CHAPTER 94…………………………
The nobles snatched up the land documents the steward had brought as if they were grabbing treasure, and hurried out of the guest room.
The grantor bowed his head toward their retreating backs without a word of farewell.
“If you ever need money, please come see the Grantor’s Guild.”
Only then did the grantor, who had been seated, lift the teacup he had not touched.
“Have some. It’s a new tea we just brought in.”
The steward didn’t even glance at the teacup and spoke in a voice full of complaint.
“Even if you add up what you’ve given them so far, it must be several times the price of that land. Why aren’t you charging interest?”
Although he grew excited, calling it a losing business, the grantor only smiled faintly.
“Those things aren’t worth holding onto anyway.”
“Pardon? What do you mean by that?”
“They are our most faithful customers at the gambling house — the ones who just changed their contracts this time.”
“That’s right. Lately they’ve been coming more often, and they’re even paying back their loans. Where on earth did they get that kind of money?”
“Seems they met a merchant as generous as me.”
Why was he so relaxed?
Was he still too tired from travel to understand the situation?
The steward, frustrated, watched the grantor leisurely sip his tea.
The grantor looked at the steward, who was blowing out a rough sigh, and said,
“They’ll come back to me, so there’s no need to be so anxious.”
“They’ll come back?”
“Yes. And make it clear from now on that you can’t borrow money using land documents — anywhere, not just from the gambling house.”
“Then how are they supposed to get money…?”
“Tell them only tangible valuables like jewels will do. Our Grantor’s Guild will no longer handle documents.”
The steward wanted to ask why, but this wasn’t the kind of grantor who would explain, so he said he understood and hurried out of the mansion.
Back in his study, the grantor picked up the report lying on the desk.
The newly drafted contracts, the import-export status of grains, and even the grain market prices in the capital and various regions were all meticulously organized.
“Hmm—what did they sell to pay off all that debt? Our noble clients…”
As he read the report, something caught the grantor’s eye.
“Not by selling, but by not selling — did they make their money that way?”
He called for one of the guild boys who ran errands and was quick on his feet.
While waiting, he folded a short handwritten letter into an envelope, melted wax, and pressed a seal with no design.
News that Naz had begun consultations in Lady Chalet’s glass garden spread in an instant.
Ladies who had been eagerly waiting for her couldn’t stop contacting them.
The reservation-only consultations, run more thoroughly than before, made them even more impatient.
Rumors that Naz’s foresight had become sharper and more accurate only added to the frenzy.
“Mrs. Chalet, is this name on the list correct?”
“Yes. Is there something odd about it?”
“No, it just sounded familiar — I think I’ve seen it before.”
Everett’s gaze, skimming the list Lady Chalet had brought, stopped on the last name.
The Countess Kestarian.
At the sight of that name, Eliza — the first person Naz had consulted when she opened a tarot shop in Marsha’s tavern — came to mind.
Eliza had belonged to the Kestarian family, the household into which the young soldier who had caused her death had married.
“A countess? I thought Lady Dora’s mother was deceased. Could the count have remarried in the meantime?”
The maid Eliza incident: the starting point that had made Naz known as a fortune-teller, and a name that lay heavy in her heart.
“It really is as beautiful as they say.”
A woman who had written “Countess Kestarian” on the list came in exclaiming in flustered admiration.
Her makeup was overdone for someone of a countess’s rank.
The way she wore an assortment of jewelry, jangling and conspicuous, made her eagerness to be recognized as a noblewoman obvious.
“Welcome, Countess Kestarian.”
The woman laughed loudly and waved her hand.
“Oh, being called countess makes me a bit shy. Just call me Joan.”
Everett only nodded lightly in response.
“What would you like to know?”
Joan leaned forward and whispered low toward Everett.
“Um… do you also… cast curses?”
“…Curses?”
“Yes. You’re a fortune-teller, right? Don’t you do curses and the like?”
If it were that kind of thing, he should refer her to a sorcerer. He was about to say so, but then he changed his mind.
“Curses are rather expensive.”
One corner of Joan’s mouth curved up. She took out a heavy purse from the bag she’d brought.
“If it’s money you want, I can give you as much as you like.”
