“It’s taken ten years, but I’ve finally changed my mind. Please lend me your strength.” Her amethyst eyes drew him in; their sparkle hadn’t dimmed in the slightest. A shiver ran down his spine, and he smiled at the rapture rising within him. Kendall Levine contacted Theophilis as soon as his delegation returned to Faris from Adelbide. Until now, Kendall hadn’t involved himself in the struggle over succession, instead maintaining a neutral stance. Theophilis agreed to a meeting out of curiosity. “Kendall, it’s been a long time since I last saw you. Whatever is the matter?” As the leader of the delegation, Kendall had been held responsible for the kidnapping of Ulysses and removed from his post. He was still supposed to be in disciplinary confinement. “There’s something urgent I must tell you.” “Now you’re worried about me? You’re only going to lose more hair, man.” The strain must have been affecting Kendall, already a serious man, because he seemed to have lost a good deal of weight since Theophilis had seen him last. Tragically, his hairline had also receded even farther. “Anyhow, what is it?” “Before I get to that, what is Prince Roderick doing at the moment?” “Hiding out in his cave as usual. I do believe this is a record for him.” The cowardly second prince couldn’t seem to bring himself to give up his right to the throne, choosing instead to wait out the storm. Theophilis laughed scornfully, but his visitor merely narrowed his eyes and glanced warily around the room. “I humbly regret to inform you that Prince Roderick is in league with Daeg Gallus.” “Daeg Gallus?” Theophilis frowned. If he remembered correctly, that was the name of a huge criminal organization with tentacles reaching across the continent. One theory had it that no war, conflict, or insurrection took place without their secret involvement. But… “Don’t joke with me. I can’t imagine a coward like him having the guts to join that sort of organization.” “His mother, Queen Anna, was the one who forged the original connection. She was extremely concerned about Roderick’s future. She most likely made some kind of agreement with them.” That made sense. Such a scheme sounded very like that evil woman. Kendall continued. “Members of the organization have a tattoo of the sun somewhere on their body.” “A tattoo?” Suddenly, Roderick remembered one of his aides. The man who had led the effort to imprison Alexandra and pushed for execution rather than exile. Didn’t he have a tattoo of a sun behind his right ear? “Does that ring a bell?” Kendall must have noticed the way his face paled. He gazed at him, eyes searching. Theophilis shook his head, trying to hide his agitation. “It’s hard to believe what you say. To begin with, if he took the throne, resistance from the conservatives would be unavoidable.” Roderick’s mother, Anna, was the illegitimate child of an earl. His recluse brother had common blood in his veins. The sticklers who still insisted on pure bloodlines would never recognize a king with suspect lineage. But this argument did nothing to soften Kendall’s expression. “It wasn’t Adelbide that kidnapped Ulysses; it was Daeg Gallus. He may not be a direct descendent, but he has Cornelia Faris’s blood. Prince Ulysses would serve as a puppet king manipulated from the shadows by Prince Roderick. I believe that was the plot Anna envisioned.” “I see. That does seem like her style.” “Yes. You must take great care. With your other siblings out of the way, I hear he is plotting to put you in your grave.” Theophilis snorted. “I will be as careful as I can,” he said, looking down at the man with thinning gray hair and light brown eyes. “By the way, Kendall, wherever did you get that information?” Kendall Levine maintained a neutral position, unaligned with any force. And he had been out of the country until very recently. How might someone in another country get his hands on domestic secrets? It was a natural question to ask. Theophilis was aware that Kendall stood behind Ulysses. The man was a commoner who had risen through the ranks, and he lacked supporters just like the young prince. What if Ulysses hadn’t really been kidnapped, but instead was being sheltered somewhere? If Kendall planted the seeds of doubt and turned Theophilis and Roderick against each other, the child would be secure. Kendall’s eyes grew wide for a moment at Theophilis’s sharp tone. Then he smiled with amusement. “From Alexandra,” he said. “And?” Hamsworth tilted his fleshy neck