Chapter 128

Monica sat down on the couch at Hilda’s urging, then took two wrapped gifts from her bag and set them on the table. “I brought a gift for you, Miss Hilda. Ummm, the other one is for Miss Matilda.” “Oh! Is this lavender soap?” “Yes… I—I was shopping at the winter market with, um, my friends, and I saw them, so…” Hilda looked a little surprised when Monica said the word friends, but then she smiled warmly. “It smells really nice… Lavender staves off mold, so I’ll put it in the storehouse right away.” She didn’t even think about putting it in the bathroom. It was just like her. If Matilda saw it there, Monica was sure she’d move the soap to its proper location. “So, how long can you stay, Monica? The Seven Sages need to take part in the New Year’s ceremony, right?” “Um, yes. So I’ll need to go to the castle the day before…” “Then you can stay here and relax until then! You’re more than welcome. This is your home, after all— Oh.” Hilda’s soft, motherly smile was interrupted by a sudden moan. Then her eyes darted toward the kitchen. “Actually, um, about the food… Well… I’m really sorry. We might be eating bread and pickles for a while… B-but I moved the ginger cake to the cupboard, so it’s safe!” Monica could basically guess what had happened. Her foster mother had proved time and again that she had absolutely no talent for housework. “Um, I’ll just…go make some tea,” she said, trying to be considerate. Hilda blanched. “Wait!” she called. “The kitchen is, um… Well… You know what, just let me make the tea!” Her warning fell on deaf ears, however, as Monica had already opened the forbidden door to the kitchen. When she saw the disaster inside, she smiled dryly. Hilda was the same as always. She’d done something similar almost every year since taking Monica in. Ultimately, Monica and Hilda spent the day cleaning up the kitchen. Hilda seemed extremely embarrassed, but when Monica found out the only thing they had to worry about were stains on the floor, she breathed a sigh of relief. When Hilda really messed things up, the ceiling would get burned black by fire, or a cabinet would get smashed to smithereens. Hilda’s lack of skill in the kitchen was just that devastating. Once they were finished cleaning up, Hilda set sliced bread, honeyed nuts, pickles, and the ginger cake on the table. Apparently, she’d pulled out every last bit of preserved food she had in the house. “Nero? Nero, wake up. It’s time to eat.” Nero was curled up at the bottom of Monica’s bag, but despite her calls, she got no response. He’d still been awake in Rehnberg—where the temperature was milder—but ever since entering the chilly royal capital, he’d gone straight into hibernation mode. He’d been asleep most of the day. She was worried that he was sleeping too much, but no matter what he looked like, he was a dragon. A little chill probably wasn’t enough to weaken him. Monica set Nero down in front of the woodstove, then took a seat across from Hilda. “I’m really sorry, Monica. I wanted to have something better waiting for you when you got back…” “No, it’s, um, okay. Really, this is more than enough…” Monica wasn’t very particular about food. In fact, she privately regretted not getting Hilda something edible as a gift, instead of the soap. “Ummm… Miss Hilda…” “What is it?” Hilda already had her mouth wide open and was stuffing bread into it. Monica waited for her to swallow, then continued. “…Was there anyone, um, researching cursecraft who worked with Dad?” Her foster mother’s face tensed, and her eyebrow twitched. I knew Miss Hilda would know something. That servant working at Duke Rehnberg’s mansion, Peter Summs—real name Barry Oats. He’d been behind the cursed dragon incident, but he also seemed to know something about her father’s death. “The world is filled with numbers.” When Monica had said that old phrase of her father’s, Peter had clearly become agitated. That shaman knew Dad. Hilda had been an assistant to Monica’s father—and the one who spent the most time in his laboratory. For that reason, Monica had thought that if anyone knew something about the shaman, it would be Hilda. And it appeared she was right on the mark. “…Monica, why are you suddenly asking about something like that?” said Hilda, wiping the bread crumbs from her mouth and looking searchingly at her daughter. Monica returned her gaze and straightened up. “I can’t tell you the details, but I ran into a shaman who knew my father. When he saw my face, he said my father’s name… And he also made a remark implying he was involved with Dad’s death…” “Monica, do not involve yourself with that shaman,” said Hilda in a low voice, dropping her gaze. She folded her hands on the table. Monica could see the veins standing up on the back of her hands. She seemed to be trembling slightly. She must be very, very angry. “He’s allied with someone very powerful. If you go poking around, even you could wind up in danger.” As one of the Seven Sages, Monica held the rank of count of magic, which was equivalent to that of a regular count. If Hilda thought this person posed a danger to Monica, they must have been royalty, or else someone of equally high status. Monica watched her foster mother’s face carefully, not wanting to miss even the slightest reaction. “Is it that shaman’s fault that Dad was executed?” She