Chapter 185
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 185
Count Rohanson paced restlessly around the room, unable to remain still for even a moment. He stamped his feet as if standing still would cause thorns to sprout from his soles, his entire posture radiating anxiety.
The cause of the Count’s extreme agitation was a message he had just received from a servant: Evangeline had arrived to see him.
“Count Rohanson. The young lady has been waiting for a long time. It is about time you went down to meet her.”
“Shut up!”
The Count snapped at the servant who was urging him on, then cleared his throat, embarrassed by his own outburst. Raising his voice at a servant and avoiding his own daughter were hardly noble behaviors, and he was acutely aware of how shameful he looked.
Count Rohanson placed great importance on maintaining the image of a proper noble. He had always been a benevolent master to the servants at his estate, never acting stingy. But now that he was cornered, his true, selfish nature was laid bare.
The Count was currently freeloading at Viscount Hwikel’s private residence. Having been deceived by that bastard Hwikel once, he should have been on his guard, but he had fallen for the man’s silver tongue yet again.
Hwikel had promised to act as a liaison to Bishop Marik, claiming it was an apology for the trouble caused by the dagger he had gifted.
Since Evangeline carried the name Rohanson, it was obvious that the disaster would eventually reach the Count. He trembled with fear, terrified that he, too, would be branded a heretic alongside Evangeline and purged. Viscount Hwikel had preyed on that very fear to ensnare him.
“I, Hwikel, will personally guarantee that you are innocent, Count. I will ensure everyone knows that despite your blood ties, you chose God over that wicked entity.”
Hwikel had persuaded him that by staying at the Viscount’s estate, the Bishop would recognize the Count’s true intentions. He had to show that he had chosen the Sun Goddess and the Bishop, not Evangeline.
In the end, the Count had entrusted himself to Hwikel. Since Viscount Hwikel was the only one in Count Rohanson’s circle with any connection to the Temple, he felt he had no other choice.
That damn Hwikel. In the first place, wasn’t it entirely Hwikel’s fault that the Count had been reduced to a parasite living in another man’s house?
The dagger Hwikel had gifted him was the root of all this trouble.
He must have schemed it all, gifting a historically significant relic right before the Crown Prince's Birthday Banquet so that it would end up in Evangeline’s hands. It was surely no coincidence that the weapon used to assassinate the Crown Prince was the exact same type as Evangeline’s dagger.
The Count realized that Hwikel was Bishop Marik’s lackey and had played him for a fool. He wanted nothing more than to slap the bastard who had dared to backstab him, but right now, Hwikel was his only lifeline. The Count felt utterly miserable at his own pathetic state.
He had been walking on eggshells while staying at Viscount Hwikel’s estate. And now, with his own mansion burned to the ground, he had nowhere to return. Damn it all, and what was this nonsense about Evangeline setting fire to the Rohanson Mansion?
Hwikel offered words of comfort to the grieving Count, but the Count didn’t believe a single one. Even if Evangeline was some bizarre entity, she had no reason to burn down the mansion.
It seemed Bishop Marik wanted to keep the Count under her thumb and use him. Desperate to survive, the Count had no choice but to play along.
And then, Evangeline had come to see him.
“Tsk. Coming to see her father without even sending word in advance.”
The Count clicked his tongue. He had no idea how Evangeline had even found out he was here.
Did Dame Musetta summon her?
The Count’s suspicion was reasonable.
Not long ago, Dame Musetta had visited him again. It had been a while since she had last come to verify Evangeline’s handwriting.
This time, she brought two letters. They were invitations requiring attendance at the Festival of Sacrifice. One was addressed to Count Rohanson himself, and the other was for Evangeline.
“…They could have just sent it to Duke Hosaquin’s Estate.”
Rumors were rife that the Duke, who had once thrown a wine glass at his granddaughter, had changed his stance and sided with Evangeline. The Count had intended to forward the invitation straight to Duke Hosaquin’s Estate.
