MLRLM 07

Chapter 7 ….
The Two Sons of Voilerban (1)

In early summer, Phyllis Menezes had left a strong impression on the two brothers, and now, with the arrival of the heat, she came to Brjul. Unlike the long-sleeved outfit she had worn before, she now wore clothes appropriate for the season. The Marquis Menezes was tall with long strides. As he walked briskly through the corridors of Voilerban Castle, Phyllis strolled leisurely, not thinking to keep pace with her father. The hem of her violet-colored dress swept slowly across the Voilerban gardens.

“Wearing that color in summer… your sense of color is terrible.”

“I-I think it’s rather classical…”

“Do you even know what ‘classical’ means?”

“Yes.”

“Then tell me. Go on, tell me.”

Marcel repeatedly jabbed Timeo hard on the forehead. Timeo was pushed back without resistance. Unlike Marcel, who hated sunlight and stayed indoors, Timeo spent the entire day basking in the sun at the corner of the garden. Because of that, Timeo grew rapidly, almost like the cornfields in the surrounding plains, and now his height roughly matched his older brother’s. Marcel was the first to notice this. Seeing his little brother trying to challenge him with his size, he became even harsher toward Timeo.

“Don’t act like a fool in front of Menezes’ daughter. I could go to that girl anytime and expose just how insignificant and worthless you are. Understand?”

“…But…”

“What?”

“What if Phyllis talks to me?”

“She wouldn’t speak to you twice unless she was out of her mind.”

Marcel didn’t need many words to dominate Timeo. Since Timeo’s body had grown as much as Marcel’s, he found it awkward and cumbersome. He hunched his back and dragged his feet as he followed his brother into the corridor.

“Phyllis, aren’t you hot?”

“My parasol keeps me fine. But Marcel, haven’t you shrunk?”

“It’s not that I’ve shrunk; it’s that you’ve grown taller… You take after Father in physique. And my name is Marcel.”

“Right… They say girls grow faster when they’re young. Sorry, Martin.”

“Don’t worry about that. But could you call me Marcel?”

Marcel took Phyllis’ parasol naturally and led her into the shade. Timeo walked a little behind, straining to eavesdrop on the conversation between the two, hidden beneath the parasol. Phyllis had been misnaming Marcel from the start, and though he couldn’t see it directly, Timeo was certain Marcel’s expression was rather fierce. Thinking about Marcel’s contorted expression, Timeo felt slightly better. Then Phyllis turned and gestured toward Timeo.

“Marcel, I’m fine, so why don’t you put it over your brother?”

“But the sun in Brjul is deadly for ladies’ skin.”

“Well… it’s not as harsh as Banyoles’ sun. You said before you were guiding your brother. It looks like your poor Timeo is about to get roasted…”

“…Timeo, come here.”

Marcel called Timeo like a dog. When the older brother called, he had no choice but to go. Timeo hesitated, then took his place between Marcel and Phyllis. Finally, in the one hand’s width of shade, he could breathe.

“Seeing you both here, you really do look alike.”

“What?”

Marcel and Timeo responded almost simultaneously. Timeo felt as if his heart might jump out of his throat. Was it an insult? Or a compliment? Marcel gave no clear indication.

The three of them settled beneath the largest tree in the garden. A maid who had quietly followed the young nobles quickly brought tea and snacks. Marcel watched intently as Phyllis thanked the servants individually. Expecting something to happen, Timeo tried to draw Marcel’s attention by exaggerating his actions slightly, eating his cookies more boldly than usual. However, Marcel’s thin gaze remained fixed on Phyllis’ profile.

“Phyllis, are you frail?”

Phyllis nodded as she tasted the apricot jam.

“But I was surprised at the recital. Listening to your descriptions of Banyoles… you didn’t seem like someone who had spent the whole day inside. I hope I’m not being rude?”

“Quite. If you want to ask about me, better do it through our ‘Father.’ Right now, I’d just like to enjoy my cookies.”

“I see.”

Phyllis put down her cookies and quietly observed Marcel. Timeo, shifting his gaze between them, accidentally met Marcel’s eyes. Marcel glared and gestured with the plate, so Timeo silently finished his sweets. Then it happened—Phyllis took her handkerchief and wiped Timeo’s mouth.

“Now I see why Marcel overprotects you.”

“Overprotects? Who?”

