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Chapter: 41
“Y-Yes, Your Grace.”
Viscount Hilven didn’t know why, but he was thrilled that he had managed to catch Duke Carlisle’s interest. Still, he hid his excitement and spoke with an affected, slightly arrogant tone.
“They say she’s definitely a spirit contractor—at least that’s what my men reported.”
Whether it was the alcohol emboldening him, or a desire to teach an impudent youngster a lesson, he wasn’t sure.
“Your Grace may already know this, but in the eastern regions, spirit contractors aren’t all that rare.”
That was, strictly speaking, true. In the East, where magical tools were abundant, artifact users were uncommon, but compared to other parts of the Empire, they were seen often enough.
In fact, Viscount Hilven himself had only encountered one or two in his lifetime, but that hardly mattered now.
“She’s a rare beauty, but she committed such an unforgivable offense that my subordinates are itching for revenge. They swear that if they catch her again, they won’t let her off easy.”
What was certain, however, was that Viscount Hilven would go on to regret the words he spoke here for a very long time.
“…You remember the woman’s appearance?”
“Yes! She was such a bewitching wench. Smooth skin, a pretty face. And strangely enough, she controls butterflies. Imagine that—just butterflies. Ridiculous, isn’t it?”
“……Yes. Quite ridiculous.”
For the first time, a crooked smile tugged at the corner of Lennox Carlisle’s lips as he lounged back in his seat.
“I happen to be looking for a woman as well.”
“!”
Hilven couldn’t hide his excitement. He hadn’t expected this.
Everyone gathered at this banquet was someone currying favor with the Lord of Aquitaine.
In other words, they were all people bribing Robert.
Before summoning them, Robert had casually mentioned that Duke Carlisle had come here searching for someone.
No one knew the exact nature of the relationship, so all they could do was speculate—perhaps he was chasing a runaway slave, or maybe a blood relative.
The duke’s insolent demeanor was irritating, but if Hilven helped him here, he would be placing the ruler of the North in his debt.
Besides, the idea of the woman Duke Carlisle was searching for piqued his curiosity even without the promise of a reward.
Trying not to appear too eager, Hilven spoke carefully.
“What sort of person are you looking for? I may be of some small assistance.”
In truth, Duke Carlisle’s knights already had frozen expressions, quietly preparing for the worst.
But Hilven failed to notice and pressed on.
Duke Carlisle took a light sip of wine, then slowly set his glass down.
Once upon a time, Aquitaine’s white wine had been the pride of the East. But whether the land had changed or its reputation had simply run its course, its glory was long gone.
“If you’re not looking for a specific individual, I could even introduce someone to you. The East has many beauties.”
Reading the room, the Lord of Aquitaine encouraged him.
“Go on, Duke Carlisle. This fellow has a knack for finding people.”
“Well… the woman I’m looking for is quite good at hiding,” Lennox replied leisurely, as if deliberately drawing out the moment.
Then he asked, “Tell me—how long would it take you to find the woman I want?”
“A week would be enough!”
“A week, you say. And if you fail to find her within that time—will you offer up your head?”
“Of course—…Pardon?”
As Viscount Hilven struggled to decide whether this was a joke or a serious threat, Duke Carlisle continued.
“Then this should be easy. The woman I seek also has smooth skin and a pretty face.”
“Ah, I-I see…!”
Hilven still hadn’t grasped the situation. He was frantically wondering whether the duke was asking him to find a woman matching his tastes.
“And she, too, must be a spirit contractor who commands butterflies. Without fail.”
“Ah. That sounds… oddly familiar…”
The next moment, Viscount Hilven’s face turned deathly pale.
Clang!
A metal goblet fell to the floor, rolling noisily.
“Y-Your Grace…!”
“You said a week. Correct?”
“Y-Yes. Yes…?”
“Then you’d best take good care of your neck until then.”
Clang!
In the blink of an eye, a sword appeared in Duke Carlisle’s hand—movement as swift and uncanny as a ghost.
Everyone in the banquet hall saw it clearly.
The jet-black blade, rumored to be cursed, its entire length dark as pitch, was aimed precisely at Viscount Hilven’s throat.
With eyes blazing with killing intent, the man warned him:
“If even a single strand of that woman’s hair is harmed, I will take your head in return.”
“Ah—!”
Juliet frowned as she dried her wet hair.
When she looked at the towel, long strands of hair were stuck to it. It must have gotten tangled.
As she wiped away the moisture, a sudden sense of melancholy washed over her.
“Achoo.”
Long hair took forever to dry and required no small amount of care.
Thick and abundant, with strands like silk, it tangled easily.
That’s why, when I was little, I was always pestering Mother.
Whenever she ran to her mother asking her to dry her hair, the countess would sigh, saying, “Goodness, you’re still such a baby,” and gently tend to it.