He was terrified of being lumped in with Evangeline as her blood relative and purged alongside her. Her sins were so grave that the fallout was bound to hit him. But fortunately, a perfect alternative had appeared: Duke Hosaquin. From Bishop Marik’s perspective, one of the only three ducal houses in the Empire would surely be a far more appetizing target than a mere count.
Besides, all the Count had to do was inherit their fortune after his daughter and father-in-law died. As the son-in-law, he could still demand his share. Since it was the Count who had ordered Evangeline to approach the Duke in the first place, he felt he possessed great foresight.
However, Dame Musetta demanded that the Count meet Evangeline in person and deliver the letter.
If I go to the Duke's estate, I'll probably get slapped by the Duke again.
When the Count refused, Dame Musetta informed him that, in that case, Evangeline would come looking for him first. And she did not forget to add a warning.
“Count, I am offering you a narrow path to survival. If you do not wish to be purged along with your daughter, you had better cooperate quietly.”
Arrogant wench. Count Rohanson burned with hostility toward Dame Musetta. He’d heard she had immediately latched onto Princess Jeremia after the Crown Prince died. A loyal knight? Don’t make him laugh. She was nothing but a dog who couldn’t even protect her own master!
“You said you wanted to meet Bishop Marik. If you deliver the letter to Lady Rohanson, I will arrange a meeting.”
Since she was now acting as a messenger for the Temple, she was undoubtedly wagging her tail for Bishop Marik as well. It was infinitely humiliating to have to humor a smooth-talking parasite whose only talent was sucking up to those in power.
But with his own life on the line, the Count had no choice but to force a smile and agree.
He planned to meet Bishop Marik, hand over information about Evangeline, and demand his own safety in return. Bishop Marik would surely notice Evangeline’s abnormality and drag her onto the stage of the Festival of Sacrifice for execution.
To that end, wouldn’t the Count’s testimony be quite helpful? Testimonies that could drive Evangeline Rohanson further into a corner. If such horrible stories came from the mouth of the man believed to be her biological father, they would carry immense credibility.
When Dame Musetta left, she had left a maid behind, claiming the woman would monitor whether the Count actually met Evangeline and what they talked about.
“Count. Your daughter is not a demon, so why are you so frightened?” the maid Dame Musetta had left behind asked bluntly.
The Count couldn’t treat this maid the way he threatened the servants of the Viscount’s estate. Part of it was because she came from the imperial palace, but the more he looked at her, the more unusual she seemed. Between the scar on her lower face and a certain imposing presence, she was impossible to look down on.
“My daughter’s sins are so grave, I am simply afraid the fallout will hit me as well,” the Count replied politely, despite the maid’s sarcastic tone.
“Sins? You mean the rumors? Are they actually true? They say Lady Rohanson came back to life. I also heard that you brought in someone who looks exactly like your daughter to act as a double.”
The maid was surprisingly well-informed. The Count, who had pretended to be a loving father to Evangeline to quiet those very rumors, frowned. If he had known Evangeline would be branded a witch, he would never have put on such an act.
The Count had no intention of giving a detailed explanation to a mere maid who wasn’t Bishop Marik. Such information was his lifeline, after all. But he could answer one thing.
“Brought in? A double? That is without a doubt Evangeline Rohanson. There is no way I wouldn’t recognize my own daughter.”
The foolish servants of the mansion might have been fooled, but Count Rohanson knew. When he had faced that thing again—the one that had risen from its coffin at the funeral—he recalled his first meeting with his ‘daughter.’
* * *
“Darling. This is our daughter.”
One day, Count Rohanson met the girl said to be his daughter, Evangeline.
She was a three-year-old child, holding her mother’s hand. At first, the Count thought Amaranth had gone mad and brought home a doll that looked exactly like her.
His first thought was that it must have cost a fortune to make. Only when those red eyes swiveled in their sockets did he realize the thing was alive.
Except for the red eyes, her face was the spitting image of Amaranth. Unless one was blind, no one would doubt they were blood relatives. But she was not of the Count’s blood. That thing was not his child. He knew it instantly.
