The Emerald Bishop
‘Why is this man here? And what exactly was I supposed to let go of…?’
Her bewildered gaze fell upon her own hands, still clenched tightly around the iron chain.
‘Wait—what is this?’
She released it as though it had burned her. Her palm had gone white from restricted circulation, the grip so fierce. Only then did she notice the iron manacle encircling her wrist, its inner surface padded with thick, soft fur.
“W-what is this?”
Eyes still clouded with confusion, she lifted her shackled wrist. The chain slid with a metallic whisper, dragging something upward with the motion.
A large, solid, angular hand.
‘Why… why is one on his wrist too?’
Without thinking, she grasped his manacled wrist. The back of his hand—pale, unmarked by any sign of rough labor—bore clear red bite marks, dotted with tiny beads of dried blood. She rubbed them gently with her fingers.
‘…Surely not me?’
He leaned closer, lips brushing her ear as he whispered.
“Feeling it now?”
His low, hoarse voice carried an unmistakable edge, as though he might bite her ear clean off if she failed to answer.
When she remained frozen, unable to reply, he exhaled a disbelieving sigh against her temple.
“You do feel it.”
Then, with mocking nonchalance: “Since we’re already like this, shall we begin rehearsal for the wedding night?”
The words rolled down her shoulder like a taunt. It took Kayla a heartbeat to recognize the jest; her mind had already raced ahead to the most catastrophic possibilities.
Startled back to her senses, she jerked her shoulders sharply, dislodging his face, and scrambled upright.
“Your Excellency, why are you here, and what is this…?”
The rest of her sentence dissolved at the sight of the half-naked man before her. The mint-colored blanket had slipped down his angular torso, pooling at his lean abdomen.
“What else? Consideration.”
He met her eyes without the slightest embarrassment, his expression faintly bored.
“I thought you might have another sleepwalking episode, so I had this prepared. And I was right.”
Apparently pleased with his own foresight, he leaned back against the headboard and offered a faint, crooked smile.
In this situation—a bare-chested man smiling at her from the same bed—she had no idea how to respond.
He reached beneath the blanket and retrieved something. She felt a small surge of relief upon noticing he was, at least, wearing trousers.
“The thrashing I could manage, but the sounds…”
He unlocked the manacles on both their wrists with the key he had produced.
“And the biting.”
His half-lidded gaze was sharp enough to make her flinch.
Kayla rotated her freed wrist, then examined his hand. The red bite marks and the faint reddish band around his skin made her cheeks burn with mortification.
‘Should I thank him for not tearing Archerfield apart?’
“Stitches barely out, and now bite marks on the right hand as well… Your sense of fairness is truly impeccable.”
‘Ah, I should apologize first.’
She knelt demurely, lips parting with firm resolve—only for him to speak first.
“Bad habit. Especially in visible places. Try to restrain yourself from now on.”
Her momentum collapsed.
‘From now on?’
While she sat bewildered, Niguel flung the blanket aside and swung his legs off the bed.
In an instant, every coherent thought evaporated.
The indecently defined curve of his buttocks beneath the white silk trousers, the raw flex of muscle with each step. As he approached the long chair and turned, she dropped her gaze at once.
She thought she heard a soft snort, but dismissed it as imagination. Glancing sideways, she found him staring straight at her—black silk robe now fastened, belt drawn tight—as though he knew exactly what she had been watching.
“Keep it safe. The key stays with me, so don’t get any foolish ideas.”
‘This?’
Unaware of her inner turmoil, he left the room as though the matter were settled.
* * *
The day of the rehearsal at the chapel.
Layer upon layer of dark clouds swallowed the light, pressing the air down as though ready to unleash rain at any moment. Through the carriage window, even at midday, the spire rose like a spear against the gloomy sky, its stern grandeur unmistakable.
Kayla, dressed in a violet two-piece suit, lowered the black veil attached to her matching pillbox hat until it rested just below her chin. The world beyond now appeared through a delicate layer of lace.
The carriage passed a square dotted with worshippers and stopped at the rear of the building. A priest in black vestments stepped forward silently to meet them.
