Chapter 3. A Certain Sob (1/7)

Through the gap of the open door, a woman could be seen seated in a chair. The man, along with the retinue that followed him, watched her through that narrow opening.

"Ugh... hnn-ugh...! Sob!"

Her frail shoulders shook with weeping. The nape of her bowed head looked painfully slender. A cloud drifted past, sunlight spilled through the window, and the dress draped over her thin frame glittered until it was nearly blinding — a gown so lavishly gorgeous it verged on farcical, utterly mismatched to the moment.

At her neck sat an enormous sapphire necklace, delicately wrought; on her arm, a bracelet made of nothing but sapphires. The adornments were sumptuous, and yet she looked more destitute than anyone else in that room.

Three days had passed since she refused all food and water, and still the woman went on weeping.

"All this, over one stupid maid dying...."

"Our queen is forever a burden to His Majesty. Trying to run away again, no less. Poor Rogafl."

"Maybe she's crying just for show."

At the light voices drifting from behind him, the man turned his head coldly. Their eyes were mutinous — but one glance from his, and they fell silent, breath held.

There were many who condemned the weeping woman.

She deserved it. Of course she did. She had tried to flee, and so he had merely shown her what became of those who did. And that 'maid', above all, had to die.

He had even granted her the courtesy of witnessing the maid's end with her own eyes. And then — this.

The man forced his way through the open gap in the door. He could have knocked to announce his visit, but knocking was, at its root, a gesture of mutual respect. And when no answer came no matter how many times one knocked, there was nothing for it but to push inside. Between the two of them, respect had long since ceased to exist; he felt no qualm about such an intrusion.

"My queen."

His voice rolled out low. But the woman only went on sobbing softly. Damnably frail, hopelessly so. It was enough to make him angry. Why? What had she done so well? What was there to weep over like this? Why refuse her meals?

The man reached out and took hold of her gleaming, pale-gold hair. This beautiful, shining thing he had never once dared to touch — now he could handle it as he pleased.

The instant his large hand made contact, her whole body flinched violently. The moment she turned and saw the man who had touched her, her eyes flew wide, and she backed away from him.

No — to be precise, she tried to back away, but her legs gave out beneath her and she fell.

"What... are you doing?"

Tears streamed down from her wide-open eyes. Her voice, straining to sound flat, trembled wretchedly. It seemed that if he took so much as a single step closer, she would shrink away. The revulsion radiating from her was greater even than when their bodies had been joined.

He could feel her shaking. This woman feared him. Though terror consumed her, she made herself stay and not flee — not out of stubbornness, but because he frightened her.

The man understood.

This... this was worse. Worse than when that woman had looked down on him as a slave and scorned him. The girl who had once smiled so brightly at him was gone.

Philip's birthday party took place a month before Diana turned thirteen. Diana turned the question of what to give him over in her mind again and again.

"Your Highness, what sort of gift would you like?"

"Huh?"

In the end, what Diana chose was to ask him outright — nothing at all came to mind otherwise. On the road back from visiting the princess, Philip laughed at the question as though it were absurd.

Which was fair enough, really. The girl had come running up out of nowhere, only to say that.

"I'm sure the Duke has already seen to my gift."

"..."

"What, you want to give me one too?"

Philip said, snickering. When Diana nodded, he laughed and reached out to touch her hair.

"Ahh — my hair!"

A gift was a gift, and the goodwill she bore him was goodwill, but Diana was genuinely angry. Her hair was, after all, a matter of great importance. However humble her station, there were limits — how could he ruin a noblewoman's painstakingly styled hair...!

At the look on Diana's face, Philip burst out laughing.

"Aw, come on, my lady. Don't be mad. We've gotten closer, haven't we!"

"Have we gotten closer? Have we, now?"

"Of course. We bump into each other every day, we chat in the garden. That counts as close, all right."

"That's still no reason to do this to my hair...."

"I just did it because you're cute. You'd do the same to a little sister, wouldn't you?"

"Little sister?"

"Yeah. Why, does that displease you too?"

Philip's green eyes curved softly, as if the whole thing amused him. Little sister. How dear and distant that word sounded. With things broken between her and Emil, she was no longer anyone's little sister.

Diana smiled bitterly. Seeing it, Philip spoke as though chiding her.

