Don't Come Any Closer
Desidero clicked his tongue and gestured toward Freed. The man approached and pushed the wheelchair forward, its small rear wheels spinning smoothly. It was the first time Tichite had seen the chair in motion.
The wheelchair halted before the door through which the Duke had vanished. The servant offered a formal knock, then wheeled Desidero inside. It looked exactly like someone chasing a cat that had fled from its bathwater.
From behind the closed door came the sound of muffled muttering. At first the words were too low to catch, but they gradually grew heated.
“I told you it was Ranlam…. What? Of course I thought it was a man! How was I supposed to know if it was a man or a woman from the name alone? You’re the one who decided everything on your own!”
The word woman kept rising again and again.
It seemed the Duke was more disturbed by the fact that she was female than by her being Tilamin. Whichever it was, the omen felt ominous, and Tichite’s expression darkened.
What if he turned out to be even more narrow-minded than she had imagined? A slow, unpleasant worry began to coil inside her.
A short while later Desidero called for Freed. The servant followed his master’s voice into the room, then pushed the chair out by its short, sturdy handle, escorting the lord back into the hall.
Tichite stood with her hands clasped awkwardly, her gaze shifting to the Duke who emerged behind them. The man who stepped out from the shadows looked far more imposing than when he had dashed into the room moments earlier. His towering height far exceeded the average, rising well above both the person seated in the wheelchair and the one standing behind it. An unbridgeable gap stretched between them.
The curious part was that the eye level belonged not to a man’s eyes but to the visor of a helmet. A black metal bucket had been shoved onto the Duke’s head as if he had been dragged out against his will. It was the glossy, coal-dark helm—the public face the Duke had polished to a shine before carrying it into the room with him. The object was familiar to Tichite as well.
Though she had harbored suspicions after seeing Desidero, there was no mistaking the real Duke of Farrow. This was the man who had dominated the jousting match in the salt castle’s front courtyard that very day.
The man strode forward with heavy steps and dropped onto the sofa. Of the several available seats he chose the most central, honored position—the one facing Tichite directly while remaining the farthest from her. The moment he sat, he crossed his legs in an arrogant pose and folded his arms so tightly it seemed nothing could penetrate them.
The sight of an elegant silk shirt paired with a warrior’s helm was actually rather comical. Yet even like this the man looked distinctly dangerous.
Instead of the hidden face, what first caught the eye was the taut swell of his chest muscles and the breadth of his shoulders. His trousers and shirt appeared tailored without a single inch of slack. His thighs were thick enough to threaten the seams.
Having finished her silent appraisal, the woman suddenly came to her senses and pressed her lips together. Her cheap knees had remembered Desidero’s earlier instruction not to stand so stiffly. She put the advice into immediate practice with her whole body.
“I greet you, Young Master. My name is Tichite Ranlam.”
She prostrated herself so flat against the carpet that she seemed to merge with it. The rug existed not for kneeling but for being trampled underfoot. The texture beneath her palms was rough rather than soft. When she pressed her nose to it, she caught the scent of dust and earth.
The narrow, floor-length skirt made her waddle as she moved. Inside the helmet the Duke of Farrow frowned, as though he had witnessed something exceedingly uncomfortable and distasteful.
“What the hell is this filthy display? How many people do you think have tracked dirt across this floor with their shoes?”
As far as the Duke knew, no woman wanted to soil her skirt with dust. He barked at the men nearby to raise her at once.
“Get her on her feet. Quickly.”
He sounded as if filth had somehow landed on his own foot. Anger and irritation underlay every word. The voice emerging from inside the metal can was low, thick, and threatening—a sound perfectly matched to his massive frame.
At that fierce tone Tichite stiffened as though she might be struck. While she hesitated to lift her head, Desidero let out a deep sigh.
“Stand up, Ranlam.”
She balanced on her toes and rose with the same awkward waddle she had used to prostrate herself.
I only did as I was told, yet I’m being treated like some dirty, stupid woman.
She nursed her resentment toward Desidero, but kept an obedient expression on her face. To avoid sending him any resentful glances she kept her head bowed and her hands politely clasped.
“Tell her to sit.”
“You may sit, Ranlam.”
“No, not there. Tell her to sit over there.”
“Sit in that chair over there.”
Even with the person directly in front of him, the Duke relayed his commands indirectly. Perhaps the very idea of exchanging words with a lowly Tilamin woman was that unpleasant to him.
Tichite sat in the seat farthest from the Duke, exactly as instructed. The chair was softer and more cushioned than her own bed.
“As previously explained, this is His Grace the Duke of Farrow.”
Desidero offered the formal introduction once more. The Duke remained silent. Instead he straightened his back while adjusting his folded arms. She could not see his expression, but the posture reminded her of a beast puffing out its chest and snorting.
“Enough formalities. Begin with His Grace’s condition.”
When Desidero gestured for her to examine him, Tichite rose again with a dumbfounded feeling. Since determining his state would require close inspection anyway, they might as well have seated her beside him from the beginning.
She walked toward the Duke. Yet before she had taken more than a few steps she was stopped short.
“There. That’s far enough.”
The Duke raised his voice. He planted one foot on the chair and drew his knees inward, then made an undignified fuss.
“Don’t come any closer. Tell her not to come any closer.”
The man snapped the warning and waved his fingers as though urging someone to restrain her. Tichite felt as if she had become a cockroach that had suddenly appeared in the kitchen; she froze in place.
This time even Desidero refused to relay the command. He pressed his forehead with a look that bordered on pathetic and sighed. It was the same reaction he had shown when the Duke fled into the room to avoid her.
“She is a physician. Stop being so sensitive and show her, Brother.”
Desidero spoke in a tired voice, as if he had given up on something. He wished his brother could at least be reasonable with those who had come to help with his treatment.
Having now grasped their family relationship, Tichite strangely understood the source of that rude yet overly familiar tension.
So he was the younger brother.
Yet the face hidden inside the solid steel helmet remained a complete mystery. Especially since Desidero’s fairy-like features seemed entirely mismatched with that bulky frame; imagining the two together was nearly impossible.
“You may come closer. Brother, stay still. Do as you’re told.”
When the younger brother spoke with a trace of irritation, the Duke of Farrow’s peculiar, prickly attitude shrank back noticeably.
Tichite seized the moment and spoke with courage.
“I will examine you with my limited knowledge.”
There was no gorget beneath the armor plating, but a man’s scarf had been tied tightly in its place. Long gloves, socks—not a single inch of skin was visible. To summon someone to cure a skin condition and then wrap himself so completely… that, too, was absurd.
“If it is not too forward, could you remove your gloves?”
While the Duke had spoken in strangely roundabout ways, Tichite stated her request directly. The Duke practically jumped. Anyone watching would have thought she had asked him to remove his underclothes rather than his gloves.
“What? Ah, no….”
It was the first time the Duke had spoken directly to Tichite. Unlike the commanding shouts he had hurled at Desidero, his voice now sounded as if it might collapse pathetically at any moment. He fidgeted with his hands as though he wanted to snatch them back and hide them away.
“Young Master.”
Desidero did not elaborate. Whether he called him brother or Young Master, the short, firm voice carried the power to command Nyx Farrow.