Karen Florence (7)

The sun sat at its zenith—which meant a good three or four hours had passed since we'd left the mansion. All that racing about to see as many different things as possible in so little time had drained my stamina something fierce, and so, with autumn technically in full swing, I was receiving an unsolicited immersion in the sweltering heat of midsummer.

My body had been flogged so relentlessly that even wiggling a finger was an ordeal. My clothes hung clammy with sweat, my discomfort meter straining to burst clean past its limit, and my mind wasn't in much better shape. After being run ragged by Karen all morning, the mere sight of her opening her mouth—Hey, what about this one?—was enough to set my nerves jangling. My head held one wish and one wish only: get back to the mansion, take a bath, and change into fresh clothes.

Especially my chest. It feels filthy. I pinched the damp fabric of my maid uniform's bodice between thumb and forefinger, tugged it away from my skin, and peered down into my cleavage. The soft round mounds glistened, slick and shining, looking for all the world as if I'd slathered them in oil. So that's where the sweat likes to pool, apparently.

Back when I was a man, breasts had simply been a good thing—the bigger, the better. Now that I was a woman, I was learning that size did not translate purely into advantage. It was the kind of moment that made me keenly appreciate just how many physical perks I'd taken for granted.

It was far too gross to leave be, so I fished a handkerchief from my pocket and tucked it into my cleavage to wipe the sweat away. Karen caught me in the act and launched straight into a scolding.

"Have you no shame?! What do you think you're doing, in the middle of the street no less!?"

I stared back at her with half-lidded eyes. The sheer nerve of it—the very woman who had driven me to the brink of collapse, lecturing me about decorum. Dignity and grace, you'll note, are luxuries reserved for those with energy left to spare.

"Unless you intend to do it for me, kindly keep quiet. People are only staring because of you, Miss Karen."

Perhaps something about how levelly I said it struck her as the more outrageous thing, because Karen raised her voice another notch.

"And you don't care one bit about the people gawking at us!"

"Look who's talking."

"What? What's wrong with me?"

That last line had been meant for the privacy of my own head, but it had slipped out through my mouth all the same. I considered scrambling for an excuse, then thought better of it. It would have been pointless. Karen Florence was the sort of person whose thinking laid itself bare within a few hours of acquaintance—and so long as a lapse didn't touch on Rihardt, she was magnanimous enough to wave off the occasional slip of the tongue. If I'm honest, though, the main reason I didn't bother was that I was too exhausted ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to think straight.

"My head is ringing, so perhaps you'd better stop yapping like a child, o self-proclaimed lady, Miss Karen."

At my acid tone, the corners of Karen Florence's eyes curved in the faintest smile. If anything, she seemed to welcome this kind of insolence more warmly than she ever would courtesy.

"My, my. For such a clean-cut appearance, your insides are awfully black, aren't they?"

I wished she'd aimed that remark at Rihardt instead of me. No—his heart wasn't merely black; it was rotten clean through.

Half in surrender, I shot back, "You more or less expected as much, didn't you? That there'd be something like this under the surface."

"I mean, sure, but it's a little surprising. I figured you'd be gloomier. More pathetic. You know the type—whispering behind people's backs, quietly engineering a little ostracism on the side."

How interesting, that she spoke as though she'd been on the receiving end herself.

"Is that something one says to the victim's face?"

"And what about you, hm? Haven't you said plenty of things to me you had no business saying?"

Lucy, she says. Calling me by a pet name, just as Rihardt does. It left me not knowing where to look.

"Shall I kneel and offer a formal apology, then?"

"Save it. You're not actually sorry, are you? An apology that comes from nothing but form just puts me in a foul mood."

"Which is precisely why I find myself all the more eager to offer one."

"Wow. You really do have a rotten personality."

"Allow me to reiterate, Miss Karen: I am like this with everyone, not merely with you."

Pfft. Karen Florence burst into laughter, bright and clear as ringing glass. For one unguarded instant it was beautiful enough that I forgot to look away.

"Honestly? I like this Lucy better than the one who's all stiff manners."

I narrowed my eyes and gave her a long sideways look.

"Your little scheme—coax me along with pleasantly flattering remarks until I'm soft enough to keep browsing shops—is transparent from a mile away."

"Oops. Busted? Quick on the uptake, aren't you."

"Without at least this much awareness, how could I possibly survive as a maid in the House of Line?"

Perhaps she heard the weariness threaded through those words, because Karen Florence's gaze turned strangely gentle.

"Mm. You've had it rough too, haven't you?"

"In any case, I cannot move another step. You may as well put me down."

"Such morbid talk! Fine, fine—I was about ready for a rest myself."

So we finally get to rest?

"I'll go buy us something to eat. Sit tight here."

And off she went—apparently she'd been hungry after all. Well, fair enough; after all that exertion, anyone who wasn't would hardly qualify as human. More like a living perpetual motion machine, that one.

She planted me firmly on a bench and marched off toward a street vendor, returning moments later with five or six skewers of grilled meat clutched in both hands. Watching her come back like that, arms overflowing, there was no mistaking her for anything but a kid.

