Praise (3)
After they finished shopping for animal pajamas.
"......Um, Clea?"
Having circled the shop a few times to browse the dresses, Ariel tugged insistently at the sleeve of Clea, who had been guiding them through the store.
"There's something I need to talk to you about for a moment..."
Ariel snuck a glance toward the entrance, where Lowen was resting.
Lowen was half-exhausted.
Nearly three hours of circling the same space, offering concrete compliments every time Ariel tried on a dress, had left him drained in both body and mind. He could endure six hours of any training without trouble, but aimlessly wandering a clothing store was a thoroughly miserable ordeal.
"Talk?"
At Ariel's cautious manner, Clea leaned in and offered her ear.
"Um... well..."
Ariel cupped both hands into a round tunnel and pressed them to Clea's ear.
Whisper, whisper.
"Hm? I do have a bottle of it, yes?"
Whisper, whisper.
"What do you plan to use it for?"
Whisper, whisper.
A flush of color bloomed across Ariel's cheeks as she whispered. Whatever secret she was confiding, Clea narrowed her eyes into a thoroughly wicked expression.
"Heh heh. Saintess, aren't you being a little too bold?"
Ariel fretted, lips working with a soft uuuugh.
"Well, from ancient times it's always been the bold women who snatch up the good men."
Ariel's fingers fidgeted. She shook her head hard.
"N-no...! I'm not trying to snatch Bishop Lowen— augh... Bishop Lowen...!"
Whether she was embarrassed at having bitten her tongue, or at the dark desire to possess Lowen that she was harboring, Ariel hung her head and flapped both hands frantically in front of her.
"Sure, sure."
Clea smirked and shrugged.
"It's true, I tell you...!"
Ariel huffed under her breath.
"......I'm trying to praise Bishop Lowen."
Just as she had promised before, she intended to give Lowen—now officially recognized by the Cardinal as her guardian—a proper compliment. And right now she was asking Clea about the supplies she would need for it.
"What kind of praising method is that?"
Clea snorted.
What Ariel was planning could hardly be called praise. Put generously, it was a reward; put bluntly, it was the Saintess's lewd self-indulgence dressed up as a compliment.
"I-if possible... I want Bishop Lowen to genuinely enjoy it."
Ariel tapped her two index fingers together.
"So that's why you chose such a dirty method?"
Heat rushed from Ariel's throat all the way to her forehead.
"D-dirty...!"
"Right. Dirty methods are the highest form of praise for a man."
"It's not dirty—!"
"But it's still a little lacking. Let me teach you a few things."
Clea cut her off and proceeded to pass on various methods for pleasing a man.
"Hic!"
"Hweh?"
"Hwaaah... th-that's too vulgar...!"
An expert's knowledge was formidable. Every new piece of information that entered Ariel's head made her dizzy. It was the same sensation she had felt the first time she spied on a man and woman in the throes of fierce intercourse.
Ariel rubbed her burning ears.
"Vulgar? Coming from you, Saintess?"
These were pieces of knowledge so extreme that even Ariel—who regularly enjoyed high-intensity erotic novels—found them crude.
"Even sooo..."
Ariel's lashes fluttered as she looked up at Clea.
"O-oviposition play... I've never even heard of that..."
The act of inserting eggs made of bouncy slime into one's rear and then popping them out one by one in front of a man. Even for Ariel, whose tastes had been thoroughly hardened by erotic literature, it felt far too base and vulgar. So vulgar, in fact, that she was certain Lowen would look at her with contempt if she ever did such a thing.
"And how is that supposed to be a method of praise?"
"You write one compliment on each egg. Then you read them out as you push them out one by one."
Ariel shuddered. No matter how much she liked dirty things, oviposition play was not her taste.
"Is that... from personal experience?"
At Ariel's careful question, Clea burst out laughing.
"Personal experience? Hardly."
Clea patted Ariel's shoulder.
"When you run a business, you meet all sorts of people. And you pick up information that makes you think, 'Things like this actually exist in the world.' A hundred years in trade and you end up learning enough about the world's variety to count as a sage."
Ariel's eyes went round.
"A hundred years?"
No matter how you looked at her, Clea appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties. A century of life simply did not show on her.
