The Frontal Assault Strategy

People assume that those who commit unspeakable crimes must be fundamentally different—built wrong from the ground up, beyond anything an ordinary person's common sense could ever comprehend.

But the reality is different. They, too, are only human, after all.

In the small physiological quirks and involuntary reactions of the body, a criminal inevitably betrays himself, tail raised high for all to see.

……That was something I'd read in a mystery novel somewhere.

Anyway, the idea I'd settled on was what you might call the frontal assault strategy.

A few days later, standing before the venue with Relief Charity Exhibition emblazoned across its entrance, I found myself recalling my conversation with Camille.

"I'm technically the bereaved, you know. If I show my face, wouldn't at least someone make a scene about it?"

Camille agreed with me, though he added a word of caution all the same.

"Still, be careful. The world is wide, and it's full of lunatics."

Hard to argue with that.

Nodding along, I was fishing the tickets out of my bag when Romaine's voice made me look up.

"Milady, I've never been anywhere like this before……!"

Seeing an auction hall for the first time in her life, Romaine was bouncing on her toes like a child.

My shoulders, which had been stiff with tension, somehow felt looser thanks to her.

Inside, the nobles who had already arrived were gathered in small clusters, trading pleasantries.

"Wow… I've never in my life seen a painting hung in a frame this enormous. Are they really putting all of these up for auction today?"

"That's right. Every last coin of the proceeds goes to charity."

"Good heavens…… gasp! Milady, look over there!"

What the excited Romaine pointed at, tugging hard at my sleeve, was an enormous painting of sunflowers in blazing, saturated color.

"I heard somewhere that if you keep sunflowers in your house, money comes your way."

"Oh? Should I buy you one?"

"Oh, please, I'm fine. I'm still homeless, remember?"

Is that the part that matters?

……When Romaine buys a house of her own, I'll have to gift her a sunflower painting. Definitely.

Stroking the head of Romaine, who was beaming up at me with pure, unclouded delight, I moved along.

In the most coveted spot at the very back of the exhibition hall, the most expensive painting of the day's auction—the one being hailed as its centerpiece—displayed its grandeur.

It was no piece by some nameless up-and-comer, but a work by a master even I recognized, having seen him in the papers more than once.

As if to prove its overwhelming worth, a throng of admirers pressed in around the painting, jostling shoulder to shoulder.

"Wow…… what a magnificent piece."

"Isn't it, though."

"Milady, painting is one of your hobbies, isn't it?"

"If you'd call it that."

"Then do you think one day your paintings might hang somewhere like this?"

At a remark so innocent and so hopeful, a short breath escaped me before I could stop it, followed by a swallowed, bitter laugh.

Me? As if.

I had never even learned to draw a straight line properly—a rank mediocrity. This last time, I'd simply been lucky enough to finish a painting at all. I had no talent for producing work that could hold a crowd's gaze at an event like this.

A single miracle does not become skill.

It was the very moment I stood lost in quiet appreciation.

As though pulled by an invisible hand, my gaze was suddenly yanked in one direction.

I stopped mid-step and, on pure reflex, slipped my body behind a pillar.

Romaine, still wide-eyed with excitement beside me, dutifully scurried after me into cover.

"Milady, do you know those people?"

"Shh."

"Ah—yes, ma'am."

Through the dense sea of bodies crowding the great painting, the men I'd been searching for finally came into view.

When I strained my ears through the restless hum of the hall, fragments of their conversation began to drift toward me.

The first voice to pierce my eardrums was Guile Pistachio's.

"Throwing money away, absolutely throwing it away."

An irritated, hollow laugh.

The voice that followed belonged to Pagoda Boutère.

"And how much are you planning to spend today? If it's face-saving you're after, you'll need to outspend your last showing, at the very least."

And last was Densum Kalanchoe. In a voice smooth with cynicism, he pushed his glasses up tight against his face and spat out his words.

"I do wonder how long the Imperial Court intends to carry on with this meaningless pageantry. Tsk."

It's been a while, but they haven't changed a bit.

Draped in extravagantly costly coats, wine glasses swaying lazily in one hand—they were exactly as I remembered them.

The fortunate few who had inherited their titles early or climbed to the very summit of wealth.

And yet, from men who could not content themselves with what they already had, that distinctive scent of thirst—so unmistakably theirs—wafted over me, thick and rank.

"Damn it all. How much longer are we expected to shovel money into this trash heap of an event?"

"Well, it'll keep going until House Ortega pulls out of it. Though honestly, Guile, you're hardly in a position to complain. You're a beneficiary of it, after all."

"Beneficiary? Off a pittance like that? Spare me."

Just then, Densum seemed to grow conscious of the ears around them and dropped his voice low.

"Mind your tongues, both of you. Too many eyes."

But his warning didn't appear to land with the other two at all.

"I truly don't understand why you're so worked up. I'm having a lovely time, myself."

Pagoda smirked, letting his gaze wander over the crowd.

"Where else would one get the chance to gather the daughters of proud houses in one place and appraise them at leisure?"

"Densum. Instead of lecturing me, why not go muzzle that lovesick fool over there instead?"

Densum pressed his fingers to his temple and let out a long, slow breath.

"Haah…… this is maddening."

The three men carried on their endless chatter, but for all their talk, they seemed to simply be killing time until the auction began.

Judging it was time to make my move, I seized Romaine by the shoulders.

"Romaine."

At the portentous tremor in my voice, her eyes went wide as a startled rabbit's.

"Yes?"

"Stay right here. I'll be back before you know it."

"What? M-Milady! Where are you going?!"

A frantic voice chased at my back, but I didn't answer.

And a short while later, I blended soundlessly into one corner of the exhibition hall.

Like a visitor who'd wandered in here by chance after losing her way, I kept my gaze lowered and moved at an unhurried pace.

I would stop before a painting, study it for a long while, then drift to the next—several times over.

Before long, the reaction came.

"Hold on. Isn't that Camille's widow?"

"Looks like it. Suppose she's come as House Ortega's representative."

Low whispers brushed past from somewhere behind me.

Feigning ignorance, eyes still fixed on the artwork, I drifted closer to them.

"Still, she does seem to be in rather better spirits, doesn't she."

"Oh? Are you finally appreciating the charms of a married woman?"

"Shut your mouth, Pagoda."

That raving lunatic.

One of these days, I'm going to sew that mouth shut for good.

Unseen by anyone, my fist clenched tight.

Then, as if they'd finished admiring every piece on display, they all turned and started toward the auction hall.

I turned in the same direction they'd gone, as though I'd only just happened upon them—and, of course, I did not forget to play the part of the innocent, unknowing soul.

"Ah……"

Barely a month since the funeral, in a jet-black dress, bowing my head in polite deference—I must have looked the very picture of fragile, pitiable grief.

But among the three men, one of them reacted rather strangely.

"Ahem. I believe I'll head into the auction hall ahead of you."

It was Guile.

"Already? Why not stay a while longer?"

"No, no. Lingering here is nothing but a waste of time. I'm not feeling quite myself today, so forgive me for excusing myself first."

"Really? Then we'll see you at the auction."

Through narrowed eyes, I tracked his retreating back, swaying unsteadily, all the way until it vanished from sight.

Could it be……?

Of the three men, Guile was the one who had never once managed to hide his jealousy of Camille.

And the very man I'd suspected most was now acting this transparently, this blatantly.

I could feel suspicion crystallizing into certainty—and just as I moved to follow him—

"Madam!"

"……"

"I never dreamed I'd run into you in a place like this."

Another fish had snagged itself on my hook.

"Have you finally settled your heart, then?"

Ah, damn it all.