There Are No Bad Dogs in This World (1)

Solemnity and reverence hung over the place. The atmosphere alone was enough to crush a person. It was a space so steeped in etiquette and formality that even the sound of your own breathing would have counted as noise. I could feel how much painstaking care had gone into preparing this investiture.

Seeing all of this, I could vaguely understand why Rihardt found his station so stifling. Living according to a script isn't always a blessing, I suppose.

Am I seriously sympathizing with that son of a bitch right now?

I shook my head. I was dying in an entirely different sense—I'd attended Rihardt's investiture without having slept a wink.

Who knew I'd be summoned the moment I finished washing up.

Exhausted or not, as a servant of Count Line I had no business being absent from so important an occasion as the heir's knighting—unless I intended to quit being a maid for good.

Not that quitting for good didn't sound tempting. It was a modest little wish, nothing more. I could see with perfect clarity how Rihardt would react if I failed to show. With no means of handling the aftermath, I'd dragged my worn-out body and ragged mind all the way here.

Far more people had turned out for Rihardt's investiture than I'd expected. Several knights stationed in the city of Line, the family's men-at-arms, even nobles of considerable rank had taken their seats. So many had come that the hall—the largest in the mansion—looked sorely pressed to contain them all.

Count Line presided over the ceremony himself. He offered the assembled guests a few brief words of greeting, then carried out the rite precisely according to its procedures and observances.

This was my first time witnessing a proper knight's investiture. Where would a twenty-first-century modern ever have occasion to watch a medieval one? That was exactly what made it so hard to endure—my eyelids kept sliding shut.

No matter how hard I tried to keep my mind sharp, my eyelids were simply too heavy. Do you know what a person steeped in fatigue and drowsiness is most vulnerable to? Classical music and religious broadcasts. The graver and more solemn the atmosphere, the harder sleep comes creeping in. By that measure, an investiture was every bit their equal.

I'd lost count of how many times my head had bobbed. I was also well aware that the servants around me were shooting me increasingly venomous looks. Why is that maid dozing off in her seat at an occasion like this? I'd have deserved every word of the criticism and the scolding. But what could I do? I was genuinely sleepy.

How wonderful it would have been if willpower alone could hold sleep at bay. Sleep isn't counted among humanity's three great ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠appetites for nothing. Sleep deprivation is literally used as a form of torture.

I'd also lost count of how many times I'd pinched my forearm to jolt myself awake. At this rate I'd end up in worse shape than the belly Rihardt had kicked.

Thankfully, even this interminably solemn investiture had an end. Nothing lasts forever—however much, at the time, I'd been convinced this one would.

Count Line—Strauss de Line—recited the virtues of knighthood as he tapped his blade to Rihardt's shoulders. Rihardt bowed his head, kneeling on his left knee before the man granting him his spurs. A ceremony stripped of every excess.

So that's Rihardt's father.

This was the first time I'd laid eyes on Count Line properly. It wasn't that the opportunity had never arisen—more that I'd only ever glimpsed him from a distance, or just missed him entirely. Looking back now, I suspect Rihardt was deliberately keeping us from meeting.

Their faces were alike enough that in ten years or so, Rihardt might well look exactly like him. Save for his black hair and black eyes, the count could have been mistaken for Rihardt's older twin—he looked that young. Generously estimating, he couldn't have passed for older than his late twenties.

When on earth did he get married? Glancing around, I spotted the Countess of Line as well. She looked every bit as young as her husband. Her figure and beauty were so exquisite that no one would have guessed she'd borne a grown man—she could have passed for a girl in the throes of adolescence. So that was where Rihardt's white hair and red eyes came from.

Unlike the sharp-edged count and Rihardt, the countess had a soft, gentle air about her. She was said to be just as kind at heart, and her renown as a mistress respected and adored by her servants was well earned.

How did a woman like that produce a man like him? Looking back and forth between mother and son, the dissonance was staggering. Whether by misfortune or by fortune, that very dissonance kept the wretched sleep demon at bay—at least a little.

And so Rihardt's knighting came to an end. Not grand, but not modest, either.

I had underestimated the knighting ceremony. There was a feast to follow, you see. And it had the feel of one that would drag on for quite some time.

A banquet in full swing means one thing for the servants: more work. In other words, my quitting time had receded beyond the horizon. Is this how a cow feels, being led to the slaughter?

Then, unexpectedly, a shaft of light broke over me.

"Take Lucy off duty for me, would you? She's had her hands full with the errand I gave her."

The trouble was that this particular shaft of light was rotten to the core. My heart wanted nothing more than to refuse. But considering the state I was in, I couldn't begin to guess what kind of disaster I'd cause if I tried to keep working like this.