as inquisitively as he could. “What would you like your humble servant to do?” Hamsworth’s goddess broke into a stunning smile. “I’d like you to search for a rat.” And so, Dominic Hamsworth paid a visit to the palace. When he arrived in his ceremonial robes and announced that he had come to pray at Crown Prince Enrique’s sickbed, the heavy gate easily swung open. But instead of heading for the Elbaite Detached Palace, where the prince was recuperating, he went to Moldavite Palace, the heart of the kingdom. “Actually, I was supposed to receive some charity from His Highness Prince Enrique very soon.” “Charity?” Enrique’s younger brother Johan could not hide his suspicion. Johan was not the sort of man just anyone could meet with, but it was the duty of a ruler to listen to a priest’s sermons. “Yes. You didn’t know? To receive the word of the gods, we need coins from devout individuals. Not simply invisible prayers, you see.” In other words, Hamsworth claimed to have come asking for a contribution. The young prince, ruling in his father’s stead because of his brother’s illness, scowled uncomfortably. What’s this? Hamsworth silently wondered. He had heard that Johan was the one who’d consented to Constance Grail’s execution, and Hamsworth had assumed for that reason he must be a scheming scoundrel. “I don’t think my brother would have approved of something like that. There must be a misunderstanding.” Hamsworth observed Johan carefully. He wondered if the man looked haggard because he was worried about his brother or if something else was bothering him. He’d heard the second prince was a man of great integrity. If that was true, it was hard to imagine he would sentence a young girl to death without a trial. That left two possibilities. Either his reputation was inaccurate, or someone had twisted his arm. Speaking of which, Hamsworth had yet to see Johan’s wife or little daughter during his visit. He chose his next words carefully. “It seems you are right. I’ve finished my prayers for Prince Enrique, so I’d better move on to my other stray sheep… Oh, but…” “Yes?” “Do you, by any chance, feel a need for the grace of the gods?” “…I…” For the first time, confusion crept across the prince’s stern face. Aha. But as Hamsworth drew a deep breath in preparation for his next words, a new voice broke into the conversation. “Pardon me. Am I interrupting something?” He turned around to see a man standing in the doorway. Hamsworth hadn’t even sensed he was there. What’s more, the man hadn’t asked permission to enter the room. But far from reprimanding him for his lack of deference, Johan went pale at the sight of him. “No, the priest was just leaving,” Johan said as if he and Hamsworth had been up to some underhanded business. Sensing something unsettling, Hamsworth turned to the unfamiliar man. “And you would be…” “Rufus. Rufus May. I was recently appointed to the post of vice-comptroller-general.” There was nothing whatsoever distinctive about the man. He was of medium build and medium height, with a vaguely timid face. But if he was vice-comptroller-general, it would stand to reason he had leaped at the chance provided by Simon Darkian’s death. “Ah, so you’re the new vice-comptroller-general. As you can see, I am a humble servant of the gods. Have I by chance had the honor of your presence in my church?” “I’m sorry to say I haven’t had the chance since my appointment. But I will be sure to pay a visit.” “Please do keep it in mind. I believe it would be much to your advantage, in all sorts of ways.” Hamsworth smiled broadly and stretched out his hand. Rufus May returned the gesture with his right hand, a placid smile on his face. Strangely, he was wearing white gloves indoors. The instant their fingers touched, tiny sparks flew. Rufus withdrew his hand as if he’d been struck. When he pulled off his glove to see if he’d been burned, Hamsworth let out a low laugh. “Oh, forgive me. It must have been static electricity—or perhaps a goddess’s whimsy?” “Do you not you feel pain?” his goddess asked dubiously in her beautiful voice as they left the palace. She must have been talking about the handshake. “Of course I do. But any pain administered by you is supreme joy,” he answered matter-of-factly. She looked down at him silently as if she were examining a dead insect. Hamsworth coughed uncomfortably and switched to a more serious topic. “Did anything strike you as odd?” “Isn’t a man who wears gloves in this heat practically asking