It was said that a witch's lifespan scaled with her magical rank. They aged slowly, so a high rank could preserve youth for a very long time. For reference, the master of the Robarara Merchant Guild had lived well past two hundred years and still looked like a teenager. That was why some people snidely called the Robarara Merchant Guild the "Loli-Baba Guild."
"Anyway, my age isn't important right now."
Clea tapped her lips with a finger as she regarded Ariel.
"How far are you willing to go for the bishop, our dear Saintess?"
"Pardon?"
"Don't get the wrong idea. I'm only asking for reference so I can give better advice."
Ariel hesitated, then answered in a quiet but firm voice.
"Anything, so long as I keep my virginity."
"I see."
Yes—virginity was important for a Saintess. How exactly the Holy See inspected it remained a mystery, but it was said they had a method of knowing when a Saintess's purity had been defiled. Even Clea, with a hundred years of trade under her belt, did not know what that method was.
"Then, another question."
Clea glanced at Lowen, who sat with his eyes closed in meditation, and asked Ariel,
"How far have you gone with the bishop?"
Ariel's shoulders gave a little jump.
"H-how far... what do you mean, how far?"
She avoided Clea's gaze. From the look of things, they had clearly shared physical relations several times since the Absorbing Spirit Cat incident. If they were staying within the bounds of preserving her hymen, that would mean... anal sex, at least.
Clea arrived at a reasonable conclusion and waved a hand.
"Never mind. You don't have to say."
A Saintess engaging in anal sex. If she told anyone else, they would rage about blasphemy—but the world really was like a novel sometimes. A lewd Saintess who loved dirty things actually existed, and that Saintess loved a man enough to offer him even her back entrance.
"I'll prepare whatever the Saintess needs, within reason."
"Thank you..."
Clea made a circle with her thumb and forefinger.
"Of course, I'll be taking payment."
She would have liked to support the fresh young Saintess for free, but Clea was a merchant who valued money second only to trust, so of course she intended to collect. And how could she possibly stay still after seeing the Saintess's coin purse?
A pouch stuffed thick with gold coins. Roughly two hundred gold coins—converted, that was forty million Ruel. For a merchant, prying open a rich person's purse was practically a duty.
Clea prepared this and that. This was a dressmaker's shop, but she had a spatial pouch hidden inside her large hat, from which she could produce the goods. Most of them were personal items or products sold only in secret.
Ariel spent nearly twenty-five million Ruel—not only on things she would use this time, but also on items she might use later. Chloe would have a heart attack if she found out, but since it was all Ariel's private funds, there was no real problem.
"I've put everything in here."
Clea showed her a small bead.
"In there?"
"It's a compact spatial pouch."
A compact spatial pouch. It could store up to twenty-five items. Compact spatial pouches could be purchased from the Robarara Merchant Guild for a mere twenty million Ruel—and that accounted for most of today's expenditure. One might call it expensive, but as a fusion of witch spatial magic and magical engineering, the convenience and portability made the price more than fair.
It was an impulsive purchase, but considering the things she had bought today—aside from the animal pajamas—none of them were items she could openly carry around, so something like a spatial pouch was necessary. And because it could be used permanently, the great advantage of no longer needing to hide her erotic novels once she returned to the Great Cathedral was a major selling point.
"This is on the house."
Clea attached the spatial pouch to a chain and fashioned it into a bracelet, then fastened it to Ariel's left wrist—the one that already held her protective bracelet.
"It's now bound to you, Saintess. To use it, just tap the bead twice. The items you've stored will appear before your eyes, and whatever you select will come out of the bead."
Looking at the two bracelets on her wrist, Ariel clasped her hands together.
"Thank you, Clea."
"I'm the one who should be thanking you."
She looked out the window. Red sunset light was streaming in. They had been told to return by evening worship, so it was about time to go.
"Ah...!"
Something important occurred to Ariel just before they left.
"Um... about today..."
"Don't worry. Trust is the foundation of business."
Clea smiled and waved to Ariel.
"I'm not here every day, but if you need anything, send a letter here. Then I'll come visit the cathedral."
Ariel nodded vigorously and waved back in kind.
"Bishop Lowen. Bishop Lowen."
Ariel shook him. He had dozed off while meditating.
"Ah... have you finished looking around?"
