Karen Florence (6)
"Hahk—hah!"
I jolted upright, gasping for air.
Everything around me was still pitch dark, so it had to be the small hours of the morning. In other words, I'd woken up early against my will. Having failed to get a shred of proper sleep, a deep fatigue seemed to coil around my body like spider silk.
So I lay back down and closed my eyes again. Unfortunately, my freshly awakened mind showed no sign of clouding over.
Guess I'm done sleeping.
Because of the dream. A thoroughly unsettling one—strictly speaking, you could call it a nightmare.
What was it about?
I dreamed I was begging Rihardt for forgiveness. In the dream I was on my knees, pleading. Please forgive me, I was wrong, I'm sorry.
What expression had Rihardt worn?
I couldn't say. Smiling? Angry? Or was there no expression at all?
Like any of that matters.
I sat up and drained the water I'd left by my bedside. The reason I'd dreamed something like that was, no doubt, what had happened the night before playing the leading role. And thanks to that, my mood was filthy from the crack of dawn.
I wonder if I'll live to see the end of my term.
A few close encounters with Rihardt, and my confidence had been flattened on the spot. If I managed to hold out for about a year, I'd call that holding out well.
Ready or not, another day had begun.
A typical maid takes charge of the household chores. So what does the Young Master's personal maid do?
Simple. She assists with Rihardt's daily routine.
In that spirit, once I was properly dressed in my maid's uniform, I knocked on Rihardt's door.
"It's Lucifer. It's time for your cough, Young Master Rihardt."
No answer came.
So you keep me up half the night, but you sleep like a log yourself. Is that it?
I knocked again, raising my voice a notch.
"Young Master Rihardt, it's time for your cough."
Nothing.
That's strange.
Even if he'd fallen asleep late, this was a boy sensitive to everything around him—anyone he called like this should have woken him.
"Young Master Rihardt?"
Standing there like this, I felt like a fresh recruit once again, sent to shake awake the senior soldier for the second night-watch shift. In that it dredged up my old PTSD, my mood took a sharp turn for the worse.
"Since you're not answering, I'll be coming i—"
I opened the door, moved to step through—and froze solid on the spot.
Because Rihardt was pressed against the wall, right beside the door.
The instant my eyes met those crimson irises, I barely strangled down the kind of shriek a little girl might have let out.
"What are you doing, exactly, right now?"
The fact that my tone came out more than a little petulant was beyond my control. I was that rattled.
"I was trying to startle you, Lucy."
So that was the intent.
Well, it had certainly worked. I was extremely startled.
Did you enjoy getting exactly what you wanted? Was it fun for you?
"You truly do have far too much free time, sir."
"It was the reaction I'd been hoping for, so all the better."
"What reaction would that be?"
"That look of utter disillusionment. It's exquisite."
Why do I get the feeling that sentence is one breath away from ending with, "The ones with eyes like that always cry so prettily"?
Nursing my unease, I looked around Rihardt's room. Neat and orderly—a scene in perfect opposition to its owner's personality.
"Today's the day Karen drags you off, isn't it?"
"How did you know that?"
Had he eavesdropped on my conversation with Karen?
"Karen asked my permission. Whether she could borrow Lucy for about a day."
Well, fair enough—I am his personal maid, so it was only right that she'd ask Rihardt and not me.
"It might be a little rough on you—keeping up with Karen Florence's pace."
"...I beg your pardon?"
The me of that moment didn't know it yet: that this was one of his rare instances of worry, offered with genuine sincerity.
The sky had turned a sickly yellow.
Not that anything was literally dyed yellow—it simply meant things were that dire for me. My side throbbed dully as if I'd taken a bullet, and my breath climbed all the way up my throat and stayed there. My arms and legs trembled like leaves, as if refusing to take another step. Anyone who sprinted full-tilt without a single pause would end up exactly like me.
No, wait—wouldn't you call this interval training?
"Too slow! Come on, hurry up, hurry!"
A crisp, ringing voice called out from up ahead. The distance between us was considerable, and yet it felt as if she were shouting right in my ear. How good could one person's lungs possibly be? In my old world, she'd have been talent enough to major in rock vocals.
Like a stalk of ripe rice, my head had been bowed low; I barely managed to lift it. Far in the distance I could see the red-haired girl bouncing in place and waving her arms.
Who on earth would look at that and think nun?
Wasn't that a wild boar?
Even her own congregation would take one look at that behavior, call it frivolous, and haul her up for discipline. Please, I hoped they'd scold her properly someday.
A girl whose eye-catching crimson hair and nun's habit somehow made a strange, striking harmony. Gasping for breath, I gave Karen Florence my reply.