to be suspected?” “You’re right that it’s unusual, but my great-uncle, who was obsessed with cleanliness, used to wear silk gloves in summer…” “Dear me, I think I just heard a pig squealing. I wonder if there’s a sty around here somewhere.” “Oh no, it’s extremely suspicious to wear gloves in midsummer!” he exclaimed. Scarlett smiled happily. She was so beautiful, she made the very air around her seem glamorous. As he gaped at her, bewitched, her cherry lips approached his ear. His heart thumped like a young man’s. “He had it,” she said. Hamsworth’s eyes widened at her obvious amusement. “He had a sun tattoo on his wrist. He said his name was Rufus May, didn’t he?” When Hamsworth looked up, a haughty smile was spread over his goddess’s lips. “He’s the rat. Look into his background immediately.” “As you wish, my lady.” He placed his hand over his heart and bowed deeply. He heard Scarlett sighing above him. “…I guess I can handle something of that level,” she said. He peered into her amethyst eyes, unsure what she meant. “Normally, if I do something strenuous like that, I get sleepy. This time, because I held back and only did it for a second, it didn’t seem to affect me.” Hamsworth nodded. “That makes sense.” “…How would you know?” “Because I am graced by the power of the goddesses.” “You just see things other people don’t, right? What of it?” “There are things I am privy to through my contact with such presences. For example, I know that causing a phenomenon like that consumes quite a lot of energy. It makes sense that you wouldn’t be able to maintain a physical form afterward.” Wandering ghosts like Scarlett maintained their existence by absorbing life force from the regular world in some way—or so Hamsworth believed. They used that force to re-create the form they had while alive, move things around, make noises, and perform other ghostly acts. That was the reason most people possessed by ghosts deteriorated over time. Day by day, their life force was being stolen. But Constance Grail did not appear to be growing weaker. Either she and Scarlett were very compatible, or Scarlett must have been able to draw her life force from things such as plants or the atmosphere. In Hamsworth’s experience, the more rational ghosts were often of that type—so-called guardian spirits. And not all ghosts disappeared when they had used up their energy and could no longer maintain a form. The only thing that could truly remove them from this world was— Once his thoughts had reached that point, Hamsworth continued to speak. “By the way, is your reason for remaining in this world to exact revenge?” “Obviously.” She glared at him as if she thought he was an idiot for even asking. “I see. And you still feel that way?” “What did you say?” “Right now, at this moment, is your purpose to exact revenge? Or is it to rescue Constance Grail?” For a moment, Scarlett was silent. “…To exact revenge, obviously,” she finally spat out. “That idiotic girl’s mistakes are the reason I couldn’t get my revenge and had to come to you for help.” “Is that so?” Hamsworth said, not contradicting her. In fact, her true aim didn’t matter. “I believe that for a spirit that has lost its body to remain here, it must have some powerful feeling or goal. In other words, your desire for revenge is probably what is tying you to this world.” Scarlett raised her eyebrows suspiciously. Even with that expression, she looked as angelic as a picture in the holy book. “As soon as you feel your revenge is complete—you will return to the realm of the gods.” “Damn it…!” Mylene Reese squared her shoulders and swore in a very unladylike way. She had just been chased out of an old building in the sixth quarter of Saint Olivier Road. At this point, she couldn’t even count the number of publishers that had turned her away. Needless to say, the article she was trying to sell was about Connie’s innocence. This time, she’d come to a popular magazine specializing in gossip, so she’d been sure they would show some interest. “If only I wasn’t a nobleman’s daughter!” She was staring up at the sky, at a loss for what to do, when she heard a commotion in the street. She looked toward the sound and saw a girl standing there yelling at the top of her lungs. Though she could only see her back, Mylene recognized the girl’s boyishly short chestnut hair as it bounced lightly on her head. “Please sign the petition against the execution! Constance Grail is innocent!” The late afternoon street