Lowen opened his eyes slowly, stretched, and rose to his feet.
"Yes! Let's go back now."
"Very well."
Lowen picked up the shopping bag containing the two animal pajamas.
"We'll be taking our leave."
"All right, take care. Come back anytime if you need pretty clothes."
Lowen and Ariel returned to Windfield Great Cathedral.
After evening worship, the cathedral was quiet.
Everyone had either gone to prepare for bed or headed out for a night on the town.
Lowen was drinking wine in the Archbishop's chambers.
"It's sweet. Quite delicious."
Lowen took a sip of the sweet wine and ate a piece of tomato topped with a wedge of cheese.
"I'm relieved you seem to have adapted better than I feared."
Archbishop Widstorm, seated across from him, chuckled.
"I can adapt anywhere."
"That's just like you."
"Though I never expected a rural post would turn into the role of a Saintess's guardian."
Widstorm, who had been smiling, immediately apologized.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you in advance. But if I had, you wouldn't have taken the post, would you?"
"I had no reason to take it."
They had given Lowen a position at a rural cathedral as recompense for all the sacrifices he had made until now. So there had been no reason for him to take on the role of a Saintess's guardian. Looking at the present situation, it was something that ought to have been compensated.
"I wanted to accommodate your convenience as much as possible, but that Demian fellow insisted on assigning you as the Saintess's protector no matter what. I opposed it, but once the Cardinals' council settles a matter through the Holy See, what can I do? Hm?"
Widstorm defended himself vigorously.
"It's fine. It's only for a year, and considering how the elders have looked after me, it's something I can do for them."
Lowen finished his first glass of wine.
"Hooo..."
The breath he exhaled carried a sweet fragrance. His cheeks were warm. His eyelids grew heavy, and drowsiness poured over him. One might suspect the wine had been laced with a sleeping draught, but that was not the case.
"You can barely hold your liquor, yet you love drinking so much."
Lowen could not even manage two glasses of wine. When he drank, the fatigue melted away and sleep came flooding in.
"I like it precisely because I can't hold it."
Because it let him sleep easily. Because it let him forget every stray thought and simply rest. That was why, back in the knight order, he had smoked every day and drunk a few glasses every night before bed.
"Expensive liquor even tastes good, so it's better still."
Lowen poured a little more of the deep crimson wine into his glass and drank. Within the rich sweetness, a faint oak note of brandy spread gently.
"Come to think of it, a little while ago Elder Demian gifted me a red wine made from grapes that grow in the Spirit Forest."
Grasping the implication, Widstorm chewed his cheese and gave a short nod.
"I understand, I understand. I'll pack you one of the expensive ones when you leave."
"Thank you."
After a few more exchanges about recent affairs, Lowen—yawning repeatedly—politely rose from his seat, saying he would return to his room.
"Hooo... Expensive liquor really is the best."
Lowen walked the dim corridor toward his room. His eyelids were heavy with drowsiness, yet his steps felt light, as if his ankles were hollow.
Just before reaching his door, Lowen undid his buttons and loosened his stifling collar. Planning to collapse straight into bed the moment he entered, he also removed his glasses and roughly tousled his neat hair.
And so Lowen arrived at his room.
—Creeeak
The instant he opened the door and stepped inside, every trace of drowsiness vanished.
A girl stood silhouetted against the moonlight.
Her baby-soft, porcelain skin reflected the lunar glow. Her silver hair, cascading down past her hips, shimmered faintly.
The petite and beautiful Saintess, Ariel, was in Lowen's room.
"......Saintess?"
Her outfit snapped him fully awake.
A collar with a large bell. Opera gloves and knee-high socks patterned in mixed white and black. A micro bikini—also cow-print—that barely covered her areolae and the cleft of her sex.
"I-I've been waiting for you... augh... I've been waiting for you."
Ariel approached Lowen, her breasts swaying. Looking up at him, she squeezed out a trembling voice and lowed like a calf.
"M-moo... mooooooo."
Ariel in a cow costume. A long tail swayed gently behind her hips.
"D-does it... suit me?"
Because he had said earlier, while they were choosing animal pajamas, that a cow would suit her best, she had chosen the cow costume. Ariel's eyes, set in a face that looked ready to burst into flames, trembled violently.