In truth, Juliet had kept doing it even after she was grown—on purpose. She enjoyed the tender hands brushing her hair, sometimes dozing off as she sat there.
Staring blankly at her reflection in the mirror, Juliet murmured,
“Maybe I should cut it.”
It would be a shame after growing it for so long, but it was difficult to manage and cumbersome. By now, Juliet was used to doing everything with her own hands.
Lost in thought, she left her room. As Zachary had suggested the day before, she was staying in the guest accommodations of the “Library.”
Most facilities, including the dining hall, were located in the main building, so she had to cross over.
“Huh…?”
Passing near the manager’s private quarters—a place she had grown familiar with—Juliet encountered a strange sight.
Two men were arguing heatedly on the landing.
“…I’m just asking you to confirm the name!”
“As I’ve said, Count Caspar, that’s impossible.”
“Why is it impossible? It’s not like we’ve only known each other a day or two! Hah—so this is how you treat me? Manager!”
“…?”
Confused, Juliet quickly hid behind a pillar.
What was going on here?
The one clinging stubbornly to the manager, as if trying to block his path, was unmistakably Count Caspar.
Why is that man here…?
Juliet frowned, recalling her encounter with Viscount Hilven, who had claimed to be Caspar’s subordinate—and how she had briefly suspected she’d glimpsed Count Caspar just yesterday.
Why is that idiot southern noble loitering around the East, of all places?
…and judging by the conversation she’d overheard, it seemed Caspar and Zachary were not meeting for the first time.
Unable to get what he wanted, Count Caspar finally stormed off, fuming.
“Whew, honestly… hm?”
After sending Caspar away and letting out a sigh, Zachary spotted Juliet and hurried down.
“Ma’am! Were you heading somewhere?”
Having been drained by dealing with Count Caspar, Zachary looked noticeably tired.
Feigning ignorance, Juliet asked,
“Was something wrong? The guest earlier looked like a noble…”
“…Shall we have a cup of tea?”
Instead of brushing it off, Zachary unexpectedly guided her to a quiet tea room in the central area.
“Do you know the Marquisate of Guinness?”
“Of course. They’re a great noble house of the South.”
And one of the Emperor’s staunchest supporters—the head of the Southern Alliance that opposed House Carlisle of the North.
“Yes. The guest who just left was Count Caspar, the marquis’s son.”
Zachary nodded. That much Juliet already knew.
“The Marquis of Guinness is famous for collecting unusual items, so we sometimes receive requests from him.”
Unusual items?
“Madam Seneca, are you familiar with artifacts?”
Juliet’s eyes narrowed. Asking whether she knew about artifacts?
‘Familiar’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Half of Zachary’s explanation was something Juliet already knew.
She had heard it from Duke Carlisle.
Among the wealthy and vain, there were those who collected artifacts or hired spirit contractors to parade around like entertainers, flaunting their riches.
But I didn’t know the Marquis of Guinness was that kind of collector.
Juliet tilted her head slightly.
She didn’t know much about the marquis—only that he was the head of the Southern Alliance and a fierce enemy of House Carlisle.
A dignified old noble, but with a somewhat sinister air.
“Then what was the marquis’s son asking for earlier?”
“He demanded that we preselect a particular artifact that will be auctioned soon in Kanahan and hand it over to them.”
Zachary gave an awkward smile.
“But choosing a ‘specific artifact’ in advance violates the auction house’s rules. So we refused the request.”
“I see.”
Sensing that Zachary was reluctant to say more, Juliet didn’t press further.
Still, the Marquis of Guinness ruled the South—this wasn’t his territory. Why had he come all the way here and caused such a commotion?
“Madam, have you tried the cobbler pie in this tea room? It’s excellent.”
As he stood up, Zachary instructed a staff member to bring the pie.
“Thank you.”
Juliet looked down at the plate and paused. Something that looked like nuts was sprinkled on top.
“Is that—?”
“Oh, that isn’t walnut, so you don’t need to worry about allergies. Please enjoy, ma—Madam Seneca.”
Zachary spoke absentmindedly, then left first.
Juliet cut off a small piece of the pie with her fork. As the thick biscuit topping crumbled crisply, the filling—peaches stewed in sugar—was revealed. It truly was a delicious peach cobbler pie.
Yet as she savored the bite melting in her mouth, a thought suddenly crossed her mind.
…That’s strange.
Meeting the glances of staff who were stealing looks at her, Juliet gave them a gentle smile.
Her expression remained calm, but her grip on the knife tightened.
How does Mr. Zachary know that I’m allergic to walnuts?
It was something very few people in the world knew.
And since arriving here, she was fairly certain she hadn’t told a soul.
Calmly, Juliet set her fork down.
