🔊 TTS Settings
Chapter 09
“No… there’s no way. How could such a disease exist all the way up here in the far north?”
Clémen clenched her fists as the duchess’s door opened.
“Aunt… I’m here.”
“Rosia… today… th… thank you…”
Rosia let out a bitter laugh and sank into the chair beside the bed.
“Today, there’s also a special guest. Her name is Clémen, she’s His Grace the Duke’s meal-friend.”
The duchess’s thin lips parted in surprise.
“Clémen, you are—Pruina’s duchess?”
“…Hello. I’m Clémen.”
Clémen stepped forward, knelt, and took the duchess’s hand.
It was cold.
Not just the hand. Even though it was daytime, the fireplace roared too strongly for the northern chill. The room itself was stiflingly warm.
Yet her body was freezing, drying out with each passing moment.
A familiar symptom.
Her cheeks hollowed, body thinning, skin turning deathly cold, a faint musty-sweet smell in the air.
The suspicion became certainty.
The duchess’s face overlapped with her grandmother’s in Clémen’s mind—a playful, mischievous fortune-teller who had always done as she pleased, right up to the very end.
Clémen smiled as if nothing were amiss and spoke to the duchess.
“I’m quite warm, aren’t I? So when it’s cold, it’s nice to stay together!”
Her grandmother had done the same. She’d only called Clémen near the end, when her body had almost nothing left, wishing to be warm before she departed—and she had refused the medicine she’d been given.
“I’ll come by often until you get better. Is that alright?”
The duchess’s dull, lifeless eyes moved.
The first thing that caught her attention was the bright scarlet hair—fiery. Though her eyes were dimmed, to her, Clémen looked like a flame.
“A meal-friend…?”
That meant Zephyrus’s curse didn’t reach her.
Even if Zephyrus couldn’t leave the room, having someone who could travel between inside and outside would make things far easier.
The duchess summoned all her strength to focus her gaze. This was someone who would continue to be with her son. She had to judge carefully.
Her eyes met Clémen’s as they passed over her bright hair and fine forehead.
“It’ll be alright.”
She exhaled in relief. Some might call her judgment hasty, but it was fine. The warmth reflected in Clémen’s golden eyes was as clear as a lake.
“God has granted my wish. Oh, thank you.”
Her prayers that Zephyrus’s loneliness would lessen had been answered.
“Become… close with Zephyrus…”
“I like His Grace. I want to be close to him.”
“Talk… sometimes…”
“Yes. And, if His Grace treats me badly, may I tell you?”
The corners of the duchess’s eyes drooped slightly. She wanted to nod, but had no strength. Even this brief conversation had drained her completely.
At the edge of her vision, in the fading depths of consciousness, she saw a miracle sent by God.
It was enough to calm her heart a little.
Only one thing remained: she would leave without seeing Zephyrus’s face.
In the duchess’s dim, distant vision, deep within her fading mind, she saw young Zephyrus’s tearful face—trapped in his room, telling others not to come.
Then, as if underwater, a gentle voice floated to her dulled ears.
“Have a good dream. You’ll be warm.”
Indeed. She felt warmth again. The chill that had plagued her all day, even with a fire burning, seemed to vanish.
For the first time in ages, she felt she could sleep deeply, and she closed her eyes. Soft, peaceful breaths escaped her lips.
“C-could this really be…!”
The maid attending the duchess gasped and quickly covered her mouth—she could not wake the duchess now that she had fallen asleep.
Clémen gave a gentle smile and motioned for them to step outside.
The door was closed quietly, and a brief silence settled over the room.
The maid wondered how she could express her gratitude, and Rosia busied herself organizing what had just occurred.
Clémen, pretending as if nothing had happened, asked softly:
“What illness does the duchess have?”
“We don’t know the name. If we did, we could’ve tried to find a cure…”
As expected. If she knew the disease, she would have sought herbs immediately. The duchess would not have acted as if death were approaching.
