Interlude (5)
The mansion was busier and more clamorous than usual, on account of gathering the many items the rites and formalities of a knighting ceremony demanded. And that was hardly all of it. The hall where the ceremony would be held had to be dressed up appropriately, and the knights of House Line had to be sent invitations besides. That damn ceremony of his had lit a fire under the feet of every servant in the household.
Being formally invested as a knight was an event of enormous consequence in this era. It meant having one's worth acknowledged as a martial asset of importance, and bearing the responsibilities and duties that came bundled with such power. Knights were a class accorded the standing of quasi-nobility. And Rihart was no ordinary knight—he was a knight of noble blood besides. Considering the current Count Line was himself both a knight and a count, the whole affair could well be read as a move to cement the Line succession. Judged by what it symbolized for the inheritance, it was a profoundly important occasion.
Knowing Rihart's temperament, he probably isn't happy about it. He was the sort of man who preferred pleasure and lust to duty and obligation. Had I been at his side, he would no doubt have spent the whole day grumbling that it all felt like wearing clothes cut for someone else. And knowing him, I'd likely have been sexually harassed somewhere along the way, too.
Had it started when he "captured" Karen Florence? Rihart's touch had grown more lecherous than before. According to the man himself, it's all so he can keep up the act in front of Karen Florence. But there seemed to be more to it than that. The instant that thought took shape, heat bloomed through my belly as if I'd swallowed a piping-hot egg whole. My face felt feverish too, and I fanned the warmth away with my hand. It felt filthy, being tamed by that bastard. Genuinely.
Anyway—here was everyone run off their feet, and what was I doing? Under the pretext of handling Rihart's personal affairs, I had been excused from every one of those chores. Which is to say, among the servants, I alone was at leisure. It would be a lie to claim I didn't feel their eyes on me. I could see it all too plainly: my already dismal reputation was sinking further still. If I plotted it on a graph, my reputation would be tracing the most striking vertical curve you'd ever see on a stock chart. The trouble was, of all things, it ran downhill. Then again, there was nowhere left to fall. People say even rock bottom has a basement, but as far as I was concerned, I had already arrived at the abyss.
I shook my head as if to shake the tangled thoughts loose, then lifted my face to the sky. Above clouds unraveled like wisps of down, the sun dropped toward the earth, stretching out long and slow like a strand of taffy. Watching that majestic crimson always brought a quiet measure of comfort to a cluttered heart. No internet, no boldly flavored food, amenities fit for beggars—if this medieval world had merits to speak of, I figured they were the unspoiled scenery and the clean, crisp air, and little else.
I was in the middle of taking my mental refuge in the view when I sensed someone's approach. I turned to find Sean the stable hand walking toward me.
"Did you take care of everything you needed to?"
"Everything that could be disposed of, I have disposed of."
"I told you before, but you do remember you mustn't go harboring any misplaced feelings when you see the state Bianca's in, right?"
"Miss Luciefer, my patience is not so frail that you need to keep reminding me."
"Anyone can swear to anything with mere words."
Perhaps that was too cynical a remark for a "Lucy." Sean's eyes widened briefly before settling into a bittersweet smile, and the deep creases carved at the corners of his mouth stood out to me. I coughed.
"I'm sorry. That was a slip of the tongue."
"It's all right. I imagine anyone—even you—would be on edge."
"Pardon?"
"You wear the face of someone who's been put through the wringer by Young Master Rihart, that's all."
"Do I look like that?"
"Was that too hasty a guess?"
"Well. Tormented is one word for it."
"You've had it rough too, Miss Luciefer."
Ah. What was it about those words? Why did they bring such outsized comfort? For a moment sorrow surged up my chest and struck at my throat. Sean, quick to read my state, changed the subject.
"More to the point, you're here early, Miss Luciefer—before the appointed hour."
I answered, wiping my philtrum with the back of my hand. "I'm only this free thanks to someone's generosity."
"From where the others stand, I'd wager it looks like shirking."
"Then let them think whatever they like. I couldn't care less."
At my offhand reply, Sean's brows arched. It was the reaction of a man caught off guard. The original Lucy must have been the docile, meek sort—the kind who couldn't manage so much as a peep at trash like Nila.
"I'd rather you assume everything you've seen from me until now was my own particular breed of playing demure. But quit worrying over me—wouldn't your effort be better spent thinking about your own future, Mr. Sean?"
"I'll take that advice gladly."
We set off for the spot with the passage leading in from outside. It was a long way—long enough that even riding Plee, Karen's steed, had once taken considerable time—but having made the trip once before, there was no mishap of losing our way. By the time I worked the mechanism and opened the concealed door, the sun had fully set and night had closed in. Was it only because of the dark? Or had it always felt this way? The stairs down to the basement gave off a sinister, clammy chill.
"Shall we?"
"Let's."
We stepped into the basement. The hour of the decisive battle had come. From here on, only one of the two of us would leave alive.
In hindsight, I was glad I'd put in the time to clear out the area around the basement whenever I had a spare moment. The foul stench had faded far more than I'd expected. Sean and I exchanged not a single word, devoting ourselves only to the walk down—until at last that same brutish iron door revealed itself. A door that absolutely could not be opened without strength on Rihart's level. A door that ought to have been locked fast stood, by the strangest of coincidences, wide open.
Well, of course it did. Rihart opened it for us last night on his way out. I knew the circumstances; Sean, who didn't, could hardly be blamed for reading it as a trap. His face darkened as he studied me.
