The Robes Are Important
“Archbi— I mean, Father. This is the Saintess.”
It was a pointed warning not to overstep because the other party was the Saintess. Looking back, Sir Miguel’s presence made perfect sense—he had come along solely to keep this man in check.
“I seem to have botched things again. Sir, if possible, might I borrow that sword at your waist?”
“I refuse. Archbishop— I mean, Father.”
Did Sir Miguel just call him Archbishop?
Hearing it once was one thing, but this was getting ridiculous.
When the man had trailed off after “Archbi—,” she had politely pretended not to notice. This, however, was going too far.
The fact that Miguel—deputy commander of the Holy Knights—treated the man with such deference; the way he insisted that absurd rope was a measuring tape; and above all, that a male tailor had shown up to take a woman’s measurements—
There was only one explanation for this entire farce.
Just as she had suspected, the man standing before her was no ordinary Temple tailor. He was an Archbishop.
Cecilia stared blankly at the two men who made no effort whatsoever to conceal their ranks.
“If I didn’t mishear, Lord Kiar is neither a tailor nor an ordinary priest, but an Archbishop. Is that correct?”
She already knew the answer, yet she asked anyway. The man slowly lifted his head and met her gaze.
With eyes sunk deep and heavy, he muttered in a gloomy voice,
“Do you know the saying that those loved by God return early to His embrace? If rank were proportional to the measure of God’s love… yes. I am a human who deserves to die.”
To announce a high position within the Temple in such a fashion—
It was a truly marvelous talent.
While she stood speechless, Sir Miguel bowed first.
“I apologize for the deception. As you said, Lord Kiar is one of the Archbishops. He has been placed in charge of this Alms Festival and came to meet the Saintess who will perform the ritual alongside His Holiness the Pope in advance.”
“I see.”
Miguel offered no further explanation, but she could guess why they had kept the identity secret.
He must have been displeased that someone who was not even the official Saintess would stand beside the Pope in the ritual, and he had wanted to see for himself what sort of person she was.
All those deranged antics had probably been part of the test as well.
“So the ceremonial robes were just an excuse after all. Of course, for an Archbishop to pretend to fit my robes would be far too…”
“It is not a pretense.”
“Pardon?”
“I truly did come as a tailor. The robes are important, after all.”
“…Ah. Yes.”
“The robes are important, after all.”
What the— that’s terrifying. He said it twice.
She had zero desire to learn why a man with dead-fish eyes was so obsessed with ceremonial robes.
Even more chilling was the realization that none of his earlier behavior had been an act staged for the test.
I want to run away.
Separate from how desperately she now wished to escape, the robe fitting itself proceeded with surprising speed and ease—though the burden of it had grown a hundredfold.
She selected one design from among the equally white, flowing dresses and had her height, arms, legs, hands, and feet measured.
I still don’t understand why he needed my head circumference, though.
She had done nothing particularly strenuous, yet she felt completely drained.
Unfairly exhausted all by herself, Cecilia mumbled weakly,
“Is it over now.”
Ah, damn it.
She hastily clamped her mouth shut.
She had just uttered a forbidden line—something far too close to “Did I defeat it!”
The cursed rule was absolute: mutter “Did I defeat it,” and an undefeated foe would appear; mutter “Is it over now,” and it would turn out to be nowhere near over.
The instant the thought struck her, the Archbishop approached with the sinister air of a final boss.
From the unnecessarily voluminous folds of his robes he produced something and slammed it down.
“Archbishop…?”
“His Holiness the Pope asked me to deliver this.”
“What is this?”
“A portion of the materials recording the Temple’s rites. Please finish reading them before the Alms Festival.”
Cecilia gingerly flipped the cover open with one index finger, as if touching something toxic.
The letters were smaller than ant antennae and, worse, handwritten in a nearly illegible scrawl.
“You need not feel burdened. However, should you fail to finish reading it, His Holiness will be disappointed, fall ill with worry, become unable to participate in the ritual, the Alms Festival will be unable to begin or conclude, and I, as the one responsible, will be held accountable and will eventually hang myself, I suppose.”
“……”
“At any rate, that is how matters stand. I leave it in your care.”
