Tarbec Oil
Selber listened to the wet nurse’s answer and turned to Aern with casual indifference.
“Studies don’t suit you, then.”
“It’s not exactly that…”
Aern let the sentence trail off. Maeve could picture him perfectly—uncertain how to reply, floundering for the right words.
Selber’s gaze flicked lightly over the boy’s build.
“It’s about time you started learning swordsmanship, at any rate.”
Maeve straightened in her seat. At last the moment had come for the item she had asked him to bring.
At the word swordsmanship, color returned to Aern’s face and his expression softened. Watching him, Selber allowed the faintest smile to touch his lips.
“Tarbec oil.”
The duke set a roughly made bottle on the table. Aern reached for it lightly—then froze at the name.
He remembered what Maeve had told him. Her voice echoed in his ear: pretend to be allergic to tarbec.
Only then did Aern look around. Flowers that never usually appeared had been deliberately placed in the dining room, and as if on cue the duke was offering him tarbec oil.
It took him no time at all to realize that the woman who had arrived claiming to be his governess had arranged every detail.
Aern hid his trembling hands beneath the table. Looking down, he saw faint red welts beginning to rise on his arms without his noticing.
The boy clutched his arm and turned his head away, feigning ignorance, rolling only his eyes to stare at the oil.
“Why so stiff?”
Selber asked, finding it odd. Aern squeezed his eyes shut, opened them again, and stretched out a hand to take the bottle.
“…Thank you.”
The boy’s weak voice filled the quiet dining table.
“Do you know what it is?”
Selber glanced once at the boy’s drooping shoulders, then turned to the wet nurse.
“Hilda.”
From the moment the word tarbec was spoken she had been avoiding his eyes; at his call her face darkened noticeably.
Forcing the corners of her mouth upward, she looked at the duke with a pretense of ease.
“Yes.”
“Is there a problem with Aern?”
Hilda turned her head to look at the boy and thought. The governess who had quit last week had said he was allergic to tarbec.
She knew perfectly well that Aern was not the sort of child who would admit to an allergy with his own mouth—pride would never allow it.
“Well…”
She lowered her head and clenched and unclenched the hands she held tightly together.
If she said nothing, no one else in this household would know his secret. Aern would not speak, and that governess had left in a fury without looking back.
If she stayed silent, the young duke might overexert himself and collapse exactly as the governess had warned. If luck was against them it would happen on the day of the Founding Festival, and the northern heir would be exposed as unfit—unable even to handle a northern necessity.
And that was precisely what her employer wanted: for the young duke to be humiliated and drag the duchy’s prestige down with him. There was no more time to think.
“…I don’t know.”
“Then why is he like this?”
The wet nurse drew a breath, recovered her usual gentle tone, and smiled brightly. It’s all right. No one will know.
“Indeed. Young master, do try it at once! His Grace is waiting.”
Aern made a reluctant face at her words and carefully twisted the lid open. His hands trembled faintly.
Selber’s eyes narrowed as he watched. When the boy let a drop of oil fall onto his hand, his wrist slipped briefly into view between the folds of his sleeve.
“Wait.”
Selber caught the child’s wrist. Aern’s eyes went round; he looked back and forth between the hand holding him in midair and Selber himself. The duke examined his son’s wrist with care.
“Hilda. Do you truly know nothing?”
The woman took a step back. It was too late to change her story. She had no leisure to wonder calmly why Selber had chosen this perfect moment to gift tarbec oil.
“I know nothing at all.”
In the next room Maeve listened to Hilda’s voice and leisurely tilted her teacup. It was finished.
Aern hesitated, dabbed a little oil onto the cracked back of his hand, and forced the corners of his mouth into a twisted smile. The unsettled atmosphere cooled the dining room more than before.
Selber released Aern’s wrist and wordlessly picked up his knife again.
Cough—
A thin cough broke the silence of the dining room. The duke’s gaze swung toward the sound. Aern worked his mouth a few times as if trying to clear his throat, then turned his head and coughed harder.
The coughing only grew worse, with no sign of stopping. Selber shoved his chair back without a word and rose. Looking at Aern’s face, flushed as though he could barely breathe, Selber scowled and shouted.
“Enok, fetch the physician! Hagen.”
Enok, who had been standing beside Hagen, wrenched the door open and sprinted for the first-floor infirmary where the doctor was. Hagen, still seated, rounded his eyes at Maeve once, then stood and headed for the adjoining dining room.
“Your Grace! What is the matter?”
Hagen flung the door wide. Aern sat in his chair, clutching his throat and heaving.
Seeing Selber holding the boy, Hagen quickly took stock. The wet nurse was pressed flat against the wall, face white with terror, groping behind her with one hand.
Maeve’s brow furrowed slightly at Aern’s more violent reaction than she had expected. It had not seemed this severe before; she wondered if she had misjudged and replayed their earlier conversation in her mind.
“Make way!”
Just then a physician in a flying white coat burst in, nearly shoving Hagen aside as he forced his way into the room.
Grasping the situation at a glance, the doctor rolled up Aern’s sleeve. Faint welts showed on the wrist. He checked the slightly bloodshot eyes and the coughing, then scanned the table.
Spotting the brown bottle, he snatched it up. He read the label in a rush, then turned to Selber in horror.
“Surely this is tarbec oil? Why—!”
He set the bottle aside and looked around for something; his eyes landed on the wet nurse, who stood frozen.
“Back then I was certain…!”
“What do you mean, Doctor?”
Hagen caught the physician’s arm as calmly as he could. The man, shoulders gripped as if under pressure, turned to him.
“Judging by the symptoms alone, it is an allergic reaction. Not as serious as it looks, but…”
The doctor assessed Aern’s condition objectively and steadied his own startled heart.
“Why did you give him this as a gift?”
“…Speak so I can understand. What are you saying?”
Selber demanded of the physician in a lethal voice.
“I’m certain last time…!”
The doctor turned and looked at the wet nurse. Their eyes met in the air. Her pupils trembled faintly.
He shut his mouth in bewilderment, then turned back to the duke. For a moment he could only work his lips without sound.
“Last time what?”
Selber looked down at the physician, who had clamped his mouth shut. With slightly shaking hands the doctor released Aern’s arm, clasped both hands together, and rose. The joined hands trembled pitifully.
“I… I believe I briefly misunderstood. Please forget it.”
“Do not make me ask twice.”
Selber’s voice did not waver.
“Speak.”
At the overbearing tone the physician stepped back and dropped his gaze to the floor. The duke closed the distance with a longer stride and looked down on him from above, pressing hard.
“What did you hear last time?”
“Well… I overheard a woman speaking with the wet nurse. That the young master is allergic to tarbec…”
The doctor squeezed his eyes shut and continued.
“P-please do not misunderstand! It was the day I came for the servants’ regular examinations! I naturally assumed the wet nurse had already informed Your Grace…”
Desperate urgency to prove his own innocence colored the trembling voice.
Selber raised one eyebrow. Of course he already knew. He himself had ordered the physician summoned to the manor early, advancing the regular examination day at the governess’s request.