heard the gnashing of teeth from inside Hilda’s mouth. Her usually calm and gentle foster mother’s face now looked fierce. She seemed to be desperately suppressing some intense emotion. “…Once, there was a shaman who wanted to do joint research with Professor Reyn. He was looking into ways to control animals or something—right on the line of the forbidden. Since the professor was researching the link between human bodies and mana, there was a lot of common ground in their areas of study.” Professor Reyn refused the offer in no uncertain terms. A week later, the incident happened. Someone reported to the authorities that Venedict Reyn had been researching ways to revive the dead—class-one forbidden magecraft. Necromancy was one of the greatest taboos in the kingdom, along with black flames and weather control. Even just researching it—let alone actually using it—warranted the death penalty. “Naturally, Professor Reyn wasn’t researching anything like that,” said Hilda. “He respected life. He always had. Trying to resurrect the dead is a desecration of life. He would never have done that.” But after an official conducted an on-site inspection, he claimed to have found several forbidden tomes and documents regarding techniques for reviving the dead. And so Monica’s father, Venedict Reyn, was put to death as a criminal. “It’s obvious that man planted those confiscated documents in the professor’s lab. But the official never changed his tune. Everything went suspiciously in that man’s favor.” Hilda, knowing something was wrong, had looked into the shaman on her own…and, unfortunately, found out that a high-ranking noble was backing him. And by the time she’d arrived at the truth, Venedict Reyn was already dead. He had been executed without a trial, and they’d sped through the whole thing—all because that high-ranking noble was putting pressure on them. Monica clasped her fists on her lap. Her blood had already run cold, and yet she was still sweating. Her palms were soaked. “…Who was…that high-ranking noble?” she asked. Hilda slowly shook her head. “You’re a Sage now. You may end up having to interact with them… So I can’t tell you.” If Monica got close to that high-ranking noble and it came out that she was Venedict Reyn’s daughter, her own position would be in jeopardy. Hilda was staying quiet to keep her safe. Under the circumstances, Monica couldn’t press her foster mother any further. Monica’s room at the Everett residence still had its bed and desk, and it was all kept clean. She laid Nero down on the bed. He’d shown no signs of waking up ever since they’d arrived. Maybe he’d stay asleep until spring. It would be lonely without anyone to talk to—a realization that came as a surprise to Monica. When she’d been living alone in her mountain cabin, she’d never felt lonely. But at some point, she’d grown very accustomed to being around Nero. “I wonder if you’ll wake up once you’re all nice and warm.” Monica pulled the blanket up and covered Nero with it, then petted him through the fabric. He still showed no signs of waking, however. She sat there with him for a while, but eventually she stood up, got a pen and a piece of paper, and sat down at her desk. She wanted to write down all the questions she had before going to sleep so that she could keep it all straight. Questions • Peter’s remark about selling Dad out to His Excellency Who is His Excellency? • Powerful person backing Peter Is this the same person as His Excellency? • Reason His Excellency is helping Peter Does he need cursecraft for some reason? • Peter’s statement that he won’t become like Arthur Who is Arthur? • The prince knew that cursecraft had created the cursed dragon Why didn’t he say anything? Did he know Peter was the culprit? After writing everything out, Monica sighed. The question she was most curious about was the identity of the high-ranking noble backing Peter. This was more than likely the same person Peter had referred to as His Excellency. Since Peter had worked at Duke Rehnberg’s estate, any “excellency” he might refer to would be, presumably, Duke Rehnberg. But the duke was, to be blunt, rather forgettable. He’d made almost no remarks during the negotiations with the Kingdom of Farfolia, letting Felix take the spotlight. I suppose you can’t judge a book by its cover, but still… Monica couldn’t help feeling that His Excellency must be someone else. Right now, Monica was having Bartholomeus look into how Peter had ended up working at Duke Rehnberg’s mansion. In addition, she’d entrusted the cursed tool he had left behind to Ray Albright. Monica hadn’t told Ray about her father’s name coming up, only about how Peter had died. I hope I can get some kind of clue from that shamanic tool, but maybe I shouldn’t hold my breath… Monica slowly exhaled. Then she burned the note she’d just written with unchanted magecraft and threw the ashes into the wastebasket. I know you’re just trying to keep me safe, Miss Hilda. I’m sorry for going against your wishes. But I need to know the truth—even if it means losing my status as a Sage. Monica lay down next to Nero, then pulled a book out of a cloth pouch next to her pillow. It was her father’s book, purchased for two gold coins at Porter Used Books. The world is filled with numbers. The book began with those words, and