocabulary for a ducal daughter?"
Lucy giggled to her heart's content for a good long while, then turned toward the others, who were still frozen in place.
Wooow. I honestly don't know what words to use.
Every time I look, my vocabulary evaporates and all that's left is 'noble.'
Going by everyone else's reactions, I'm clearly not the only one.
His Highness the Third Prince is flushed bright enough to burst and can't even string a sentence together.
Phoebe can't manage to look properly and keeps sneaking furtive glances.
And Lady Kent has lost her voice entirely, just tracking Lady Aln with her eyes.
So this is what happens when Lord Frete dresses up a girl who was already beautiful.
...Maybe I should ask him for a favor someday too.
Even if I got turned down—just once.
"Lady Aln."
"Hm? What is it, airhead?"
"Where is Lord Frete, may I ask?"
"That perverted bastard? Why?"
"There's something I'd like to ask him."
"He's in the next room, but good luck having a conversation. The disgusting pedophile gave up on being human, you see."
...Gave up on being human? What is that supposed to mean?
Just what kind of sight could he be looking at, for such a thick, settled revulsion to seep from her ladyship's voice?
Curiosity piqued, Joy rose quietly from her seat and slipped toward the next room.
And the moment she saw Frete lying collapsed there, she understood Lucy's disgust completely.
The blood trickling in a steady stream from his nose.
The face brimming with bliss, as though he had no regrets left in this world.
The repulsive grin carved into the corners of his mouth.
"Ahhh, Goddess. In this place, I have beheld yet another goddess. You even granted me the mercy of a kick from those blessed feet, sweeping away this very face. If I had my way, I would never wash it again..."
And that voice—lecherous, creeping—along with content that turned the stomach.
The Apostle of the Art Order, Frete, was not in that room.
The only thing in it was a single perverted bastard who belonged in a prison cell, immediately.
With no confidence to endure any more of the scene, Joy quietly shut the door, returned to the room, and wrapped Lucy in a hug.
"Whoa—airhead? What's gotten into you all of a sudden?"
"You have suffered so very, very much, my lady."
"...Huh?"
"Truly, truly, thank you for your hard work. My lady."
"Uh. Yeah. Sure."
...Now I finally understand how Phoebe feels.
How could anyone possibly put into words that the Apostle of the Art Order is that kind of raving pervert? I couldn't say it either.