was bustling with people. Sadly, far from stopping in response to the girl’s desperate plea, they sidestepped her as soon as they heard what she was saying. To commoners, the execution of a noble must have been nothing more than entertainment. Nevertheless, the girl kept shouting. “Please, please, listen to me—” “Kate…” Mylene couldn’t help interrupting her friend, who turned around in surprise, then scowled. “I went to the Violet Association, but…” Her voice was shaking slightly. “They told me things are different now than they were ten years ago, and they don’t want to attract negative attention from the palace.” Still, Kate didn’t cry. She glanced down for only a second before looking back up energetically as if to shake off her uncertainty. Her firm gaze focused on Mylene. “But I won’t give up, not ever.” Ahhh, Mylene thought. She’s so strong. And look at me. A few rejections and I feel like the world has ended. How weak I am. She bit her lip, embarrassed by her own spinelessness. “Well now, this is an ambitious effort,” someone cut in, interrupting Mylene’s thoughts. A plump, middle-aged woman was standing next to her. When Kate saw the woman, her face tensed slightly in distaste. Did they know each other? The woman seemed to be injured, with her arm wrapped in a white sling. As Mylene stared at her pityingly, the woman shrugged. “I was playing with fire,” she said, “and my skills aren’t what they used to be.” Mylene wondered what sort of fire she meant, but she wisely remained silent. “Everyone insisted, so I was resting in bed like a good girl when I heard a cute young thing had come by. Of course, I simply had to leap out of bed and find you.” “B-but they already turned me down…” “Let me guess. It was someone on the Youth Committee who told you we couldn’t help.” Kate blinked in surprise. “Everything will be fine. Leave the rest to us,” she said. She spoke as if she had sole right to make decisions for the Violet Association. “And you are…?” Mylene couldn’t help asking. The woman turned to her. “Oh, did I forget to introduce myself?” she asked. Mylene nodded timidly, and the woman narrowed her eyes. “I’m Kimberly Smith.” Drop dead, old farts. Walter Robinson clicked his tongue coarsely. With his arm wrapped around the back of his chair and his feet kicked up on his desk, he was the very picture of a ruffian. His secretary, whose bywords were clean and proper, would probably faint if she saw him right now. Walter had spent the past several days running from one end of the capital to the other. All for the sake of saving Constance Grail, of course. Appearances to the contrary, Walter was a highly dutiful man, and he owed Constance Grail a bigger favor than he could ever return. After all, she had rescued his beloved Abigail. Walter believed in returning debts with interest. Plus, Abigail herself had asked him to help. She probably would have preferred to do it herself, but at the moment, her full energies were focused on finding the missing Lucia. Lucia’s kidnappers were most likely members of Daeg Gallus. But they were always just beyond reach, and the search was going nowhere. Drop dead, he spat again. Walter’s own situation was just as difficult. He was surrounded by mountains of crates stuffed with petitions to stop the execution of Constance Grail. They weren’t the ones her friends were even now out collecting, but rather ones that Viscount Grail himself had just delivered in person. It seemed the bearlike man preferred not to fight with his fists. Walter deemed this a wise choice, but finding it slightly unusual, he had asked him about it. The reply was nonchalant: “It’s our family motto,” the viscount had said with a shrug. Thou shalt be sincere. As he thought over the famous phrase, something dawned on him. Those of the Grail family were sincere. He couldn’t deny that. It was clear enough from dealing with them in person. But in all likelihood, Percival Grail the First’s reasons for choosing the motto hadn’t been entirely sincere. He’d probably realized that sincerity was both a weapon and a shield. As if to prove this, once set, the flames of their cause had quickly become a wildfire. Right now, subjects young and old in the Grail domain had formed a political party and come up with a plan to protest in front of the palace. As one wrong step could land them in jail, Miss Kimberly had been put in charge of the energetic bunch. So far, so good. The problem now had to do with delivering the