Chapter 42
Inside Count Asara’s secret laboratory.
The dust motes glittered in the slanting light streaming through the windows, drifting lazily in a place their master no longer visited.
Then it happened.
The door to the laboratory opened.
The sudden gust of wind from outside drove the dust scurrying deeper into the shadows.
Schmidt entered first, followed slowly by Gerald.
“Is this the place you said she stopped by when she escaped last time?”
“Yes, sir!”
Gerald gave a hollow laugh.
‘Of course. A witch would be fascinated by such alchemy.’
He opened a wooden box neatly packed on the worktable.
Inside, the box was full of laboratory instruments.
“Beakers, flasks, funnels, burettes, condensers, filters, separating funnels… Hah. Thorough, isn’t it?”
“…”
The names of alchemical tools rolled easily from Gerald’s mouth. To say such things aloud could mean instant execution if overheard by the wrong ears, but Schmidt neither trembled nor flinched, standing in the room like a shadow.
“What do you think? If she’s capable of this level of alchemy, could she perhaps help break Theodore’s curse?”
Schmidt only shrugged.
This was nothing new. The duke often spoke half to himself, and to answer would be like pouring oil on a fire.
“Interesting.”
For a moment, a flash of anger crossed Gerald’s face.
Then he suddenly seized one of the instruments and hurled it violently against the wall. Yet it did not shatter.
“Hmph!”
He drew a deep breath, pressing his fingers against his brow as he leaned on the table, standing like a figure in a painting.
He was like a painting: imposing, proud, restrained.
Perhaps that was why.
Whether furious, sorrowful, or pleased, he rarely showed it.
But today—something was different.
Still, Schmidt did not ask. If it had been him, he might have smashed the Owen estate to rubble and set the imperial palace aflame already. Duke Gerald certainly had the power to do it.
But the education drilled into him since childhood made him the epitome of restraint. Such reckless acts could exist only in Schmidt’s imagination.
That mad emperor. Weak, yet never content to stay quiet—why must he always provoke?
Schmidt wondered what his master’s next move would be.
“When is the Commemorative Demon War Subjugation held?”
“I believe it is scheduled for next month.”
“Hmm…”
Gerald fell silent. Schmidt waited. Ever since Theodore’s curse, Gerald had withdrawn from all official ceremonies, devoting himself solely to lifting the spell from his son and nephew.
But now—he was showing interest in an imperial event.
Was it to warn the emperor?
Or to strike at Michael of the Owen family?
Or something else entirely?
Schmidt’s mind whirled with possibilities, but he voiced none of them.
“Tell them I will participate.”
Schmidt’s eyes widened.
“And…”
Gerald’s gaze drifted once more across the laboratory tools. His expression was complicated.
“The duchess…”
Yes. Dealing with the duchess would have to come before any experiments.
Gerald bit his lip, crossing his arms.
Schmidt’s thoughts raced, calculating how to handle matters depending on his master’s decision.
The duchess—she had been clever, sensible.
And my delicious sparkling water.
Schmidt sighed.
That damnable emperor.
He stifled the curse rising in his throat and waited for Gerald’s next command.
* * *
Have you ever seen the glossy sheen of a dog’s fur?
Silken.
Bathed in the afternoon sun, strands of white, golden, and curly hair shimmered, each with its own charm. Once matted coats were scrubbed clean, overgrown hair trimmed short.
The veterinarians who had been brought in wiped their eyes clear of gunk, brushed their teeth, and cleaned the mites from their ears. Now, they looked as though they belonged striding only across marble halls.
Finally, they were vaccinated against rabies.
The kittens, their eyes swollen shut with herpes, were given ointment and placed gently in carriers. Sickly strays were likewise loaded into cages and placed on wagons.
The healthy dogs and cats were leashed, ready to be moved to the monster farm.
No doubt a few advance parties had hurried ahead to prepare the place, but it wouldn’t be perfect.
Even so, the townsfolk, long plagued by stray animals, threw themselves eagerly into clearing out the monster farm. This arrangement was safer and more efficient, and according to Joa, the villagers welcomed it with open arms.
“Let’s depart.”
I lifted Theodore onto the glossy black Defense horse, then swung up behind him.
Turning back, I commanded the villagers:
“Gather everyone and head to the monster farm!”
At my words, the villagers rose to their feet.
