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Chapter 09
What should I even call this feeling?
It was something entirely new—an emotion she had never felt before. Not even when she had hugged a grandfather clock in front of Robes, kissed it, and then thrown up. Not even when she had acted out the female lead’s lines from a novel in front of Lexa while desperately holding back vomit.
And Dorothy’s impression of that feeling was simple: she never wanted to experience it again.
Dorothy had lived a life full of attention, but she had never been subjected to stares like these. Because of the masks, only their eyes were visible, yet it felt as though every emotion they harbored was laid bare through their pupils alone.
They could at least curse at her or something.
Thankfully, she hadn’t eaten much, so there wasn’t much to throw up.
Even as she vomited suddenly, she had reflexively leaned back, so none of it got on her dress. That, at least, was a relief.
As Dorothy glanced nervously at the masked men and tried to wipe her mouth with her sleeve, Lyle, who had come out after her, handed her a handkerchief.
Ah… right. I forgot…
Only then did Dorothy remember Lyle—the fact that he must have heard her throwing up in vivid detail. Her lips trembled with embarrassment, but she clenched her teeth and barely held it together. Then, as if nothing had happened, she primly accepted the handkerchief.
She folded the soft, high-quality fabric in half and gently dabbed at her mouth.
Sure, she had shown them an awkward side of herself—but so what if they saw it?
It’s not like she could eat it back up. Let’s just be shameless, Dorothy!
After wiping her mouth, Dorothy returned the handkerchief with a small bow of thanks. While she was at it, she greeted the masked men as well.
There were four or five men wearing black masks, and at a glance, they didn’t seem to harbor any good feelings toward Dorothy.
“Sorry for the rudeness upon first meeting.”
Dorothy was a lady who understood manners and etiquette, and she always considered greetings important. A greeting was the cheapest way to earn someone else’s goodwill. So—
“But who might you be?”
Even if the other party were bandits or robbers, one should still be polite—that was Dorothy’s creed. These days even bandits coordinated their outfits, after all. How very gentlemanly.
Lyle stepped up beside Dorothy and asked,
“Are these people strangers to you as well, Miss Dorothy?”
“Yes. I don’t know them at all.”
“I see,” Lyle replied, stepping one pace ahead of Dorothy.
“Then, gentlemen in masks, would you mind introducing yourselves?”
Dorothy asked cautiously. Please, please—let them be the kind of decent bandits who only take money and spare lives.
“I don’t think asking that will make them act like gentlemen,” Lyle said calmly, dousing Dorothy’s efforts.
This tactless man!
When you’re clearly outnumbered, you should steer things toward an ending where you only lose money! With that attitude, no conversation was going to work!
“I wasn’t asking you, Mr. Lyle. I was asking these gentlemen here.”
Dorothy whispered as she pressed down firmly on Lyle’s foot, her smile fixed straight ahead. She spoke as if ventriloquizing, but Lyle replied in an even tone.
“Miss Dorothy, you are stepping on my foot.”
“I stepped on it because I wanted to, so please be quiet.”
“If you’re done stepping on it, wouldn’t you like to move?”
“What are you talking about? I’m not satisfied yet. Let me step on it more. And please keep your voice down.”
“In this situation, staying quiet would be even stranger.”
“In this situation, exactly!”
…Her voice had gotten too loud. Lyle kept grumbling, and she couldn’t help raising her voice.
“Ahem. Ahem.”
Dorothy composed herself again and added in a gentle voice,
“So, you see, our masked gentlemen can’t answer because of Mr. Lyle, right? Let’s quietly focus on them. Conversation is important in mountain areas like this. Understood?”
That was when the masked bandits finally seemed inclined to speak.
Perhaps her polite and considerate attitude had worked after all.
A man standing at the very back of the group raised one hand and shouted toward Dorothy,
“Attack!”
…That was not the direction Dorothy had been hoping for.
With a chorus of metallic clicks, the masked group drew the daggers at their waists and rushed toward Dorothy and Lyle.
“Attack my ass! You cowardly bandit bastards ganging up with numbers like this!”
Dorothy shouted. Shouldn’t they at least give her a line or two for negotiation? What a bunch of unethical bandits!