petitions. The palace had refused to accept them. They said they couldn’t trust an upstart trader raised in the slums. No matter how much money he heaped on them, how much he threatened them, or how much he begged, they wouldn’t change their minds. At this rate, even if he forced them to take the petitions, they would likely crumple them up and throw them away on the spot. That was when he remembered the chancellor, Adolphus Castiel. His daughter had been executed, too, and he’d heard that Constance knew the chancellor through her former fiancé, Randolph Ulster. But when he pulled some strings to try and secure a meeting with him… He learned that for some reason, Adolphus Castiel, who was rumored to be caring for the crown prince, had left the country. “Where the hell could he be gadding about at a time like this?! The swine…!” Just as he was on the verge of tearing his hair out, he heard an exasperated voice. “If you’d joined the trade association as you should have, you wouldn’t be in this situation.” Walter spun around. Standing before him was a handsome young man with a shaved head and a simple outfit of pants and a white shirt. Walter’s eyes widened. “…The Bronson boy?” “It’s Neil.” “……What’s a sheltered brat like you doing bothering me at a busy time like this?” “Revealing your true colors today, I see. By the way, your secretary showed me in without issue. I knocked on your door, too. You didn’t hear, it seems,” Neil said with a frustrated glare. Walter cleared his throat. “…And what sort of business does the young son of the Bronson Company have with me?” He’d said something about a trade association. He must mean the Castle Town Trade Association. Even the name sounded prehistoric. As far as Walter was concerned, it was an exclusive group of powerless, inflexible little outfits with nothing more than their histories to recommend them—and the Bronson Company topped the list. “It’s Neil. And it’s not so much business as information. The palace has agreed to accept the petitions.” “…What?” He didn’t understand. “You were having a hard time of it, weren’t you?” “Ah, um, well, but how…?” “I’d thank you not to underestimate the association, although you seem to have a poor impression of us. As you know, we are companies of no account, but we’ve been around so long, you can practically see the rust on us. All of us have loans out to at least one or two nobles. So we all made polite requests of our acquaintances, and soon enough we heard the petitions would be accepted gladly.” Damian Bronson was chair of the trade association. His son, Neil, was a candidate to succeed him, and it must have been easy for him to win the cooperation of the others. Walter understood that. But they weren’t helping out of charity. They were doing a favor for the hallowed Bronson Company, and one day they would ask for a favor in return, with interest. Honestly speaking, the Bronson boy didn’t owe Walter that much. Walter frowned, unsure what had motivated him. “Tell me this, boy.” “It’s Neil.” “I can’t imagine you’ll see a cent from any of this.” “You’re right. But…” Neil Bronson narrowed his eyes as if recalling something. Then he gave an irksomely handsome smile. “If I were Constance Grail,” he continued, “I’d probably just smile and say, ‘And what of it?’” Mylene clenched her fist and steeled her will. Here I go. Beneath the grand chandeliers, sly foxes decked out to the tips of their toes were dancing, smiles pasted on their faces. Mylene’s job was to get their names on paper. A few days earlier, Walter Robinson had told her he was preparing to deliver the petitions to the palace. And that wasn’t all. Right now, members of the Violet Association and young people from the Grail domain were protesting in the capital for Connie’s release, with Kimberly Smith at their helm. Kate, who was more observant than her gentle appearance suggested, was serving as Kimberly’s literal right-hand woman. In the end, no publisher had agreed to run Mylene’s article. Maybe someone was pressuring them. But the main reason, Mylene realized, was her own lack of experience. As frustrating as it was, she really was a sheltered nobleman’s daughter. But she didn’t have time to feel sorry for herself. She could write other articles in the future, but Connie was running out of time. Mylene’s pride didn’t matter anymore. So she threw shame and rumors to the wind and decided to act boldly as the nobleman’s daughter that she was. So far, most of the signatures