"Honestly, my lady — what money would you even have for gifts? I've no need of some trinket bought with a child's pocket change."

"..."

"Just be good to Ionia. That's more than enough for me."

Is he drawing a line between us? A faint disappointment had just begun to steal over her when—

"Ah, is even that not enough for you? Then how about this? There's something I really do want."

"Yes...?"

"Let me call you Anne."

"..."

"Anne. Your pet name."

It felt strange. Diana bit her lip. Somehow, Philip had a knack for closing what she considered a 'proper distance' all in a single stride.

It was not that he crept closer with some hidden design — not to snare her in a trap, not to observe her, not to mock her.

Because malice had been her daily air, Diana could keenly smell out the ill will people nursed toward her.

And that was what made Philip so strange. He drew near with a warmth that bordered on the artful, yet it never once felt heavy. He always felt clean.

"All right."

"...I'm glad. Thank you, truly."

Philip's face eased into a smile at that. Was being granted a pet name really such a joy? To be fair, it did carry a special meaning — but 'the right to call her by her pet name' was hardly a rare prize. Even so, Diana's ears flared red for no reason at all.

"Oh, right — Anne. Here, have some candy."

"Again?"

Laughing, he pressed the candy from his pocket into her palm and took his leave. Diana snorted, helpless with amusement. The glass jar was full to bursting now; she supposed she'd have to buy another.

And another gift, too.

Staring at the glittering candies, Diana thought.

Back at the estate, Diana crossed paths with Emil. It had been a long time since the two of them had exchanged a single word — not since Mirva's departure — and so Diana had never once spoken with him about his birth. Emil stood in silence and regarded her with a cold expression. Diana, for her part, had gone stiff as well.

"You really do look happy."

At those words, Diana's eyes flew wide. It was the tone of someone wishing her wretched. Just as she moved to say something, Emil brushed past her. Diana lowered her gaze. It was a voice far too steeped in hostility to aim at a younger sister.

Nothing needed to be said for her to know. Emil knew that Mirva was his mother. When he had learned of it hardly mattered.

They had been warm with each other as children — he used to stroke her hair, to wish her happy birthdays. How on earth had it come to this?

Her mood was foul today. She ought to go and look at the stars; that might put her heart at ease.

The moment her duties were done, Diana went out to the backless bench and lay down on it at once, watching the stars.

Things with Philip had made her smile, but the matter of Emil left her stifled. Diana took a candy from her pocket and put it in her mouth. Its sweetness dulled the sharp edge of her mood.

She was sinking into thought when footsteps sounded, and she sat up quickly. It was Giscard. Seeing Diana there, he gave a brief bow and made to turn away.

Diana sighed.

"Giscard."

At that, Giscard's steps stopped. Emil, and now Giscard too. She wanted even one fewer thing to fret over. Watching her eyes, Giscard moved forward carefully. His languid gait quickened somewhat, for whatever reason. He came to stand before her and looked down at her where she sat.

"Yes, my lady."

He inclined his head with courtesy. For an instant his gaze flicked up to her round cheek, puffed out with candy, then dropped away. Looking at Giscard, Diana found herself momentarily at a loss for words.

When Giscard had carried murderous intent toward her, she had felt she might faint from the fear of it. Should she ask him never to do such a thing again? But how could she possibly say that?

"I... am sorry."

Startled by the words that came out of nowhere, Diana froze. He had dropped to his knees and was looking up at her.

"I was in the wrong."

What was she supposed to say? Faced with a man who had knelt without warning, Diana tumbled into confusion. Was she afraid of him or not? If asked, the answer was still yes — though no longer the skin-crawling terror of that day.

Diana's mouth opened carefully.

"You tried to kill me back then, didn't you?"

"..."

Giscard did not answer. Diana looked at the restraint collar locked around his neck. Shamefully, she drew comfort from the sight, and clenched her fist tight. She forced her voice to stay flat.

"I know you don't submit to me. I know you have no wish to submit, and I know you never will."

"..."

"I won't even ask you why you did it. Clearly, I touched something in you that you couldn't bear."

In that instant, Giscard's face filled with incomprehension.

"You don't have to submit to me. There's no need. Just..."

Diana let out a sigh.