Monica had read the entire thing several times now. She didn’t know much about biology or medicine, so she struggled to understand the book’s contents. But she’d been looking up all the unfamiliar terminology, and slowly she’d come to understand just how incredible the ideas in the book were. Her father’s research analyzed the characteristics people inherited from their parents, and this book explained how mana in particular was extremely hereditary. Eventually, by analyzing people’s mana, he’d hoped to create a way to appraise individuals and pinpoint their bloodline. If he was still alive, the Kingdom of Ridill’s medical expertise would surely have developed even further. Research into hereditary diseases in particular would have progressed by leaps and bounds. She was flipping through the familiar pages when, suddenly, she remembered what the owner of the used bookstore, Porter, had said. Oh, that’s right. Mister Porter was Dad’s friend, wasn’t he? Porter wrote novels under the pen name Dustin Gunther. He’d also valued her father’s book at two gold coins. That price implied to Monica that Porter acknowledged the importance of her father’s research, or else that he was a very good friend. I wonder if Mister Porter was a frequent visitor to Dad’s lab… When she was very young, Monica had spent a lot of time in her father’s laboratory. But she didn’t remember many of the people who passed through it, since she was usually engrossed in whatever book she was reading. The only person she clearly remembered a face and name for was Hilda, because she always brought Monica snacks. And Monica had never been good at remembering people’s faces to begin with. She’d only started assigning numbers to faces and bodies after her uncle’s abuse, when she began escaping into the world of numbers. As she thought back on her childhood and continued to flip idly through the pages of the book, something caught her eye. The flyleaf at the back was stuck to the colophon page. “…?” Gently, she separated the two pages and found a piece of paper caught in between them. It looked like a scrap of writing paper. She carefully peeled it out so as not to damage the book, then took a closer look at it. Someone had written something on it. “Visit the shop again when you discover the truth of the Black Grail.” Monica put the paper under a lamp and observed it. Neither the paper nor the letters changed color very much. It must have been written sometime in the last few months. The letters were ill-formed, like they’d been written in a hurry. It had probably been scrawled quickly on a piece of writing paper, covered in a thin layer of glue, and stuck between the last few pages of the book. And speaking of writing paper, Porter had been in the middle of penning a novel when she’d visited his shop. There had been stationery all over the counter—not just writing paper—and a bookstore would always have a supply of glue on hand. “Did Mister Porter write this?” she wondered aloud. The shop mentioned in the message was probably Porter Used Books. But what was the Black Grail? Monica searched her memories but didn’t turn up anything. The term never appeared in her father’s book, either. Is it code for something? Or a cipher? She tossed and turned in bed, racking her brain for what the words “Black Grail” could refer to. But in the end, she came up with nothing. Eventually, she surrendered herself to drowsiness and fell asleep. That night, Monica dreamed of her father. In the dream, Monica was absorbed in her book on mathematics, and her father was sitting in his chair, drinking coffee and watching her. A guest sat next to him. The hair and clothes were a blur, but Monica could tell it was a man. The guest sipped his coffee, then exhaled. “Hmm,” he said. “It certainly is bitter, but I don’t taste any impurities. Not bad. And it wakes you right up, too—it’d be perfect for writing drafts… I’ve always wanted to try this stuff out, ever since I saw your coffeepot.” “Hilda took one sip of it and said she couldn’t stand the bitterness,” said Monica’s father. “You’re the only weirdo who actually drinks my coffee.” “I try never to forget my sense of adventure. When you lose that, it’s the beginning of the end, Venedict.” The guest downed the rest of his coffee, speaking words that Monica seemed to remember from somewhere, sometime. “I have to say, your daughter is a strange one,” the guest continued. I wondered what she was reading—and lo and behold, it’s a book on mathematics. Does she even know what any of it means?” “Yes, she understands all of it. She’s a smart girl.” “No interest in the novel I brought her, I suppose.” “Sorry about that. I’ll read it instead.” “But I brought it for her. It’s an adventure novel. I thought lofty scholars like you weren’t interested in that stuff.” “I enjoy your novels. They take place in fictional worlds, but they cleverly incorporate cultures and customs from other countries. The key item from the last book was something close to my research topic, too, which was extremely interesting to me. Did you get that from another country’s legends, too?” “Oh, that? Well, the model was the , actually.” As her father and his guest talked, Monica sat next to them in silence, reading her book on mathematics. It was a simple, frivolous dream. Yes. That was all it was…