on the petitions were from commoners. To spur the kingdom’s rulers to action, they needed to add the names of every upper-class individual they could get. And how did one convince nobles to gather in one place? As a noble herself, Mylene knew that much at least: You held a ball. The Reese family was just as poor as the Grail family, but Viscount Hamsworth had appeared out of nowhere offering to cover the costs and arrange the guest list. It seemed, however, that he wouldn’t be able to attend the ball himself. He was quite busy these days. Mylene made her way to the podium set up to have a view of the entire ballroom and took a deep breath. Then she recited her article, which she had stayed up all night memorizing, and explained just how dire her friend’s situation was. She told the crowd that, to save Connie, she needed the help of all the sensible people gathered before her. The buzz of voices fell silent, but the gazes turned toward the platform were anything but friendly. Mylene heard people whispering to each other. Some were frowning or snorting disdainfully. The obviously contemptuous mood of the crowd turned Mylene’s legs to jelly. She knew this was no time for cowardice, but she couldn’t bring herself to continue speaking. A chilly mood descended, as if the crowd were a pack of wild animals and Mylene their cornered prey. Then, to her surprise, an affected sigh rang out. “Oh, how boring,” a thin, attractive woman said. All eyes turned from Mylene to her. “Countess Emanuel…?” It was the eccentric earl’s wife who had always been friendly with Connie. “I just adore being entertained,” she said. Unfortunately, her delicately beautiful face was twisted into an expression of utter boredom. “But this is no laughing matter.” Mylene stiffened under her icy gaze. So I’ve failed again. Mylene Reese can’t get anything right. I’ll never be able to look Connie in the eyes after this. As she bit her lip and stared at the floor, she heard the clicking of high heels. The sound drew closer and closer, until it stopped just before the platform. Mylene looked up. The Countess Emanuel was standing directly in front of her, her back as straight as a rod. As she stared at Mylene, who was blinking in surprise, her lips suddenly curled upward. Then she lifted her skirt as elegantly as if she were dancing a waltz and spun back toward the noisy crowd. Her pale eyes bore down haughtily on those gathered before her. “I think you all realize what’s going on. Just like you did ten years ago.” Mylene heard a gasp. Or rather, a lot of gasps. “You say Constance kidnapped someone? That she hurt someone rather than helping them? If that’s a joke, it’s in awfully bad taste. Did you forget what blood runs in her veins? Did you forget about the ridiculous family she comes from, a family that has been standing firm since this kingdom was formed?” Her tone was neither accusatory nor mocking, but instead terribly calm. “Constance is a sincere Grail.” Suddenly, she burst out laughing. She grabbed the pen from Mylene’s hand and fluidly signed her name on the paper lying on the podium. “Th-thank you very much!” Mylene squeaked out. The countess waved her hand like it was nothing before striding off as jauntily as she had come. As Mylene was watching her in a daze, someone came up behind her and asked crossly, “Where do I sign my name?” She turned around. It was Emilia Godwin. “…Lady Godwin?” Mylene was fairly sure Emilia had been in Scarlett’s clique before she was executed. Mylene gaped in surprise, and Emilia blushed. “I mean, what else can I do?” she shouted loudly enough for the whole room to hear. “I had a dream about Scarlett! And what do you think that devil woman said as she stood by my pillow?! She looked at me like I was less than human, just as she always did, and said, ‘Do you think I’ll let a mere viscount’s daughter reenact the death of Scarlett Castiel?!’ Just look at these goose pimples!” She looked extremely displeased with the situation. “I’ll die before letting the vengeful ghost of Scarlett Castiel possess me!” Those words seemed to be the clincher. Pale as ghosts themselves, the guests pushed and shoved to form a line in front of Mylene and sign the petitions, as if they were some kind of talisman against possession. By then, public opinion had turned clearly in the Grail family’s favor. And then, unexpected backup arrived from overseas. A book from a small publisher in the Republic of Soldita was suddenly flying off the shelves so fast, they had to print a second run. When Walter Robinson heard what was happening, he started importing the books into Adelbide. At first glance, the book seemed to be a white-knuckle suspense story about a conspiracy in an imaginary kingdom. But it was rumored to be based on reality. After all, the main character overcame her lowly position as a viscount’s daughter to marry the crown prince. There was only one place that had happened. The novel suggested that the clever princess whom everyone called a saint was actually a member of a sprawling criminal organization. No sooner had Mylene picked up a copy of the book, which had the amusing title The Truth About True Love, than she realized she’d been beaten to the punch. After all, the author’s name was… “…Adams Hicks,” she mumbled. Kate gave her a puzzled look. “Do you know him?” “Oh, no. But his initials are A.H. The same as Anthony Hardy.” “Anthony Hardy?” “That woman’s pen name. She clearly hasn’t learned her lesson.” “What woman are you talking about…?!” Mylene thought about that twisted redhead who could turn anything to her benefit. “Amelia Hobbes,” she muttered sullenly. Cecilia clicked her tongue. Who could have imagined things would turn out like this? First came the campaign for Constance Grail’s release led by Kimberly Smith, and then the mountain of petitions carted into the palace despite her strict orders not to accept them under any circumstances. She considered throwing them all away, but with so many of the signatures coming from nobles, she couldn’t very well do that. The finishing touch had been that blasted redhead. At this very moment, people from every corner of the kingdom were casting their suspicious gazes on her. And all on account of that ordinary little viscount’s daughter! She thought of her hazelnut hair and pale green eyes. You could find girls like her anywhere, with nothing whatsoever to distinguish them. So why was everyone and their brother suddenly trying to rescue her? Cecilia couldn’t make sense of it. The man standing in front of her couldn’t, either, it seemed. For once, the ever calm and collected Krishna seemed unable to hide his irritation. “No matter what anyone says, the execution must take place. Once they see the girl’s head roll, the rabble rousers ought to quiet down. Oh—and before that, we’ve got to get rid of the adopted girl from the O’Brian house.” Cecilia’s face tensed. She quickly regained her composure, but Krishna was too sharp-eyed to miss her reaction. “What?” “Nothing. I was just thinking what a pain it will be to dispose of the body. Can I ask the reason?” she said casually. Krishna let out a low laugh. “Because we don’t need her alive, of course. Don’t worry about Salvador. We should have killed her right away. You see what happened when you let Amelia Hobbes go? It’s bad enough to have Abigail O’Brian and her hound sniffing around. In this heat, too. It’s disgusting. Don’t you think they would enjoy having her tattered little corpse sent to them as a present?” So it’s just your personal grudge, Cecilia thought, but said nothing. Krishna must have taken her silence for agreement, because he continued in a slightly calmer tone. “This situation really is unpleasant. And now these stupid rumors…” “Rumors?” “You didn’t hear? Apparently, Constance Grail can communicate with the dead, and she’s trying to prove that Scarlett Castiel was killed for a crime she didn’t commit.” Cecilia raised her eyebrows slightly. “…Communicate with the dead?” When Cecilia opened the door to the cell, its petite occupant was performing sit-ups on the bed. But before she could reach ten, she fell back, exhausted. “You look surprisingly well,” Cecilia remarked. Constance shot upright. “Crown Princess Cecilia…?!” Cecilia smiled, a conditioned response to hearing her name. “Yes. I’ve heard you can speak with the dead. Is it true?” Constance’s gaze darted around uneasily. “Well…” “Liar.” The girl looked slightly taken aback by Cecilia’s harsh tone. “The dead don’t talk. They don’t think. They just turn to ash.” That was the obvious truth. At least, it was for Cecilia. After all, if you could hear the dead— A cold smile suddenly spread over her lips. She knew it must look twisted. Constance Grail was staring at her. After a moment, the girl asked quietly, “And you?” Those frank green eyes were fixed on her. The color reminded Cecilia of fresh spring grass. “Whose voice do you want to hear?”
Chapter 47
28 min read