“You really are a child, Timeo.”

Of course, he was only nine… The words rose to his throat, but Timeo said nothing. His vision blurred and his head spun. Now that Phyllis called it “overprotection,” it felt as if all the wrongs Marcel had done were being justified as care. Truly.

The maid, clearing the emptied plate, screamed. It wasn’t surprising—a weasel, hiding in the bushes, had suddenly popped its head out. But instead of just surveying the area, it charged fiercely toward the three children under the tree. The weasel seemed to have chosen Marcel as its target. Timeo, thinking with the mind of a nine-year-old, imagined the trouble and curse that might befall him if the small beast harmed Marcel. Should he block it with his arms? But the weasel was too fast.

“Master!”

As the weasel lunged at Marcel, Phyllis calmly caught it under its armpits. The captured weasel, suspended in midair, looked as clueless as Timeo. The corner of Phyllis’ usually indifferent eyes curved slightly.

“How cute. This would be perfect for Mother’s neck.”

Sensing Phyllis’ blatant gaze, the weasel struggled. Then she handed it to Timeo. “Do you want to hold it?” Timeo, without thinking, grabbed the weasel, forgetting entirely to check how Marcel was sprawled on the ground.

“That girl’s out of her mind.”

“…Why?”

“What noble girl would touch a germ-covered wild weasel with bare hands? Fearless…”

“But…”

If the weasel was covered in germs, so was Marcel. Timeo kept his mouth shut.

“…Marcel, did you thank Phyllis?”

“What? Why should I?”

“She saved you from getting bitten by the weasel.”

“How foolish. The weasel wouldn’t bite me—it just wanted to be held. It’s Phyllis who grabbed the poor thing roughly in her excitement…!”

Even so, Marcel’s voice trembled slightly as he said Phyllis’ name.

“…Maybe she isn’t a noble.”

“Impossible…”

“Would a marquis’ wife wear a weasel’s pelt around her neck? Usually, they’d use something more extravagant.”

“Maybe she just prefers simplicity…” Timeo swallowed the thought and reluctantly nodded at Marcel’s overreaction. Marcel, despite seeming like a wise child, had never actually been outside Brjul. To Timeo, Phyllis was the perfect noble. Her manners were far beyond a ten-year-old’s, and even her quick steps following the Marquis Menezes were elegant. Timeo didn’t know what Marcel meant by “noble,” but he liked Phyllis. He felt he could endure Marcel’s oppression as long as he could walk with Phyllis in the garden tomorrow and the day after.

Half a month passed quickly. Beyond her short summer visit, Phyllis was often called to Marcel’s recitals to hand out pamphlets at the Honore Theater, and once, without Marcel, she strolled alone with Timeo through the blooming garden. Looking up, Timeo could sense Marcel standing by the window, his face scowling at the two. They walked endlessly, feeling the cool forest breeze, and even watched the secretive meetings of Voilerban Castle’s servants in the wooded areas.

“If Father saw this twice, he’d scold us…”

“So what? The actors on stage do much worse.”

“On stage?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve never seen that.”

“Winter’s too cold. Come to Banyoles in spring, you and Marcel. If lucky, you might get the best seats.”

“Can we really?”

“Why not? You’re the sons of Voilerban.”

“You… you’re also the daughter of the Marquis Menezes.”

“…Right.”

“Marcel… is it okay if he stays behind?”

Hearing Phyllis laugh at his brave question, Timeo gained courage. He resolved to tell her everything. He explained, using his hands and feet, the history of his persecution—how wicked his brother was and how he tormented him. Phyllis, momentarily forgetting the forest lovers, listened seriously under the bushes.

“Did you tell Father?”

“Adults care more for my brother than me.”

“But they’re both your sons. How could that be?”

“My brother, Marcel… he’s very ill.”

“Timeo, patients don’t make such paradoxical expressions. He always stared at you as if he’d devour you.”

“That’s not it, Marcel is…”

Perhaps Timeo had wanted to confide in someone. The surroundings were dark, and Phyllis waited patiently, letting him speak without questioning or rushing him. Her adult-like gaze and gentle prompts drew him in. He recounted everything: the terrible hereditary illness of Voilerban, his mother’s death, his brother’s dual nature, and sudden attacks. As he finished, a long shadow suddenly fell over them.

“What are you two talking about?”

It was Marcel.