"Here, take it! I got you one too, Lucy."

And generous with it, too.

I shook my head.

"No, thank you. Thanks to a certain someone, my stomach is in such a state that anything I eat ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠is likely to come right back up."

"Oh, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠don't be like that—just take it. They're grilled to perfection."

Typical Karen. Even as I tried to refuse, she pressed the skewer into my hand, dropped down beside me with a plop, and set about demolishing her own food with gusto.

She certainly doesn't lack for appetite. Karen's cheeks bulged out like a hamster's stuffed with sunflower seeds. It was almost pleasant to watch her eat with such hearty, blessed abandon.

I glanced down, almost without thinking, at the skewer in my own ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hand. Fatty meat and fresh vegetables, seared to a tempting golden brown—it looked genuinely appetizing. Setting aside what medieval notions of hygiene were worth, that is. Well, it wasn't as if a little street food would kill me.

I inclined my head slightly toward Karen and spoke.

"...Thank you for the food."

The first bite filled my mouth with well-balanced seasoning and the clean, simple taste of the meat. It was overwhelmingly, almost violently good. She must have bought from a stall that did brisk business—you could taste it.

"Mm! Delicious! I'm telling you, nothing in this world tastes as good as food after a long walk!"

Karen kicked her feet like a giddy child, chirping her delight—and then slid me a sidelong glance, pointed as a drawn blade. As if she were stricken with some rare ailment that would drive thorns through her tongue unless she heard my verdict.

"I concur with that assessment in its entirety. It is a delicious skewer."

"Hehe, right?"

Just then, a cool breeze happened to drift by, easing the heavy, sweat-soaked weight of my body. Out here I felt a sense of freedom, though of a different flavor than anything I'd known within the mansion walls.

For starters, it's a blessing—call it a blessing—that I no longer have to spend every second reading that accursed bastard's moods.

Come to think of it, what exactly did Karen see in Rihardt, that she clung to him so desperately? His face alone? For all her simplicity, I knew Karen Florence wasn't so empty-headed as that. Doubt had me studying her, and she caught me at it.

"What? Got something to say?"

"No."

It was better not to scratch at a scab that would only fester. But on this particular frontier, the nun's instincts were those of a beast. She'd marked my odd behavior, and she probed again.

"Could've fooled me, with that 'I've got something to say' face."

"...And which part of my face, exactly, says that?"

"All of it."

I swallowed a groan. It seemed I would not be let off lightly. Against sustained interrogation like this, there was simply no winning.

"Forgive my rudeness, but... might I ask what it was about the young master that made you fall for him?"

To my question she answered breezily, as if it were nothing at all.

"Oh, that? It's nothing much. Rihardt saved me and my mother, that's all."

Saving your life is nothing, is it? Or was it saving your mother's life that counted for nothing? I found it hard to believe that Rihardt—that Rihardt—had ever pulled a human being back from the brink of death. I honestly didn't know where to even aim my objections.

Karen Florence went on.

"That was the moment I fell for him. I thought—ah, if I stay beside this man, he'll protect me no matter what happens to us. And I know this next part might sound a bit shallow, but... Rihardt really is terribly handsome, you know?"

So Karen Florence was a genuine nun after all. She never once looked at the Line family's wealth or power, and yet merely falling for a pretty face was what she called mercenary? Had every truly greedy person on earth dropped dead?

"So... I suppose that's why I was extra mean to you."

"Is this a sudden confession?"

"Not very nun-like of me, hm?"

"Oh, perish the thought."

"Honestly, just picture it yourself. The man you fancy brings home a woman so beautiful she can't help being measured against you—and without so much as a word of consultation beforehand."

"In your place, I believe I'd be angry at the man I fancy, rather than at the beautiful woman."

For once, the Karen who feared nothing in heaven or earth sounded a little deflated.

"How could I be angry at him? He's the one who saved my mother's life. And besides, it isn't mutual—never was. It's a one-sided love, all mine. Liking Rihardt doesn't grant me the right to command his heart, now does it?"

".........Is that so."

I could not, for the life of me, bring myself to say I'm rooting for your love. Because I already knew how her story would end.

Then, unbidden, something Rihardt had once said floated up from memory.

Among the clergy, nuns are not counted among the priesthood. If one insisted on drawing the line, a nun belonged rather to the monastic orders. Which meant the "priest" Rihardt had spoken of could only be Karen's mother.

"Did she, by any chance, present you with a large quantity of healing potions as her token of thanks?"

"Yeah, that's right. I take it you heard about that from Rihardt, huh?"

"Potions of that caliber must have commanded quite a price, I would think."

"Not so pricey you'd withhold them from the man who saved your life. Besides, they aren't even that hard to make—I could brew a batch myself right this minute. The potency would be a notch lower, mind."

"...I see."

And just like that, I understood why Rihardt had gone out of his way to make Karen his next target. But what good was understanding his purpose? In the end, everything would unfold exactly as Rihardt willed it. For no reason I could name, my mouth turned bitter.