Temple, Pope, all of it—I really wish they’d just go to hell.
Cecilia stared blankly down at her teacup, which had not diminished by a single drop.
Now, in an entirely different sense, she truly wanted to crack her own skull open.
Cecilia Weberdin did not want to live diligently.
After grinding her body and soul through graduate school before possession—and even more so after possession, when she had committed one insane act after another in the name of somehow returning—she wanted nothing of the sort.
Yet these past few days her life had been stuffed full of the word “diligent.”
Though she had never intended it, reading the mess the Archbishop had dumped on her, teaching herself to handle divine power, and taking etiquette lessons on top of everything else left her short of hours in the day.
Even as her stamina and patience steadily wore away, what kept her going were the “cute beings” around her.
Charles, for instance, who kneaded her with his paws the moment she collapsed into bed exhausted. Or Rien, who still could not hide his nervousness at every dance lesson even though he ought to have grown used to it by now.
“I’m sorry! I stepped on your foot again.”
“It’s fine. You’ve become much more proficient.”
In the deepest room of Rien’s mansion, Cecilia continued dancing to the music just as she had in the first lesson, watching his face carefully.
This was already the fifth time she had stepped on his foot, yet Rien did not so much as frown. He only smiled kindly.
Get a grip.
She resolved inwardly, but recovering concentration once it had crumbled proved surprisingly difficult.
Following his lead, she spun once—and completely lost her balance.
“Ah!”
“Are you all right!”
The hand that had rested lightly at her waist tightened, and her small body was drawn snugly into his embrace.
It had not been intentional, yet the timing was perfect.
“I’m sorry. I must have overdone it lately—I have no strength left in my body.”
Instead of pulling away, Cecilia pretended to be exhausted and stole a small healing moment for herself.
The warm body heat seeping into her was lovely. The solid, quilt-like sense of security was lovely too.
And best of all was his face, visible the moment she tilted her head up.
Features that were a joy to look at no matter when.
As the time she spent simply appreciating him lengthened, Rien asked in a rather serious voice,
“Have you perhaps injured your ankle…?”
“No. I think my body is just a little startled.”
“Even so…”
His gaze refused to leave her ankle, so worried was he.
Watching that naked tenderness, Cecilia suddenly reached out and lightly lifted the edge of his hood.
Whether from moving about indoors while still wearing the robe or for some other reason, the revealed skin was flushed red like a flower petal.
“You don’t look so well yourself. You seem quite hot.”
“This much is bearable.”
Doesn’t seem like it.
Using her own subjective judgment as an excuse, she lightly pressed herself against his leaden form.
Then she asked in a soft, suggestive voice,
“If I take it off… do you dislike it?”
The agitation arrived exactly as intended.
The flower-like flush coloring his cheeks spread swiftly down his neck.
“…I do not dislike it.”
Rien slowly shook his head.
For her own selfishness—no, for the sake of the overheating Rien—Cecilia gladly flipped the robe back.
It really must have been hot; his hair was slightly damp with sweat.
“Thank you.”
Rien brushed back his disheveled hair and smiled shyly.
This is welfare. This is the nation.
Even if Rien had truly been the trash of rumor, she felt she might have fallen for him for a single moment at this spectacular view.
“…Um, Lady Cecilia?”
She had merely fallen silent, entranced the way one becomes before great nature or a work of art.
Rien seemed to have located the reason for her long lack of answer or reaction elsewhere.
“Are you still having a hard time after all? Shall we end today’s lesson here?”
“Mm. I am a little tired.”
Unable to confess that she had been too busy admiring his face, Cecilia roughly nodded.
It was also true that her basic stamina was poor and she was exhausted.
When she readily agreed, Rien gently withdrew the hand that had been touching her.
He immediately fumbled inside his robe, produced a handkerchief, and carefully wiped the light sweat beading on her skin.
“Thank you. Give me the handkerchief. I’ll wash it and return it.”
“It’s fine.”
“Pardon? But it’s gotten dirty…”
“It is not dirty.”
Answering more firmly than usual, Rien added in a very small voice,
“…Rather, having your scent remaining is more…”
“Pardon?”