"Just don't be hostile toward me. If you hate me, say you hate me — the way you did when you first arrived. And... no. Never mind."

And — don't kill me. Don't kill my people....

Diana did not say the rest. Instead, she resolved to bury the matter of Herya for good. Giscard lifted his head and asked quietly,

"Were you not curious about me?"

"Don't worry. I won't be curious anymore."

That Giscard become her slave, and be freed from the persecutions of this household — and then, in time, that she set him free. That was all she could do for him.

She was curious who Herya had been.

But if the question would drive Giscard into such fury, then it was better buried. As it had been in her past life. This much distance between us is right. Diana resolved to take no interest in Giscard's 'private' side. This would be a severance of their relationship.

"She was my mother."

But as though in defiance of that severance, Giscard spoke. Looking her squarely in both eyes, he continued.

"The mother who bore me."

Philip's birthday party was laid on quite lavishly. The second queen had died, and only the first queen remained — and that first queen utterly despised any blemish upon her dignity. If Prince Philip's birthday had been shabby, she would inevitably be pointed at and branded a 'wicked stepmother.' So she had reasoned.

Rumor was brisk that princes and princesses of foreign lands had been invited. Perhaps the hidden design was to pack some of those princes off as grooms for princesses of lesser states. Diana thought cynically.

"You look simply beautiful."

Diana smiled faintly beneath the head maid's lavish praise. A skinny girl in a lovely dress stood there. Her baby fat had melted away since Mirva began starving her. She looked for all the world like a miniature of the woman she would one day become.

"You really didn't need to dress me up so prettily. I'm only going to attend Her Highness the Princess."

It was Diana who was to wait at Princess Ionia's side. Ionia had declared that this time she would meet 'men' for the first time, and the queen had wept and welcomed the change gladly. Ionia's terror of men had faded thanks to Diana's efforts.

That was the true reason so many foreign 'princes' had been invited. It was not merely to give Philip friends — the occasion was also meant to scout out a groom for the princess.

Should I look for a husband there too?

If she went and lived in some third country, could she escape the hell Giscard had built? But Diana remembered the prophecy handed down by god.

That prophecy was absolute. Flee it as she might, fate would only repeat itself once more. No — it was clear even with a moment's further thought. Even if she married someone before all this came to pass, Giscard would bring this kingdom to ruin and reach out his hand for Diana all the same.

Because this ducal house was... Giscard's enemy.

Diana recalled what had happened that day.

Herya was Giscard's mother. It hadn't been a surprise. Of course the two were connected — that had to be why Mirva had spoken the name.

"Why did Mirva bring up that name? Did your mother know her?"

"Who can say."

Giscard's eyes glinted coldly.

"The one who had a hand in my mother's death... was my master."

"'Master'..."

A chill crawled up Diana's spine at the word. He meant her father. How was she supposed to take it — him calling the enemy who had killed his own mother 'my master'?

A deep, heavy helplessness settled over Diana in that moment. He was not merely some condemned criminal's slave she had dragged home — he was the son of a woman her father had driven to her death?

If so, then whether or not she ever brought Giscard home as a slave, was it fated that this family be trampled beneath the tread of his armies?

As Diana's face went white and rigid, Giscard said,

"You need not concern yourself."

"..."

"You need not concern yourself, my lady. He and I were never so close as all that."

Lies. Then why had murderous intent poured off him the instant that name crossed his lips? Diana remembered the look in his eyes — she could feel it still. When she shook her head, still frozen, Giscard said,

"I mean it. Back then... I was simply angry."

How could that be 'simply angry'? Giscard was still hiding his claws. For his purposes, being Diana's slave was the comfortable lot. She taught him his letters, taught him the sword. He was treated better than any ordinary servant. That was why he had gone out of his way to make this apology.

"So from now on, please—"

"..."

"Don't be afraid of me anymore."

A wind rose and ruffled Giscard's hair. Diana looked into the eyes that met hers so squarely. The faint moonlight caught the clarity of his gaze. Eyes without so much as a flicker of killing intent — they looked impatient, and they looked anxious.

Diana nodded.

That was all it took, and yet the air between them eased noticeably. But Diana was despairing — and Giscard saw at once that her nod had been wrung out of her.