Following the archbishop’s assistant priest, Kayla and Niguel entered the main sanctuary.
Tap. Tap.
The sound of their footsteps echoed across the smooth stone floor.
Imagining herself walking this same long aisle tomorrow under very different circumstances sent a quiet ripple of fear through her.
The assistant priest’s courteous voice broke her reverie.
“Is there someone who will take the bride’s hand in place of her late father?”
“…I intend to walk alone.”
“The virgin’s path?”
The priest turned to Niguel with a startled expression, as though seeking confirmation.
Niguel surveyed the distance from the chapel doors to the altar with a casual glance.
“Is it too late to request pages?”
“We have already prepared pages and altar servers, but for the attendants…”
“There will be someone to assist. The attire will be simple as well.”
He had no desire to involve the women of the Platt family as attendants, and Niguel shared the sentiment. Neither of them wished to create any situation that might later cause trouble if photographs surfaced.
The priest’s face clearly said, ‘Then why the rush?’ yet he kept his gaze carefully averted from Kayla, unwilling to appear disrespectful.
‘Even the priest is watching the bride?’
The so-called rehearsal was little more than a recitation of the ceremony’s order for the following day.
After a final look around the bride’s waiting room, Niguel told Kayla to wait and left with Carlo in tow.
The assistant priest guided her to the archbishop’s private reception room and withdrew.
Kayla hesitated over whether to lift the veil according to etiquette, then decided to keep it lowered. She glanced around the modest chamber.
Her eyes passed over the crucifix on the white central wall, then the statue of the Virgin Mary beside the mulberry-wood bookshelf, before coming to rest before the most striking feature of the room: the arcade.
“Ah!”
The image of Niguel’s lavish chess set rose in her mind.
Now she understood why, among the diamond, ruby, and sapphire pieces, only the bishop had been carved from emerald.
Inside the glass case lay a long green stole meant to be worn over the vestments, its shoulders adorned with teardrop-shaped emeralds like scattered petals. A small plaque beneath explained that it had been a gift from the third king to the ninth archbishop.
Satisfied at having solved the mystery of the emerald bishop, she moved on.
The bookshelf displayed photographs of the new archbishop alongside the king: laying hands upon the sick, surveying the ruins of a battle zone. And then…
‘Basil?’
A boy with tousled black hair and a bright, toothy smile.
Basil, raised in an orphanage within the diocese, had received support from the papal court. It was possible he had some connection to the archbishop.
She was still regarding the photograph with a strange feeling when Niguel entered with the archbishop himself. The man looked younger than she had expected from the photographs—a middle-aged figure of surprising vitality.
Niguel strode directly to her and leaned down.
“Lady Moss is here, it seems.”
Mother? She lifted her head slowly to meet his gaze. Those piercing blue eyes cut through the veil, sharp and searching.
“Will you see her now?”
The way he studied her expression made it seem as though he hoped she would refuse. The thought left her oddly unsettled.
* * *
Augustine observed the man seated before him, sipping tea with terrifying elegance.
Niguel Seymour Dean Maderson—the man who wielded money like a weapon of state.
The Maderson family had long maintained deep ties with the papal court, renowned as a devout household that strictly followed doctrine. Yet at some point, high-ranking Anglican figures began appearing at every business venture the Madersons undertook.
Having learned that, were it not for the current king, this marriage would have been held in an Anglican ceremony, Augustine felt all the more on edge.
“Hui, hear my confession.”
“I worship God. But not as much as you do, Hui.”
The sudden echo of Basil’s voice struck his chest with a heavy ache.
Basil’s funeral had still not been held. According to his informants, it was because of the marquis’s influence.
The marquis and a commoner woman had been present at the scene of the incident. And now those two were rushing into marriage. Honestly, it all felt deeply suspicious.
“You are a man of few words.”
The voice, imbued with an inscrutable authority, drew his gaze upward.
The marquis, who had been quietly studying the mulberry-wood bookshelf, slowly turned his head and met Augustine’s eyes directly. Beneath that intense, luminous stare, Augustine felt his throat constrict for a moment.