"I'm—hah—not the one—hahk—who's slow—it's—no, wait—that's not—hoo—it's just that you—gasp—are too—fast!"
With strides that small, you'd think she'd be easy to catch up to. She was anything but.
"How does a maid have stamina this pathetic, huh?"
"Objection—hahk! Don't you say that! It's your stamina that's inhuman!"
I was not one of those battle maids trained for special operations. How was I supposed to chase your movements?
"Spare me the excuses—come here and look at this thing!"
At some point she'd closed the distance entirely, and now she seized my arm and hauled me along. Karen Florence had left the manor early that morning and ridden into the heart of the city on horseback.
With me in tow.
That ride had been a brush with death, honestly.
Astonishing as it was to admit, I'd discovered that Rihardt, at least, belonged to the gentle-handling school of horsemanship. How did I come to know this, you ask? Because the rough-rider type had carved itself into my very bones this morning. I'd lost count of how many shrill screams I'd let out.
And watching me, Karen had said something. What was it again...
"You're a total scaredy-cat, huh?"
I sincerely hoped that one day, riding that recklessly, she'd get into a proper accident.
Anyway. The place where we now stood was famous within the city of Line as its street of commerce. From bundle-toting peddlers to full-fledged trading houses, shops stood packed together like dominoes. The Golden Coin Street of Line, where countless passersby lingered and moved on.
Truthfully, with all manner of wares on display, it seemed like a fine place for browsing.
Which was precisely the problem, if it was a problem.
Lots to see? That meant Karen Florence's eyes were darting in every direction. And for the one forced to keep pace with her, that meant a fresh chorus of wailing.
Couldn't you just stroll along and look around calmly for once? What was so urgent that you had to run? It wasn't as if the wares would escape.
I actually asked her something along those lines, as it happened. And Karen Florence's answer was this:
"It's a present for Rihardt, so we have to look at as much as we can, then choose with care!"
...That was her reasoning.
It would be a lie to say her pure heart didn't ache a little to behold. Because this was Karen Florence, walking on her own two feet toward a doom long since scheduled.
That aside.
At this rate, I would be the first to die. If this world had anything like a Darwin Award, I might just get registered as a candidate.
"Oh, come on!"
In the moment my attention had wandered, she'd traveled far ahead again. When I struggled to close the gap, there she was, gripping my sleeve and asking my opinion with perfect nonchalance.
"Doesn't this suit Rihardt perfectly? Huh? What do you think?"
She was not looking at some accessory on a stall. She was talking about a longsword so bright it flashed back the sunlight itself.
Karen Florence. Just what empathy were you expecting from me here?
When I said nothing and simply went on catching my breath, the girl took the sword in hand to inspect it, entirely of her own accord.
"The balance is passable, and the edge is decent enough. Quality's a bit iffy, though. Has it tasted blood? Might've been used to fell a beast. Winter's creeping in, so was it put to work on wolves?"
"Are you a weapons appraiser, by any chance."
"...Weapons appraiser? You don't need to be one—surely anyone can tell this much just by holding it, no?"
For most people, not knowing is the default, actually.
Behind us, a burly, bald blacksmith who had been silently observing our exchange burst out in admiration.
"A nun with a sharp eye, eh? You're spot on."
"Spot on about what, exactly?"
At my question, the man answered kindly.
"That sword—it's what was used against the wolf packs that used to prowl around Line."
What?
Seriously?
I stared at Karen Florence, eyes gone wide.
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
"I was merely coming to appreciate that even a grub has a talent for wriggling."
"I don't know what that means, but why does it feel so unpleasant? You just slandered me, didn't you?"
Deliberately, unmistakably ignoring Karen Florence's pressing, I asked the blacksmith:
"Did you face the wolf packs yourself, then?"
"How could I? I'm a man who makes swords, not one who swings them."
"Then who was this sword's true owner?"
At my question, the blacksmith let out an awkward cough. Judging by how he muddled through it, the sword's owner had not come to a good end.
"So it's stolen goods, then."
"...Well, how many weapons out there aren't?"
His words left an oddly bitter taste in my mouth, and I managed a strained smile. Unlike the world I'd come from, this was an era where human deaths lay strewn at one's feet.
I turned to Karen.
"Not quite suitable as a gift for the Young Master, I'd say."
"You're right. Gifting stolen goods would be a bit much."
"Besides, weapons only go to rot in the manor anyway."
A single glance inside the manor's armory would show quality blades overflowing there already.
"Oh, whatever. We're only looking. I wasn't planning to give him this one anyway."
Even as she said it, some lingering regret kept her glancing sidelong at the sword.
"It's just perfect for Rihardt, though."
I truly do not understand your sense of aesthetics.
And before that—was this even part of my job?