Sunflowers That Pay

A full two weeks had slipped by since my visit to Agnus Orphanage.

The manor, freshly rid of the funeral's gloomy remnants, now hummed with the bustle of preparations for the upcoming imperial banquet. Belladonna still kept to her chambers, but according to Romaine's intel, even she had placed an order for a banquet gown. And Claude, released from house arrest, seemed intent on filling his late brother's shoes—word was that he'd thrown himself into learning the family business.

While everyone marched toward their own tomorrows, I had shut myself away in the atelier, and at last, I finished a painting.

"...You've never actually studied painting, have you?"

That was the first thing out of Camille's mouth when I showed him the canvas.

"No. Is it strange...?"

"......."

In truth, what sat before him was a replica of the real world. The actual painting existed outside this painted one.

Even so, he had been lingering in admiration as though beholding a living, breathing work—when suddenly his brow furrowed deep.

"Aub. Are you secretly a genius?"

"I'm sorry?"

"'Never studied,' my foot. The composition, the palette... look, it's flawless."

What was this? Some newfangled form of mockery?

But Camille looked astonishingly sincere. His face, sweeping over the canvas like a scanner and erupting in gasps of wonder, held not a single trace of deceit.

"Incredible. You really are the woman I chose."

"There you go again, laying it on so thick...."

I was biting my lip out of sheer embarrassment when—

"I kind of want to kiss you right now."

"......."

That was him. The moment my heart so much as stirred, he never failed to shatter the mood.

Wearing a sly grin, Camille cleared his throat as if to change the subject.

"Anyway, what on earth inspired you?"

"What do you mean?"

"The painting. You spent days groaning that you couldn't paint it, remember?"

"Ah."

At his words, I crossed my arms in a show of deep deliberation. Not that I found anything to say—I still had no theory or technique rattling around in my head.

But one single truth had seared itself into my skin beyond all doubt.

I need conviction to paint.

And now, I had it.

"Those men told us to play hide-and-seek. They said a big wooden box would be the perfect hiding spot for my sister... and the second she climbed inside, they shut the lid and carried the whole thing away. That was... the last time I ever saw her."

My conviction that Guile Pistachio was bound to have rot festering somewhere beneath the surface. That suspicion had become the core force driving my brush.

"...Let's just say inspiration struck."

"Really? So you're the type who paints best when inspiration hits. Isn't that what people call a genius?"

"Keep the flattery to that level, please. I've only managed an imitation."

I explained to Camille what had happened at Agnus Orphanage—how I'd met Johen.

"Aub, for someone with such a cold face, you're softer-hearted than you let on."

"So, do I look like a fool for it?"

"Not a chance."

A faint flush crept across Camille's cheeks. Drawn to me like iron to a magnet, he gathered a handful of my light-brown hair and pressed a small kiss upon it.

"I love that about you."

"......."

"It's only by carrying something fragile inside that the light behind it grows clearer."

Smooch.

After his lips lifted away, the gaze that held mine was startlingly seductive. But the moment I reminded myself that this creature devoured souls, my fluttering composure snapped back to level, as if it had never strayed at all.

"Camille."

"I know. I won't touch you."

Apparently he'd taken to heart the fact that I shrank from contact with others. Just like my husband once had.

"...So, what happens now?"

"Hm?"

"After I send this painting off anonymously, I mean. Is there a plan beyond that?"

I flicked my chin lightly toward the canvas.

"Ah, right. Now it's my turn."

Camille gave a short nod, gestured for me to follow, then turned and walked away. His silhouette crossing the hill wavered like a mirage at high noon.

"While you were painting, I was quite busy myself."

"Busy doing what?"

"Mm."

Playful anticipation seeped into Camille's face as he quickened his pace.

"I prepared a gift for you. You're going to love it."

My eyes swept the interior of the cottage as we stepped through the door—then stopped dead on a single changed detail. A second door stood there, absurdly out of place.

Camille halted right in front of that unfamiliar door.

"Come on, Aub. Your hand."

"......."

"No escaping it this time. You might get lost otherwise."

Reluctantly, I laid my hand atop his boldly outstretched palm.

Guided by his hand, I reached for the door handle—and found it sleek and smooth, a stark contrast to the aged timber of the old door. Then, leaving that strange tension behind, I flung it wide open.

A vast field of sunflowers unfurled before us.

"...!"

"Seeing it in person, it's even more beautiful. Don't you think?"

A hillside of sunflowers stretching endlessly past the horizon, and a piercing blue sky slicing vividly through that sea of yellow.

This place is....

Completed over two weeks of devotion—

...it was another world inside my painting.

"Haha. That expression is adorable."

"How did you do this...?"

"Hm?"

When I asked, looking back over my shoulder, Camille arched his eyes into a pretty crescent. In stark contrast to my barely concealed bewilderment, he flushed pink as though savoring this very warmth.

"Why, the power of love, of course."

Beyond that shamelessly innocent face, I could practically see a fox's tail swishing.

Claude was dutifully honoring Belladonna's request that they avoid crossing paths indoors, in his own earnest way. For instance, he holed up in the detached annex and took all three meals there, and never so much as cast a shadow near the gardens Belladonna frequented.

But some duties could not be shirked by the head of a house. Keeping abreast of the family members' movements, for one.

"Say that again. That woman did what?"

"'That woman'? My lord, please, mind your mouth!"

"I asked you to speak. What did she send, and to where?"

Hope leapt and clapped a finger to his lips, but Claude seemed entirely unbothered. Letting out a long sigh, Hope pushed up the glasses he hadn't worn in a while and turned his gaze back to the documents in hand.

"Well, you see...."

The report relayed by the knights guarding the manor early that morning went as follows:

Aub Ortega delivered a gift to an unknown recipient.

"They happened to catch her moving out a little earlier than usual. Had her timing overlapped exactly with the shift change as it nearly did, not a soul would have noticed."

"So she deliberately targeted that window."

"There was testimony of a flat, rectangular object at the scene. It was wrapped, so no one could confirm the contents, but considering the madam's newfound hobby of painting...."

"Meaning she sent a painting."

"Most likely."

Clean deduction, precise reporting. The calm eyes visible above Hope's glasses fully explained why he'd been chosen as Claude's right hand.

Claude, who had been stroking his chin in silence, finally spoke again.

"Did you confirm the destination?"

"I tracked down that postman and slipped him a few silver pieces—he sang like a canary. Says it was addressed to House Count Pistachio."

"House Pistachio?"

"Yes. The masters of one of the capital's greatest merchant guilds. rolling in money, too. They attended the exhibition this time as well—did you not see them?"

"Nope. Wasn't interested."

"Aww, come on—you've got to rub elbows with the big fish if you want any real returns. Ouch!"

After giving the nattering Hope's head a light rap with his knuckles, Claude sank back into deep thought.

Aub Ortega. Wife of his dead brother, Camille Ortega.

I'd assumed she was that woman's long-game pawn, since Belladonna handpicked her herself... but apparently not.

A woman whose cold exterior made it impossible to gauge what lay beneath—she had transformed, from the moment he'd glimpsed her at the exhibition, into someone singularly difficult to categorize. She'd frozen solid from nothing more than a touch to the arm, which made him think she was simply timid by nature.

And yet this time, out of nowhere, she sends a painting to another man?