He then told her all about the current situation, Marcella, the business with the Intelligence Office, the happenings with Marquis-to-be Guido Scalfarotto, the attendant Jonas Goodwin, the Beast Hunters’ magical toolmaker Dahlia Rossetti, what was planned for the near future—until sunbreak, the couple chatted away, and the wine they shared had never been so delectable.
“I should like to place Marcella within our reach, but he himself does not wish for it. Furthermore, the Scalfarottos are soon to become a marquisate, meaning we would be at the same rank.”
“He is their knight, and our families are of different factions—we can’t simply take Marcella by force. The Scalfarottos must have some weakness to exploit, though.”
“I should also like to instruct Marcella and our great-grandchildren well, but that, too, would fall under the Scalfarottos’ jurisdiction. So that you and the boys can meet him, I shall have to find a reason to invite Marcella here.” When Bernigi realized he’d already begun to devise plans for what he ought to do, whom to use, and whom to involve, he laughed at himself. “Just as I had wanted to conclude my affairs, here I am wanting more already.”
Mersela smiled with utmost elegance. “Oh, my. How could a former marquis such as yourself not take what he wants? We simply have to create a reason for Marcella to visit, do we not?” Her pear-colored eyes were usually kind and gentle, but they were now lit by a green flame; they were so beautiful that Bernigi fell in love again. During the expedition today, he had received a delicate push on his back from that redheaded magical toolmaker, but the supportive shove he’d always relied on—a shove enhanced by body strengthening magic—came from none other than this woman.
“Aye, Mersela, you are right. As long as I still have sands in my hourglass, I shall see how long my arm can truly extend.” Bernigi showed her the smile he’d cultivated as a noble, to which she gave a resolute nod. “I shall have to make my return, then.”
“I look forward to dancing with you again.”
It was plain to them both—Bernigi and Mersela were to return to the proverbial center stage of nobility. It was time that they put on smiles, held daggers behind their backs, extended their long arms as far as possible, and saw as far into the future as they could. They had a desire, and now they had to reach for it. With the remaining time they had on this earth, they could not shirk away; they had to play the part of a greedy and cunning noble couple. That twilight, Bernigi and Mersela set out into the world again as former marquis and marchioness.
“You’ve stopped moving your hand, dear.”
Mersela’s voice snapped Bernigi back to the present moment. He was in the middle of practicing his penmanship, yet, unawares, he had let his gaze shift to the sword mounted on the wall. “I have been thinking about changing my sword.” The sword he’d always carried was fit for a knight, but after using the training sword against the Beast Hunters, he now found that his lacked heft and length.
“You mean—how about placing an order for a new one?”
Mersela always knew precisely what he wanted. In contrast with her serene demeanor, she’d once had the moniker of “All-Prepared”; though the current marchioness had inherited that title, she had learned it all from Mersela. The D’Orazi clan traced its lineage to the years of the kingdom’s founding, but it had never been one of wealth, and many did not understand that when there were no wars to be fought, the only thing that spoke within noble circles was money. When Bernigi had been the vice-captain of the Beast Hunters with no voice, Mersela had managed the family and accumulated wealth and influence, providing him with the opportunity to walk forward without needing to watch his back.
The day after they had decided to return to power, Mersela piled her desk high with letters. Her writing had always been so beautiful that young nobles would beg her to teach them. She had frequently written in the past: to say hello, communicate, send news, introduce people to one another—letters of all sorts. Since Bernardi’s death, she had stopped due to the pain in her joints, but now she had resumed with the help of analgesics.
She and Bernigi, along with the current Marchioness D’Orazi, had begun to participate in and host more tea parties and soirees, and Mersela was seeking new gowns and dresses; Bernigi had recommended her an up-and-coming couturier with boundless energy. Though she was bound to go over budget and buy more than she planned to, that was but a trivial matter.
“A new sword would be nice as well, but I have just the thing in mind.” Bernigi walked to a shelf and reached into the back. The sword he produced had nary a decoration on its scabbard or hilt, and its blade was painted jet black—the one he had used during his time in the Order. It was longer and heavier than the sword he carried now, and the weight was balanced toward the tip for faster swings; it was a difficult tool to handle. He stepped away from the desk and gave it a few light swings still in its scabbard, but the weight was no impediment to him. He decided he would resume carrying this sword starting tomorrow.
“Would you like to take your medicated bath for your pain soon?”
“I shall do so before I sleep—I would like to get some exercise first.” Bernigi had intended not to show it on his face, but apparently it was obvious by his movements—how shameful. Since he had received his magic prosthesis, he had dedicated a lot of his time to familiarizing himself with it and to moving around every day, which exacted its toll on his muscles; his unicorn horn magical tool helped, but it could only do so much. Afraid of being too conspicuous outside, Bernigi had been walking around in a room, and he had even begun running in the halls. He had tripped and tumbled at times, turned too quickly and run into the wall at others. The floor would end up covered in his sweat, and after he slipped and flopped on the ground a couple of times, Mersela had emplaced a maid with a mop in the room. When he tried skipping two steps at once, failed, and crashed down to the bottom of the stairs, Mersela had emplaced a healer by his side; she had not accepted his claims that he would be able to make it next time. What she never failed to do was smile so tenderly when Bernigi covered himself in new bruises every day. One could not ask more of one’s wife.