“So, you made nihonshu the reward for declaring Lady Lysonna the Saintess. Futamata adores nihonshu, so he’ll be thrilled, but doesn’t that make the legend of the Saintess and the Guardian Spirit feel incredibly flimsy?”
Bertia was the kind to dream up stories, so the idea of bargaining with a guardian deity using alcohol left her a little crestfallen. But there wasn’t much we could do about that.
“My guess is the serpent-god legend in Seahealby was polished over time into something pretty for public ears. Futamata has probably loved alcohol forever, and what people called ‘the Saintess’s blood’ was simply wine. If a beautiful or cute woman offered that wine, he got in a good mood and granted wishes.”
“No way!”
Her face crumpled in shock. But since we were this deep, I might as well touch the Saintess plot from the novel, too.
“If I remember correctly, in the novel, Miss June became the Saintess, didn’t she?” I asked.
“She did.”
“Well, her family’s domain is famous for producing very fine wine. Think that’s just a coincidence?”
“Please tell me it is,” she murmured, shoulders slumping.
I reached out and gently patted her head. Bertia’s eyes narrowed like a pampered cat. She edged closer, rubbing her crown against my palm in search of comfort.
“There’s one more thing that’s been nagging me,” I said.
“What is it?”
She snapped out of her melt into wary attention, which only made me chuckle.
“Tell me, Tia, did a character named ‘Crow’ appear in the novel?”
“He did! Someone who looked just like Lord Cecil! He’s the reason I bought the book in the first place!”
The instant I said the name, Bertia lit up, practically bouncing in her seat. In contrast, something bitter spread in my chest.
“Lord Cecil, is something wrong with Crow?” she asked, worry edging into her voice.
Bertia tilted her head, and I wrestled with what to say, then chose not to.
Conveniently, she’d been present the very moment that name had been spoken, yet she either didn’t remember or had been too overwhelmed to catch it.
Maybe that’s the gods telling me I don’t need to spell this part out. Yes. Let’s go with that.
“It’s nothing,” I said lightly. “You muttered it in your sleep the other night, so it stuck with me.”
“Ehh?! I talk in my sleep?”
“You do, and quite a lot. I enjoy listening. Some of it is very entertaining.”
“Cecil! That’s awful!”
Her cheeks flushed to a ripe red and puffed adorably. I couldn’t help smiling at my cute, indignant wife.
Even so. Crow, huh?
The way it sounded like my middle name, Glo, was probably not a coincidence.
I’d been wondering all this time why Prince Ramtak had assumed I was on his side without question. The pieces finally snapped into place when he called me “Crow” during the judgment.
Bertia had been delighted that there was a character in the novel who resembled me, but the odds were he wasn’t someone who merely looked like me. He was me. Or, more precisely, the me who followed the otome game scenario.
Most likely, Crow was the version of me from one of the routes. My best guess was after my disappearance on Shaun’s route. That future-spun self became the Crow of the novel.
Of course, none of those connecting seams would be shown anywhere. They happened after the otome game ended and before the novel began. But when I factored in the similar appearance, it just felt right.
And the role that Crow's version of me played? Shadow work.
I could see him picking fights with neighboring countries for the thrill of it, or throwing in with the novel’s crown prince, Prince Ramtak, and becoming his hands and feet to chase down his ambitions.
As if it were nothing but a way to kill time.
Viewed from that angle, it was no surprise Ramtak assumed I was unconditionally on his side. In the novel, I was his collaborator. And if I lent him my weight, even his most harebrained schemes would suddenly look airtight.
Pile on one more detail: if he knew the version of me who’d never met the self-styled villainess Bertia, the me who couldn’t muster interest in anything, then of course he’d think it impossible that I’d ever fall for her.
Following that thread, another possibility naturally appeared.
The fact that he’d called me “Crow” suggested Prince Ramtak, like Bertia, might carry memories from a previous life.
I couldn’t be sure, however. Maybe he just had something like prophetic dreams. Still, there was one thing I could say for sure: If I told Bertia any of this, she’d definitely take an interest in Prince Ramtak. He’d become someone who might share memories no one else possessed. Even if it never blossomed into love, he could become special to her.
I don’t like that.
So, I quietly tucked the truth away. A touch of possessiveness like this, surely the gods would forgive.
“Lord Cecil,” Bertia murmured at last, letting out a small breath. “I feel relieved.”
Though she’d been flustered and cross a moment ago, she rested her head against my shoulder softly, the peace in her face matching her words.
“About Prince Aleis, about Lady Lysonna, about Prince Ramtak, even about the Saintess. Everything I worried over turned out all right. I’m truly at ease now.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I said.
Her smile was gentle and soft. It tugged my mood along with it.
“It’s all thanks to you, Lord Cecil. Thank you.”
“Well, I think most of it was thanks to you, Tia, but you’re welcome,” I said with a small smile.
“Lord Cecil, I’ve decided. I’ll use the memories from my past life to brew so many kinds of alcohol! And even if it’s from afar, I’ll support Lady Lysonna, now that she’s become the Saintess!”
“I see.” I chuckled softly. “If that’s what you want, I’ll lend a hand.”
“Really?! I’m so happy!”
“But in return…”
I slid a hand around the back of her head and drew her closer. Her eyes widened in surprise just before my lips found hers.
“—!”
“In return,” I murmured against her mouth, “when I’ve done my best, you’ll give me a reward like this, won’t you? Lady Lysonna might be Futamata’s reward-giver, but you, Tia, are the only one who can be mine.”
Our eyes met at a breath’s distance, and I brushed her lips again in a feather-light kiss.
She flushed to the tips of her ears, but even so, she whispered, “I’ll do my best.”
She was so unbearably adorable that I couldn’t resist pulling her into a firm embrace.