"I'll ask, just in case."
"Ask what?"
"Young Master Rihart isn't in there, is he?"
"You know better than anyone that this is his busiest stretch, don't you? I told him to open it up for us in advance so I could use the place easily. That's all this is."
"...I see."
"If you can't bring yourself to trust me, shall we turn back right now?"
Sean shook his head. "We've come too far for that."
"Exactly."
Sean held my gaze. I held his. Without a word from either of us, we entered the basement together, our footsteps stifled as far as we could manage, so that no one inside was roused.
Every time I came here, the same impression settled over me: this place was wretched. Sean, surveying the interior, suddenly had his expression crumple. He had laid eyes on Bianca, lying within the barred cell. Small wonder he reeled. There wasn't a patch of skin on Bianca's half-bared body that wasn't marked by wounds. Even treated with potions, traces like these were bound to linger. The father who had searched and searched for his daughter stood with the rims of his eyes flooding red.
"Bianca!"
The shout was loud enough to ring in the ears. But I was in no position to scold him for it. His emotion came through too rawly, too sincerely. Before long, a truly fearsome glare swung around to me. He wanted the key to the cell holding Bianca, no doubt. I shrugged and produced the key, then undid the padlock that sealed Bianca's cell.
Creeeeak.
The moment the door swung open, Sean rushed in and pulled Bianca into his arms. Her sleeping eyes flew wide. Held so suddenly, she curled in on herself by pure reflex.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm so lowly—I'm sorry..."
"Bianca, my Bianca. How did it come to this? How!"
Bianca, who had been doing nothing but repeating apologies, lifted her eyes straight ahead.
"Dad?"
Her pupils trembled violently, as if she were looking at a reality that could not exist. And then—dismissing the whole scene as a dream, perhaps—she began to giggle.
"Oh—hehe—it's Dad. Dad, I missed you. It's a dream, but even so, I'm glad I get to see you. It's warm, being held like this. I like it, Dad. Bianca did so many wrong things, and got hurt so many times for it. Do you know how much I missed you, every single time? It's a dream—but that's exactly why. If I'd known this would happen, I should have listened to you, Dad. I suppose it's because I was always making you angry, always throwing my tantrums, that it turned out like this. Dad, it hurt so much. I was in so much pain."
Rambling, unordered words—but the feeling inside them was real. The father, faced with what his broken daughter had become, could find nothing to say. He simply wailed, loud and raw as a wounded beast.
"Dad? That's strange. By now you should be fading away. Why aren't you disappearing?"
Head cocked in puzzlement, Bianca reached out and ran her hands over him. How did she take that touch, that sensation? Her giggling stopped dead.
"Huh? Is this real?"
"It's real—real as anything. Your father came. He's here, just like this!"
Her expression, how should I put it—it was cracked like porcelain a breath away from shattering.
"Oh, really? Really? Why? It's not a fake?"
Bianca seized his shoulders with both hands. Her face was flushed, her expression frozen stiff.
"Why—why did you only come now! Hic—why! Do you have any idea how long I waited!"
The words she spat out were reproach. Lament, swallowed down and pressed flat all this time. Fury at the wretched hand fate had dealt her.
"I'm sorry. Your father is sorry."
As though a dam holding back everything she'd stored up had finally burst, Bianca wept. She clung to Sean and cried without end.
"Dad, I missed you. I really, really missed you, Dad. I was in so much pain, it was so hard, and I missed you so much—so, so much."
"Bianca, it's all right now. Everything's all right."
A father and daughter, wailing in each other's deep embrace. It had gone even more smoothly than I'd anticipated. By letting the two meet without resistance, I had left Sean utterly defenseless.
I drew the dagger strapped to my thigh. All those rounds of mental simulation and dry runs had been worth it—the draw was so quiet it made not the smallest sound. I had even coated the metal in black pigment so the blade couldn't catch the light. His daughter's pitiable state had swallowed his entire world; he didn't even register my approach.
All I had to do was open his throat. No—I didn't even need to slash. A single thrust, and it would be over.
I closed my left hand around the dagger. Rihart had once advised that a weapon was best held a little loosely, hadn't he? But advice like that tends to lose all meaning once you're in a real fight. Even to a rank amateur like me, the hand gripping the dagger felt wound far too tight. Still, it didn't matter. There would be no problem with the killing itself.
I raised the dagger above my head. Higher. Higher. Until it stood past the crown of my skull. And in the very instant I moved to drive it down—my eyes met Bianca's.
Her eyes, brimming with relief, drowned in terror between one heartbeat and the next. She had grasped what I meant to do. But it was already too late. All I had to do was bring the blade down as it was. The dagger moved from above to below. Bianca's brown eyes stayed fixed on me. And she pushed her father away—pushed him, as though she meant to take the blade in his place.
Only upon seeing that did I finally understand. That I was every bit as monstrous a human being as Rihart.
Shunk!
Drip. Drip.
Blood ran down the blade buried in flesh and fell away.
"Dad!"
"Bianca?"
Ah. I got this wrong. Sean hadn't died. Bianca hadn't died. No one had. Then what on earth had I stabbed?
I pulled the dagger free. My right hand burned as though thrust into a fire, raked through with a needle-sharp, exquisite pain. The one the dagger had wounded was my own right hand.
I hurled the dagger to the floor.
Clang!
"...Haah. What a goddamn idiot."
That's right. I was an idiot. An idiot who could see nothing through, this way or that. Fuck it—I didn't know anymore. From here on out, whatever happens, happens.