“Hurrah!”
And like soldiers long ago marching under orders in the Demon War, they struck the earth with spades and hoes.
Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!
“Long live the young lord!”
“Long live the duchess!”
Even the orphans clamored to join, each holding the leash of the dog they had cared for.
And so the road to the monster farm overflowed with villagers, dogs, and cats.
* * *
Gerald’s carriage, hurrying toward the Schlesen orphanage, was forced to stop.
The moment suspicion that Sinclair was a witch had hardened into certainty, Gerald had canceled his lectures to rush to his son’s side.
But the carriage lingered too long in place, commotion rising outside. He leaned out the window to see what was happening.
A long procession of villagers stretched across the road.
What’s this?
His eyes traced toward the head of the column.
And then—
He spotted Sinclair and Theodore at the lead, astride the obsidian-black stallion he had glimpsed earlier that morning. Behind them trailed the villagers in a long, unbroken line.
Why are they…?
Gerald narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing them. Even dogs and cats trotted in orderly ranks.
“What is this?”
Leaning further from the carriage, he studied the scene closely.
By the heavens!
Each villager held the leash of a small, medium, or large dog, all marching forward. Some carried long poles with huge bones tied to them, luring more abandoned animals to join.
Even more astonishing—the villagers were singing together, loudly, with a cadence like soldiers on campaign.
And the dogs and cats moved as one, impossibly coordinated.
Gerald’s mind reeled.
When he had set out, he’d imagined Sinclair and Theodore merely paying a quiet visit to the orphanage or wandering the estate innocently.
Never had he expected this colossal procession.
Worse yet, the scent of bones drew even more animals from every direction, yapping and mewling as they joined the march.
A witch has bewitched my son and the people. And these dogs and cats—what are they?
Panic clenched his chest. Something that must never happen was happening before his eyes. His pulse thundered, blood racing through his veins.
He cursed himself. He had been too complacent. When the emperor or Michael of Owen meddled in his son’s marriage prospects, he should have crushed it from the start.
Gerald leapt from the carriage, barking at the coachman.
“Bring me my horse!”
“….”
But the gray-haired coachman stared, stunned by the sight. He remembered such parades from long ago, when the late emperor was alive—lively, magnificent processions.
The days when this duchy outshone all others in majesty and vigor.
Before young Lord Theodore’s curse.
Now, that legendary song had returned, stirring the silent plains into joy and excitement.
Even Gerald, though issuing orders, could not tear his gaze away. The sight was too much like the memory of the old emperor Julius, lance and bow slung at his back, riding with his knights to subdue the demon realm.
Ah, Father. My Julius, my emperor…
At that moment, the coachman began humming along to the song the villagers sang.
“Heroes of the Beatria Empire, raise your swords!”
* * *
“One stroke and their heads fall—blood will guard our peace!”
A brutal song for a five-year-old to sing. Yet this was the anthem beloved by Beatria’s bravest, sung in the days of the Demon War.
The late emperor Julius and his knights had sung it often.
I knew the lyrics well from the novel—Prince Alfred himself sang them.
But now, right before me, a little boy of five was lisping the words as he followed along with the villagers’ booming chorus.
He had no way of knowing this was the very song his soldiers would one day sing as they marched to execute him.
That in the end, this devil child would slaughter Alfred in cold blood.
Hhh… This devil.
But Theodore, innocent of such a future, swung his short legs and bobbed his head to the rhythm, humming cheerfully.
He looked so utterly adorable. This little one—I would raise him well, so that he might live an ordinary life. Then Prince Alfred would be spared, his love preserved.
Maybe that was why I had been brought into this story. The thought that I could protect them all made my chest ache.
With both hands gripping the reins, I bent down and pressed my lips lightly to the crown of his dark little head.
Theodore gasped and threw his head back in surprise, bumping into my chest. His tiny mouth opened like a chirping sparrow.
“What did you just do to me, Theodore?”
I kissed his little forehead with a soft smack. At once, his red eyes lit up like pomegranate jewels.
“A kiss.”
“A kiss?”
His round cheeks flushed crimson, irresistibly cute. I puffed a playful breath into them—poof!
“Eek!”
His eyes narrowed into crescent moons as he burst into laughter. Sinclair watched him with affection. She had no idea.
That even now, Gerald was thundering after them in wrath.