Clémen had heard from Ruby that a duke ranked just below the emperor in power—so if necessary, Zephyrus could have obtained the herbs.
Of course, gathering herbs was not easy, but for a duke? It would be possible.
Then why don’t they know?
It could be natural for the north to lack southerners, but the capital was different. Even passing through briefly, she’d seen quite a few southerners there. Information could be obtained if one tried.
Still, that was not Clémen’s concern. She was merely giving advice, as a southerner, about a common desert disease. Something anyone familiar with the south could explain.
“I… I’ve seen someone sick like the duchess… um… in the same way.”
“Where?”
“Is it true?”
Clémen patted their backs gently, waiting for them to calm. Then she spoke slowly:
“At first, they don’t eat well. Then they get colder, their body dries out. They lose strength. If it worsens, the body begins to emit a smell—a bit sweet and strange.”
“Y-yes. Lately, there’s been that smell a bit…”
“I can’t be certain, but it’s a desert disease.”
“A… disease from the south?”
“Yes. But why the duchess contracted it…”
“C-could it be contagious?”
Clémen nodded slightly.
“But healthy people are fine.”
“What’s the name of the disease?”
“‘Cactus Flower.’”
It was bitter medicine even for her.
Cactus Flower wasn’t dangerous. It was like a mild cold, quickly cured with rest. For the young and healthy, that is.
But if the body is weakened, or for the elderly…
Recovery becomes incredibly difficult. Like when Clémen’s grandmother, a desert fortune-teller, had contracted it.
No blood relations, but closer and kinder than anyone else. Stern, yet gentle.
When she learned she had contracted Cactus Flower, her world nearly collapsed. It could never be allowed to fall apart.
She traveled to the lava fields where the herbs grew—but her grandmother might not survive. She had to act, so she obtained the seeds. They were surprisingly easy to find. Many had been abandoned near the lava fields after failed cultivation.
She could use her own constitution to grow the herbs—but worried about causing harm to others.
Yet doing nothing was not an option. And there was little time—the illness had been concealed too long.
Clémen concentrated heat in a remote, empty space.
The center was hot enough to melt sand, cooler at the edges.
Young Clémen planted the seeds evenly from the center outward. She monitored temperature to cultivate the herbs and brought them to the fortune-teller.
“You… got the herbs?”
Clémen, covered in sand and dust, nodded vigorously and laughed.
The fortune-teller, grandmother, gazed at her with cloudy eyes, then laughed with a surprisingly clear, ringing voice for such a frail body.
“Take good care of them.”
“The fortune-teller told me to eat them—”
“Do you know how to use them?”
She didn’t.
“The fortune-teller knows!”
“She won’t tell me.”
“Why? Why not!”
“Because it will help. Clémen.”
The gesture meant come, not go. Something new for Clémen. She ran and grasped the fortune-teller’s hand.
“Poor thing…”
The rest of the words were likely “poor thing, indeed,” as always said by the fortune-teller.
“Lucky thing.”
“H-huh?”
But this time was different. The desert fortune-teller gazed at Clémen’s round golden eyes and let out a soft, winded laugh.
“You’ll live well. Happier than anyone.”
“I… me?”
“Yes.”
“But…”
Could she really? She had caused suffering to those nearby.
“Why not! This is happiness you’ve created yourself. Don’t blame yourself!”
“O-okay…”
“Now, will you give your old grandma a warm hug?”
“You told me not to call you grandma.”
“Hehe.”
The fortune-teller, grandmother, remained mischievous to the very end.
Still, her embrace was comforting. It was the first time Clémen had ever been held by someone.
She wished she had hugged her sooner.
Clémen watched Rosia and the duchess’s maid, Sie, walk briskly ahead, speaking as they went.
She hoped they wouldn’t have regrets.
But… will the herbs be enough?
They could be obtained, somehow. Time was the crucial factor—the duchess’s body was already ravaged by illness.
Tapping her chin in thought, Clémen moved forward, her small resolve quietly blooming behind each determined step.
