The Body in the Wardrobe

Not here.

Thwack. Davion flung the file down onto the desk and closed his eyes, one arm braced against his forehead.

He had combed through the entry logs of every checkpoint in the city. Not a single one held a trace of Cecilia.

It wasn't just her hair color—she was a woman who drew the eye even standing still, thanks to that peculiar air about her. He could not bring himself to believe that checkpoint agents had simply overlooked her.

Come to think of it, I never sorted through her belongings.

Fortunately or unfortunately, he'd been too busy to find the time to go through Cecilia's things. She had never been one for keeping records, but if he looked carefully, there was bound to be something worth finding—something that might yield a clue.

He rose from his seat at once and headed straight for Cecilia's room.

They had a marital bedroom, of course, but for various reasons the two of them had long slept apart.

Only a fortnight had passed since Cecilia left, and yet the path to her bedroom felt strangely unfamiliar. In those two weeks, the world had shifted on its axis.

Upon reaching the bedroom, Davion pushed the door shut behind him with care.

Converted from an old storehouse, the room was small—but for that very reason, the sunlight reached every corner.

Winter light poured in through the square-paned window, painting the reddish-brown floorboards. In its glow, dust motes waltzed peacefully through the air.

"……"

This place alone seemed as though time itself had stopped.

The coverlet on the bed lay smooth and unwrinkled, and the wrongness of it made his chest ache. In the sun-warmed air, he caught the faint scent of Cecilia.

Out of habit, Davion reached for his trouser pocket, discovered it empty, and sighed.

Damn it……

He'd left his cigarettes in the study by mistake. The walk back was too far, so there was nothing for it—he rolled up his sleeves, his mouth watering for want of a smoke.

He opened the wardrobe first.

And immediately squeezed his eyes shut.

"Honestly, this woman……"

The wardrobe held no clothes at all. Only rubbish, piled high.

Well, she never was one for tidying…… With a hollow laugh, Davion closed the wardrobe and reached for the top drawer of the chest beside it—and froze.

Underthings and stockings, folded and sorted by color, filled the drawer with meticulous neatness.

His eyes sank deep, dark as a night curtain.

"……"

He reached out and gently traced the coarse seams of the simple cotton garments. He stayed like that, lost in thought, for a long while—until the sound of approaching footsteps made him hastily shove the drawer shut.

Thwack.

"My lord? Are you in?"

The familiar voice of his valet drifted in from outside the door. Like a boy caught at some secret mischief, Davion cleared his throat and cracked the door open barely a handspan.

"What is it?"

"The Duchess of Thistledown is here to see you, my lord. She's waiting downstairs."

"My mother?"

Just as the valet had said—Davion craned his neck toward the window, and there stood the familiar motorcar outside.

He swallowed the sigh that rose all the way to his throat. Mother or not, a visit this unannounced was hardly welcome.

"Tell her I'm coming down to receive her."

Davion's mother, Blake Thistledown, lived in a penthouse by the river—no more than a thirty-minute drive from Winterhall Estate.

Thrusting both hands into the trouser pockets that felt strangely empty, Davion ambled out toward the car, whose engine still idled.

The window rolled down to reveal the face of a captivating middle-aged woman who wore features strikingly like his own.

Davion realized where his mother's gaze had landed and calmly drew down his sleeve to cover the tattoo. No need to hide the smell of cigarettes, either—perhaps that worked in his favor for once.

"Had you sent word ahead, I would have prepared an early meal."

"Spare me. I only stopped by on my way to see Mrs. Everett."

That crisp, commanding voice always made Blake seem like a woman who suffered no fools.

She did not step out of the car. Instead, she held a brown document envelope out through the window.

"I've arranged a matchmaking meeting for you. Sit idle another moment and you'll drop clean out of the marriage market. You ought to be building a new family while you're still young—even by a single year."

"Mother……"

A headache bloomed behind Davion's eyes and he shut them. But Blake didn't so much as blink at her son's naked display of displeasure.

Afraid that stepping closer might read as acquiescence, Davion remained rooted to the spot like a statue, pushing back in a voice that was quiet but firm.

"A matchmaking meeting, Mother? It has been barely a fortnight since I lost Cecilia."

"You know this woman well. Esmerilda René—surely you remember. You were even engaged to her once, before your marriage."

Of course he remembered. Quite apart from having once been his fiancée, Esmerilda was an actress famous across the entire nation.

Her father was a politician of noble birth who had once served as the Emperor's chamberlain, and her mother was the treasured eldest daughter of a magnate. Born into a family at the very top of the food chain, she had at one time even been a target of public scorn for living the grueling life of the theater, surrounded by men at every turn.

To hear that name again like this—after his marriage to Cecilia had left it half forgotten…… Davion felt, all at once and with crushing clarity, that he was a widower on paper now.

"Esmerilda lost her husband not long ago herself. Surely she's the match fate has woven for you. The two of you can hold and heal each other's wounds, and live in peace and harmony."

"Marriage to Lady Esmerilda hasn't even been discussed, Mother. Besides, isn't she a famous actress? Remarrying that soon would only invite unkind gossip."

"Since when have you cared what other people think……? If you'd truly cared, you'd never have married that girl in the first place."

"Mother."

Blake had been about to say more, but one look at Davion's face and she fell silent.

Her eyes narrowed to slits, and slowly, she withdrew the document envelope.

"Fine. The matchmaking can wait. But remarry you must. Promise your mother that you'll do your utmost where Esmerilda is concerned."

"You still treat me like a child."

"Have children of your own someday. Then you'll understand my heart a hundred times better."

Blake tossed the envelope onto the back seat and signaled the driver to go. But before the window rose, she fired one last grumble at her son.

"Oh, and another thing—these street checkpoints have grown utterly absurd. How am I meant to lay eyes on my own son with any dignity? I had to stop the car three times on the way here."

"My apologies. A con artist is making the rounds of the city at the moment."

"A con artist? The papers printed nothing of the sort……"

Blake's eyebrows, fine as penciled lines, arched up crookedly, demanding an explanation.

Oh, there is such a con artist indeed—a shameless, monstrous swindler who played dead and extorted one million Burnett out of me.

Swallowing the answer he could never, under any circumstances, speak aloud, Davion managed a careful smile and fought to hold it in place.

"We know all his particulars. We'll have him in custody before long. Don't trouble yourself, Mother."

Cecilia peered deep into the mirror and let out a gasp of admiration.

"Ooh, this works so well……"

The woman in the mirror was an entirely different person. Her face had swollen round as the moon, and angry red pox marks clustered blotchily across both cheeks.

At a glance she looked like someone suffering from a terrible skin disease, yet strangely there was no pain at all. Only the smell was a little…… no, in truth, quite a lot—off.

Ruby came scurrying over and flung his beak wide open.

「Caw! Wow, you really do look like a diseased human, Cecilia!」

「Would you recognize me?」

「Nope. You've gotten hideously ugly. At this point even that black-haired male wouldn't know it's you.」

「I see……?」

All the better, then. The goal had been accomplished.

The face was changed—time for the next step.

Cecilia hid her travel bag and cash beneath the bed and in the washroom, then layered on a thick petticoat beneath her skirt. She knew only too well how bitterly cold the sunless back alleys of winter could be.

Lastly, she hung the room key on the outer wall of the building—Ruby would retrieve any key left there like this—pulled her hood down deep over her face, and slipped out of the inn.