Lyle grabbed Dorothy by both arms and pulled her back. Ignoring him, Dorothy struggled furiously and pointed accusingly at them.
“Even if I die here, I’ll curse you! May you die without ever spending all your money and be haunted by a resentful ghost! You’ll wish you were dead!”
What on earth kind of security had Count Serin been running for there to be bandits on the road out of the horse ranch?
Was she really supposed to die by a bandit’s blade at this tender young age? Ridiculous!
Perhaps stung by her verbal abuse, one masked man slashed his sword toward Dorothy. The cold blade flashed in and out right in front of her nose.
It was only because Lyle swiftly yanked her back.
Gah—! Death had just danced before her eyes. This was insane.
As she checked whether her nose was still attached, Lyle said calmly,
“Just imagining your curse is terrifying enough.”
Then he decisively drew a longsword. She hadn’t seen it in the carriage—when had he prepared that? Lyle was fighting the masked men, who attacked fiercely from all sides, on equal footing.
“Huh?”
They said even a worm could squirm.
Dorothy stared in shock at Lyle’s unexpectedly impressive swordsmanship when something suddenly whooshed past her side.
“Eek!”
As Dorothy screamed, Lyle said calmly,
“Please excuse me for touching you.”
He wrapped an arm around Dorothy’s waist and moved her around, almost like a dance, tossing her this way and that. Facing many opponents at once while having to protect a civilian like Dorothy, it seemed an unavoidable decision.
In fact, the masked group thoroughly blocked Lyle’s attempts to send Dorothy far away. They missed nothing, their swordplay clearly expressing their intent to kill them both—something even Dorothy, who knew nothing about swordsmanship, could feel.
“What did I ever do to you?!”
Daggers filled with killing intent brushed past Dorothy’s body again and again. As much as she loved dancing, she felt she had now found a very good reason to hate sword dances.
This is terrifying—I can’t live like this.
Fear that she’d be stabbed with even the slightest misstep, and a reckless, “whatever happens, happens” resolve began to fill her in equal measure.
Worse still, time was not on their side. No matter how skilled Lyle was, fighting this many men alone was inherently disadvantageous.
Dorothy could feel both sides’ blades growing dull with fatigue. Even if there were no major injuries, small cuts were appearing on Lyle’s arm. What should she do?
Dorothy decided to calmly think of a way to survive. Thinking like this had never been her forte, but now she had no choice.
At that moment, Lyle’s sword slashed deeply across one masked man’s arm and abdomen. The fabric on his arm tore away, and blood spread across his stomach. The man clutched his abdomen and staggered back several steps, clearly in great pain.
The metallic stench of blood was overwhelming. Dorothy frowned—and then saw something she shouldn’t have.
“…!”
A black tattoo was visible on the wounded man’s forearm.
Why is that there?
A mark Dorothy knew all too well, one she had feared for a long time.
A wolf tattoo holding a lily of the valley—the symbol of the House of the Marquess of Moven.
Then did that mean these masked men were assassins sent by the Marquess of Moven?
Long ago, when they had discussed countermeasures, Robes had said it himself. The Marquess of Moven supported the Dark Guild. Their assassins specialized in sudden ambushes, killing their targets without anyone ever knowing—vicious, ruthless people. One always had to be careful.
A remote mountain road in the Serin region.
It sounded unbelievable that the Marquess of Moven would send assassins to kill her—but the likelihood was terrifyingly high.
‘I hope that love isn’t a lie.’
The Marchioness of Moven had said that, without even a hint of a smile.
‘If—if I hadn’t loved the Duke, what would you have done then?’
When Dorothy, unable to resist her curiosity, asked,
‘Who knows.’
The Marchioness of Moven smiled for the first time.
‘Then we would never meet again. Not even by chance—ever.’
Norovin Moven, you wretched, unfilial lunatic.
If you hadn’t stolen the Marchioness’s jewelry and given it to me as a gift, I wouldn’t have ended up hated this much by her!
As Dorothy was immersed in these painful memories, Lyle suddenly called out to her loudly.
“Miss Dorothy!”
