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Chapter 26
I tried to quote the book and bring up the word possessor, but as expected, maybe because I had intent, the words wouldn’t come out right.
Was it because Vincent had already used it?
Or maybe it only worked because he was asking someone else, “Are you a regressor?”
Rather than revealing himself as one.
It felt a little unfair, but there was no one to complain to.
“Amelia, I feel sorry about this.”
“Why?”
Vincent quickly masked his confusion with practised ease.
Then he escorted me to the carriage waiting out front.
“I have another engagement.
I’m meeting Lady Holt for tea.”
“Ah, I see.
Well then, have a good time.
I’ll head off first.”
I gave a simple reply as I climbed into the carriage, but Vincent stood outside, holding the door, staring at me intently.
“Your Highness?”
“This makes me think of that book again, Amelia.”
This time I really didn’t understand.
“Yes?”
He didn’t answer.
I kept looking at him, but Vincent avoided my gaze and shut the carriage door from the outside.
***
“Ah, I see.
Well then, have a good time.
I’ll head off first.”
Vincent, who had been walking away, suddenly froze in place.
‘Have a good time?
Did she really say Have a good time?’
It was strange.
Very strange.
Things had been off for a while—starting with the imperial dinner, then the meeting with the Empress—but this was the strangest of all.
Lady Sarah Holt was someone Amelia despised.
Ever since Vincent had crowned her with a wreath at the hunting festival, Amelia had ground her teeth every time she saw her.
Especially when Vincent so much as exchanged glances with Lady Holt, Amelia would look ready to tear her apart.
Of course, during the imperial dinner, Amelia had said she understood what had happened at the hunting festival.
But Vincent thought she had only said that to stay in the Emperor’s good graces.
If there was one thing Vincent knew too well, it was Amelia’s jealousy.
Even if it wasn’t Lady Holt, Amelia always grew anxious about the possibility of Vincent meeting another woman.
She would always press him about his schedule.
That was why Vincent hadn’t mentioned today’s meeting at first.
But in the end, he’d decided to tell her, just in case.
And she had responded so blandly.
‘Has she matured?’
Could that feeling really be explained with the words grown up?
If Amelia had shown even the slightest sign of agitation—if she had looked like she was restraining herself—then Vincent could have believed it was maturity.
But she had looked truly unaffected.
There had been times when Vincent wondered if Amelia might also be a regressor.
After all, if it had happened to him, why couldn’t it happen to her?
That was why he had gone so far as to quote that ridiculous book when he asked her.
She had denied it, of course, and he hadn’t really expected otherwise.
If regression happened too often, to too many people, the world would not be able to maintain itself.
‘Then what’s the reason for her sudden change…?’
After much thought, he came to one conclusion.
Her feelings for Vincent had cooled.
‘Cooled? Amelia’s?’
Vincent stopped walking.
Then he turned back, staring in the direction where the carriage had already long disappeared.
As he stood there, a familiar voice called out.
Oscar was returning from an errand outside.
Vincent turned to look at him.
But Oscar didn’t seem to expect a response and kept speaking.
“By the way, Lady Holt’s maid came by earlier.
She asked what kind of tea Your Highness prefers.
What should I tell her?”
“Quince tea.”
“…Pardon?”
“Tell her I won’t come unless it’s quince tea.
They surely won’t have it.
Cancel the meeting.”
With that, Vincent strode off at a brisk pace.
Oscar hurried to follow.
“Uh… yes, understood.
But quince tea?
Does that even exist?
Your Highness?
Your Highness?”
***
Throb.
A letter had arrived from Duke Wentworth.
A headache spread from my temples as I pressed a hand to my forehead and shut my eyes.
Death is coming.
The gist was simple enough: the Duke was pushing some scheme, and I was supposed to fan the flames and make sure the Crown Prince sided with him.
He asks too much of an illegitimate daughter not even married yet.
I rubbed at my temples with my fingers, then pulled a bundle of papers from a locked drawer.
It was the original story, written in Korean.
I had scribbled down anything that came to mind, just in case I forgot.
Now, what did Amelia do again?
In the original, Amelia Wentworth loved the Crown Prince but never managed to cut the strings of her father’s puppetry.
“…Foolish.”
Whether she truly didn’t realise it would harm the Crown Prince, or whether she knew but feared Duke Wentworth too much to disobey, who could say?
Either way, Amelia straightforwardly begged the Crown Prince to cooperate with her father.
Before the regression, Vincent had rejected her plea outright.
In response, Duke Wentworth had gathered nobles to his side and crushed Vincent, achieving his goal.
“Wentworth’s victory.”
After the regression, however, Vincent pretended to listen to Amelia.
His lips tightened.
Delighted that he seemed to agree, Amelia immediately sent word to her father.
The Duke believed her and thus failed to prepare for Vincent’s opposition.
‘And the result?’
The Duke’s policy was blocked by Vincent.
“Vincent’s victory.”
Needless to say, Duke Wentworth later exploded with fury at Amelia.
Vincent soothed her, pretending he had no choice, and won her forgiveness.
Amelia was wronged, but since she loved Vincent, she endured.
After reviewing all this, I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling.
Then I picked up Duke Wentworth’s letter from the desk.
Right now, Vincent was the post-regression Crown Prince—bent on tormenting Amelia however he could.
Which meant the only thing for me to do was…
“Well, nothing at all.”
I wasn’t about to get in the middle of their brawl. Let them fight it out.
I wanted Vincent to win, but for now, I would watch.
If things veered off course, I could always step in.
I crumpled the letter and tossed it into the fireplace.
The flames, which had been burning steadily, flared up for a moment before settling again.
Incidentally, that fireplace was also enchanted to regulate the fire automatically. Convenient world.
***
Slice, slice.
Glance.
As I cut into my steak, I glanced at Vincent across the table, then quickly lowered my gaze.
Damn it, what is this now?
A new kind of harassment?
I had burned Duke Wentworth’s letter that very morning, and since I wasn’t planning to visit him, I thought I’d be safe from Vincent for a while.
Sure, he’d hear that I had received the letter, but if I didn’t bring it up, it wasn’t his place to mention it.
Besides, the Crown Prince’s duties were vast and complicated.
In other words—he was busy.
He shouldn’t have had time to bother me.
Yet here we were.
By evening, Vincent had suddenly appeared and suggested dinner.
I had no grounds to refuse, so I’d been dragged out and now sat here, carving meat across from him.
That much I could tolerate, but—
Why is he staring like that?
It’s suffocating!
And tonight, of all nights, the steak was impossibly tough.
Or maybe it was just that my hands were trembling too much to cut properly.
To me, Vincent looked like a predator, pondering how best to carve me up like this piece of meat.
I tried to focus on my plate, pretending not to notice his gaze, when suddenly my dish was whisked away.
“Huh?”
A new plate appeared before me—steak already sliced into neat pieces.
In front of Vincent sat the mangled mess I’d left behind.
“…Thank you.”
I forced myself to take a bite, chew, and swallow.
But Vincent still stared at me, unblinking.
At last, unable to endure it, I spoke first.
“Your Highness, is there something you want to say to me?”
