To the One Who Mourned
Rough footsteps rang out. The man who strode in without hesitation struck Lucio Perez hard enough to produce a dull, meaty thud.
"Ugh—"
With a clatter of tumbling furniture, a limp body was flung aside. Air rushed into her lungs as if it meant to tear them open.
"Have you lost your mind?"
"Cesare? How are you even—!"
"Does it matter how I got here? What honor is there left to raise by committing something this inhuman?"
"Haha. You speak words no ordinary man would ever utter."
The murderer's voice was sweet. The savior's was nothing but raw roughness.
"You're mad. What is a family name worth, that you'd throw your soul into the mud for it?"
"A man whose soul is as lofty as yours would never understand. A beggar will kill a man for the coin right in front of him."
A man with an unfamiliar voice approached and gathered her dying body into his arms. Her neck hung slack; she could no longer hold herself upright.
One by one, every sense began to fall away. A distant death was coming.
Once again she learned firsthand that hearing is the last sense to leave when a person dies.
"It should never have come to this."
When family and suitor alike had tried to kill her, that man alone was the only one who mourned her death.
It was a strange feeling.
Every time she died, the saddest thing had always been the certainty that no one left in the world would mourn her passing.
She had never been mourned before—so only after receiving it did she understand.
Was it not a truly sorrowful thing?
And so, before life fully left her, a single thought coiled itself inside her.
If I am going to die anyway…
Even if it sprang from pity, I will give everything to the one who mourned me.
With that thought, her consciousness went utterly black.
As if waking from a brief dream, the cold air of reality met Delfina once more.
The instant she realized she was still breathing, she was thrown back into the hell of the mansion.
Who understands the inner workings of a noble household better than anyone?
The head of the house who rules it? The lady who manages its domestic affairs?
The steward who oversees the servants, or the head lady's maid?
No. It is the servants themselves.
Nobles treat them like air and speak of secrets without a second thought in their hearing, and their station keeps them from forming any truly intimate bond with the family they serve.
Separated from their own families, gathered among servants their own age, the only talk left to them is the talk of the house.
And inside the Pignatelli Mansion, not a single soul was ignorant of how the balance of power had hardened.
"I have no appetite."
Though she had been unwell enough that the meal had been brought all the way to her bedside, Delfina set the spoon down at once.
"My lady instructed me to watch and make sure you eat properly."
With the Count absent, the power structure of the Pignatelli Mansion had settled into a brutally one-sided form.
At Delfina's words, the maid's face twisted in open displeasure.
"Rather lavish for a breakfast menu."
"My lady said you had no strength, so the chef prepared it first thing this morning."
"How touching. Leave it; I'll eat later."
It was obvious. Lately she had reduced what she ate to an extreme, so the poison was not taking hold as smoothly as they wished—and they were fretting that she might not die on schedule.
"Then I'll be the one who gets scolded."
The maid speared a piece of meat swimming in thick, sweet sauce. Before Delfina could stop her, she forced it into her mouth.
The fork scraped the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood; a metallic taste bloomed on her tongue.
"Ugh—"
What had once been petty unkindness had, left unchecked, swollen into something close to violence.
All of it tacitly permitted by the Countess—and suffered by a young lady too weakened to fight back.
"Young miss, don't spit it out. You have to swallow. A noble young lady can't be allowed to starve to death, can she?"
To the maid, Delfina was not truly ill—only throwing a spoiled tantrum of full-bellied petulance.
For better or worse, the taste of blood in her mouth stopped the retching. Even so, she could not bring herself to swallow what she knew was poisoned.
"I never knew you worried for me so much."
The open sarcasm made the maid's eyes flash wide.
"Eat more. Quickly."
The threat was plain: refuse, and it would be shoved into her mouth again.
She could have pushed it away then and there—but if she let on that she knew about the poison, it would only invite some other kind of death.
The silent standoff lasted only a moment before a knock sounded and another servant entered.
"What is it?"
"A guest has arrived for the young miss."
At that, Delfina's voice brightened at once.
"Show him in."
The servant cleared the tray with a frown still pinched between her brows.
"I can manage the rest myself. You may all leave."
In a heartbeat the servants were gone, and she was alone. Delfina threw back the covers and rose from the bed.
How strange.
He could not have meant to, and yet once again he had saved her. It was as if the heat of summer itself had clung to her skin.
She opened the window, and the cloying sweetness was driven out. Stepping onto the terrace, she caught the green scent of basil at the tip of her nose. She plucked a cherry tomato, ripe and red, from the plant beside her and put it in her mouth.
It was no match for a raspberry, but a bright, tart freshness lingered on her tongue.
"Ah…"
The sharp sting of the cut inside her cheek made her brows draw together, but she smoothed her expression just as quickly.
Pain like this was nothing compared to dying.
At the same hour, before the Pignatelli Mansion.
Cesare found himself fussing with his handkerchief for no good reason. It was unmistakably his own—and yet the cloth, returned to him, felt unusually soft against his fingers.
"What exactly did you do that you call a mistake, while the young lady says she was glad of it?"
"It was nothing of consequence."
Why had he been unable to answer Lucio's question more easily?
It was absurd, but some strange fancy had taken hold of him—that if he told anyone, the moment itself would lose its color.
"I'm not asking because I'm worried you'll ruin the plan."
"Then… no. Never mind."
"You're no fun at all."
Lucio's eyes narrowed. Every time Cesare spoke Delfina's name, the faint tremor in his gaze grated on him in a way he could not quite name.
And yet it was hard to dismiss as mere fretting—Lucio's manner had shifted ever so slightly after the day he had met Delfina in Cesare's absence.
He wanted to ask. He did not. It would be more accurate to say he could not.
Instead, Cesare found himself once more standing before the Pignatelli Mansion.
That empty fishbowl had nagged at him in an odd way, so he had found a fish whose scales were especially beautiful. He had promised to decide what to do next and give her fair warning—but he had not considered the fish's condition.
And so their second meeting, too, had come about without any proper plan at all.
This isn't like me.
He could not shake the sense that he was being pulled along at her pace.
In truth, it was not her fault.
The problem was himself—the way his thoughts locked up like a fool the moment he stood before her.
It was the same now.
Cesare looked down at his shirt, spotted wet where water had splashed.
Carrying a fishbowl into a carriage had not been a particularly good idea.
Should I just turn back?
The thought crossed his mind for a moment, then he set it aside.
"Welcome, sir."
A servant had already come out to receive him before he could change course.
Delfina usually wore an expression of cool detachment, but just then she could not hide her bewilderment.
"Have you been well?"
It had been only a few days since they last met, yet Cesare asked after her health in place of a greeting.
Unable to answer at once, Delfina looked back and forth between Cesare's face and the thing he was carrying.
"…Are you listening…?"
"Ah—right."
As if only then remembering, he set the fishbowl on the table before her. Filmy fins swayed beautifully through the water.
For a long while, both of their gazes rested on the bowl.
"I brought it… hoping to make up for the blunder of our first meeting."
"But you never made a blunder that needed making up for."
"So you truly meant it."
"Of course."
He muttered in a startled voice, as if he had believed her earlier words of pleasure had been nothing more than courtesy.
"If I said the truth is that an empty fishbowl simply bothered me… would you still accept it, then?"
No one had ever paid mind to an empty fishbowl. They only eyed its worth, or looked at her as if she were an eccentric.
"Did it bother you?"
Delfina regarded him steadily.
"It was a foolish thought, I suppose."
He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. Over a heart that had only just grown quiet, a fresh ripple spread, drawing a beautiful wave.
She felt as if she might smother under a kindness that meant nothing at all to him.