At first, Count Rohanson thought Amaranth had had an affair. Furious, he stormed to the Duke. He declared that the Duke had a loose woman for a daughter, only to be slapped for his trouble. He returned and took his anger out on Amaranth.
Perhaps to verify the Count’s claims, Amaranth exchanged several letters with the Duke regarding Evangeline. Then, one day, she declared that she had severed ties with her family. Hearing this, the Count demanded:
“What? Sever ties with House Hosaquin? Are you out of your mind?”
He could not understand Amaranth. Giving up the Duke’s massive inheritance and high honor just because of ‘that thing’?
The Evangeline the Count saw was deficient. A three-year-old who couldn’t speak properly, who neither laughed nor cried, as if she possessed no emotions at all.
Instead of taking care of her husband, she had severed ties with House Hosaquin for a defective child of unknown origin. Amaranth was no longer a useful card for connecting with the Duke. It was only natural that the Count grew even more distant from her.
He should never have chosen Amaranth as his wife! That one wrong choice had produced a child who shared none of his blood.
The Count found Evangeline repulsive. She was no blood tie to the Duke, and he couldn’t bear the thought of the prosperity of Rohanson—which he had built—being passed down to that thing.
Other nobles advised the Count to have another child. But he had no desire to sleep with Amaranth, nor did he want to engage in vulgar affairs as Amaranth had, out of his duty as a noble.
Unable to stand the sight of the mother and daughter, the Count went to his territory alone. Whenever he had to come to the capital, he stayed in a separate private residence instead of the Rohanson Mansion.
Time passed. Seven years ago, he came to the capital, rejoicing at the news that Amaranth was critically ill. She was dying of an illness. They said even holy water was of no use, and her days were numbered.
Beside the wasting Amaranth stood a child who, unlike before, was lively. The Count was astonished. If not for her appearance, he wouldn’t have recognized her as the same child.
The girl beside Amaranth looked innocent and naive. She was lovely. Even the servants at the estate looked upon her with affection. To think this was the same Evangeline who had been like a corpse. As the Count marveled, Amaranth boasted of the child she had raised.
“She is a child who loves me. Isn’t she beautiful?”
The Count found Amaranth’s words strange. Her attitude toward the child was suspicious, too. She didn’t seem like a parent simply dealing with her daughter.
Amaranth loved her child. But it was beyond devotion; her unchanging, absolute love felt more like religious faith.
Though onlookers called them ‘a truly close mother and daughter,’ the Count found the love between the two disgusting.
The meaning of Amaranth’s strangely eerie words only became clear after she died. After her mother’s death, Evangeline began to waste away. As if she had lost her purpose in life, she became lethargic, like a terminally ill patient waiting for her final day. The Count believed Evangeline would soon follow Amaranth to the grave.
For Evangeline to hold on for seven years was truly remarkable. In the end, she followed Amaranth in death. Since God did not take her life, she hanged herself from the cherry tree Amaranth had cherished.
The Count felt a sense of liberation. Not brewing cherry blossom wine to raise a toast was his final act of consideration.
But betraying his expectations, at the funeral that felt like a festival, that thing opened its eyes once again.
The foolish servants made a fuss, claiming their young lady must have been swapped, but the Count knew. That thing looked exactly like the Evangeline from before she was ‘civilized’ by Amaranth.
Her brilliant color brought to mind a red gem. Her inorganic pupils were like polished glass beads. It was bizarre, seeing something so clearly dead moving as if alive.
But if you reached out, you wouldn't feel a hard gem, but a squishy texture and a damp, mucous-like surface. Only then would you remember that the brilliant red wasn't a jewel—it was the color of living blood.
The Count felt as if he had met those eyes once again.
It was not his imagination. On the wall of the room where the Count was staying, an eye blinked shut and then opened. It was that eye—the very eye that had driven him to flee the Rohanson Mansion.
The Count’s breath hitched. His mind went blank. His breathing grew ragged and fast.
Just as he was about to lose consciousness, the eye vanished. The frozen Count barely managed to gasp for air.