She slid the money pouch toward Everett.
“Please cast a very effective curse.”
“Countess Kestarian, I do not practice curses.”
“Then why did you say it’s expensive — why even haggle?”
Everett theatrically waved his hand as if spreading the arcana into the air.
Then—
“A woman in love fears nothing. Right now, Countess, you’re in a desperate kind of love.”
Startled, Joan stared at Everett through the glittering eyes visible behind his black mask.
While speaking with her, Everett had asked the arcana about her.
Five pentacles — depicting a man and a woman — walked laboriously across the table, invisible to Joan.
It was the same card Eliza had once drawn.
“You can tell that from cards? Then I could really be a….”
She seemed to be asking whether she could truly become a countess.
Joan’s excited expression overlapped in Everett’s mind with Eliza’s face.
“So—then you’re saying you won’t cast the curse?”
Everett smiled.
“Is the curse meant to be about a lover? From how desperate you seem—”
“No, it isn’t!” Joan snapped.
“Why would I curse my lover? It’s not him—”
Seeing her hesitate, Everett took out a finely decorated pen and paper.
“Please tell me the name of the person you want cursed.”
Faced with the prompt, Joan hesitated.
“If you’ve changed your mind—”
“It’s Alain.”
“Alain. And the surname?”
“Alain Kind.”
Everett wrote down the name, calling it out in runes she wouldn’t recognize.
“I don’t recall hearing of the Kind family.”
“It’s Alain Kind,” she repeated.
Everett put the pen down with a tap and sighed deeply.
“Joan, do you know what happens if a curse fails?”
“…….”
“The caster receives the curse back.”
“R-really?”
“If you curse someone whose name you don’t even know properly, the spell is certain to fail. Then what would happen to me? Ah—so you should cast it yourself, Joan.”
Everett roughly pushed the money pouch back toward her.
“I know you came to me at the request of someone you love.”
Her eyes widened.
“That’s why, although I never do such things, I said I’d do it just because of that feeling. But you’ve changed your mind now.”
“No, that’s not it—wait!”
Panicked, Joan awkwardly stood up and reached out, trying to grab Everett.
“I was going to tell you. I just couldn’t remember for a moment. Really.”
Joan cast a cringing, awkward smile and looked around. Then, in a voice even lower than when she’d requested the curse, she said.
“Kestarian. Alain Kind Kestarian, Count Kestarian.”
He was Dora Kestarian’s father.
“Huh? Count Kestarian? Your husband?”
Everett raised his voice as if surprised; Joan flinched and repeatedly hissed for him to be quiet.
“Husband? Do you expect anyone to believe that I’m the wife of that old geezer? Do I look like I’d be married to him?”
“Because you wrote ‘Countess Kestarian’ on the list…”
Her dress, jewelry, and even the bag she carried suited her not at all.
Most conspicuous among them was a bulky ring.
Joan held out the ring on her left hand and laughed.
“I’ll soon be Countess Kestarian. Using it a little early isn’t wrong, is it?”
—If only that old man would hurry and die.
Joan muttered that last thought inwardly.
“I see. Then I’ll ask again: what kind of curse do you want to place on Alain Kind, Count Kestarian?”
“Make him die quickly.”
To say such things so casually, even for a curse.
Just from that, Everett felt he could imagine how the Count had been living.
“Have you ever done anything before with the intention that he die?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I ask because repeating the same curse reduces its effect.”
“Oh, no need to worry about that. I’ve only ever done one, so you needn’t be concerned.”
When Everett tried to probe what method, Joan wouldn’t say.
But if it was Chadra who killed Dora, he might have used a similar method.
After writing a few more meaningless lines, Everett carefully folded the paper and handed it to her.
“You’ll be the real Countess Kestarian soon. Congratulations.”
Joan smiled in satisfaction and loudly promised she would give more money if it succeeded.
“Burn that paper on the night of the full moon. Gather the ashes and place them under the bed of the person you want cursed.”
“When will he die then? I want him to die fast.”
“Curses are funny things: although they harm others, they need earnest feeling.”
“Earnest… feeling?”
“Yes. The result can change depending on how desperately you want it.”