A maid fumbling her duties at an after-party packed with knights and nobles? The mere thought had the gallows' noose tightening snugly around my neck. It galled me, but in the end, I accepted Rihardt's kindness.

I returned to my room alone and collapsed onto the bed. The mattress smelled of sunlight, plush and dry, and its soft give released my tension and wariness in an instant. I let consciousness go and slept like the dead.

Someone once said that when you're exhausted enough, you don't even dream. Turns out that's not true.

I dreamed. In the dream, I was apologizing—over and over, to Bianca, to Karen Florence, to Sean. None of them accepted it. They only stood there, watching me in silence.

Then Bianca and Sean turned and left. Only Karen Florence remained. She fixed her gaze on me and said something. Sadly, I couldn't make out a single word of it—a crackling hiss, like static, drowned her out.

I strained with everything I had to hear her, but her voice only grew fainter.

Karen. What are you trying to tell me? Resentment? A curse? I would have taken either gladly. What I'd done called for far worse than that.

"...Ah."

I opened my eyes. A pitch-dark ceiling. And there was my right hand, stretched out as if to clutch at something. It was dark enough that I guessed it was night.

I went to exhale, and my face screwed up.

"Ow."

Simply breathing sent pain lancing through my belly. I lifted the hem of the maid's uniform I hadn't yet changed out of and found a bruise ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠mottled the deep violet of a sweet potato's skin. And a sizable one, at that. He'd kicked me without an ounce of restraint—of course it would be.

"...You lunatic."

A soliloquy, spoken to an empty room. Until someone answered it.

"Who are you calling a lunatic?"

Serving as Rihardt's personal maid, I doubted my spine would survive. It crawled with chills every single time—surely even the hardiest vertebrae would wear away to nothing at this rate. I turned toward the voice and found a man seated in a chair he'd evidently brought in himself. The very man who'd become a knight as of today.

"There are. The man who entered my room without so much as a word, for one. The man who kicked my belly to his heart's content, for another."

Once my head had cleared somewhat, I'd made a discovery: Rihardt thoroughly enjoyed it when I got cheeky with him. He welcomed the attitude I snapped at him—so why on earth would I grovel? Sure enough, he beamed with what looked like genuine delight.

"Sorry for handling you so roughly. But you did bring it on yourself, didn't you, Lucy?"

Right. How touching of him to show restraint. I could cry with gratitude. I answered even more bluntly.

"Would you care to hear some words of thanks from my lips?"

"Try me."

You think I can't manage it if you dare me?

"Thank you ever so much for choking me, and for being content merely to kick me in the belly. Young Master Rihardt—or, my apologies, now that you've been knighted, should it be Sir Rihardt?"

"Spare me the stuffy titles. When it's just the two of us, call me Rihardt."

Ha. A hollow laugh welled up in me. This time I didn't bother suppressing it.

"How could the likes of me dare, Young Master?"

"Accomplices stand on equal footing, don't they?"

"Coming from the man holding my leash, that sounds rather contradictory."

He didn't reply—just smiled. Every last thing he did sent shivers down my spine. I steadied my rattled nerves and studied Rihardt.

Come to think of it, he hadn't slept a wink either—no, he should have been even more exhausted than I was. So why did he look so fresh? Was it really just the difference in our bodies?

"Setting that aside—what brings you here?"

"Wanted to see Lucy's sleeping face?"

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

For a moment, I wanted to retch up everything I was feeling. When I cursed him silently with my expression alone, he shrugged.

"It was a joke. Why the straight face?"

"A joke is only a joke when it's funny, Young Master."

His voice dropped a register.

"Then laugh."

"Hahaha."

I never thought I'd live to see the day I'd be grateful for my military service. Who knew all those years of forcing out laughs whenever a joke demanded one would prove useful here?

Well, it was every bit as stiff, and Rihardt, naturally, called it out.

"That's what you call laughing?"

"I wrung it desperately from an emotion that doesn't exist."

"Fair enough—you are a terrible actress. Still, mind laughing with a little more life in it?"

"How am I supposed to laugh at something that isn't funny?"

"Can't argue with that."

"Catering to your sadistic tastes has left me ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠thoroughly exhausted, Young Master. If there's nothing you need—"

"I was planning to call for you separately, but you weren't in any shape for it, so I came myself."

He studied me with an unreadable gaze.

"We did agree on a forfeit, remember?"

"...Yes."

"And as it happens, you brought up the leash just now—I've had a splendid idea."

Going by your face, it's not the least bit splendid.

An inexplicable sense of dread came creeping over me.