Chapter 16
The next day.
Lizzy Atkins’s ambitious resolution to fix up the rear garden and lure Cyrus out was growing fast—like the Letia flowers in the seasonal flower bed.
At least, it was—until she actually saw the state of the garden.
—So the Duke of Blanchard supposedly killed someone named Marlon or whatever, killed the elders too, killed the servants working at the mansion, and what?
—I told you! He buried them all in the rear garden! It’s true! Willard, who used to work here as a gardener, told me himself!
Q. Describe in four characters your emotional state upon realizing that a rumor you dismissed as nonsense might actually have some credibility. (5 points)
“Freaking hell.”
Grabbing her hair in frustration, Lizzy groaned. Garrett just shrugged his black wings.
[Didn’t I tell you? It’s a mess.]
“A mess? This isn’t a mess…”
…it’s hell.
The disastrous state of the rear garden flooded Lizzy’s vision.
The place was so overgrown that it was impossible to tell where the paths ended and the flower beds began. The plants were either tangled beyond recognition or dry and crispy, clearly dead long ago.
Frozen soil from winter frost, yellowed evergreens, and a once-glorious glass greenhouse now hideous and abandoned.
Judging by the garden alone, you’d believe the mansion had been abandoned decades ago rather than belonging to a duke.
No wonder rumors had spread about corpses being buried there.
“Haa…”
There really was a reason the guy had become so gloomy!
Shaking her head, Lizzy stared at the ruined garden. With all these botanical corpses lying around, how could anyone maintain a hopeful mindset?
That faithful farmhand who used to be so earnest and sincere—how he turned into a villain made perfect sense now.
“….”
Ignoring the side effects of the antidote she’d brewed herself, Lizzy shifted the blame for creating a villain onto the garden and gripped her shovel tightly.
Soil, water, wind, sunlight.
This place had all the necessary conditions for life, and yet it had been left in such horrifying neglect. Deep inside her, the instincts of a druid (and her lingering conscience from her past as a serial herbalist) began to boil.
Squelch. Thud. Squelch. Thud.
A strangely rhythmic sound echoed from outside.
Inside the mansion, butler Bernadette Ward could hardly believe her ears.
“…She’s doing what?”
The maid looked nervous as she answered.
“Well… the garden, um…”
“She’s digging it up?!”
That last line wasn’t finished by the maid.
Bernadette had turned her head and spotted a neatly dressed blond man with his nose pressed against the garden window, and let out a sigh.
It was Niles Honeycutt, the Duke of Blanchard’s secretary.
“Secretary.”
Before she could ask him to act with some dignity, Niles turned suddenly and pointed outside in shock.
“B-But! The garden is supposed to—!”
“I told the gardener not to touch it. You begged me, remember? Said if the new hire saw the place, she’d run screaming.”
“…”
Begged…?
Noticing the maid’s pitying eyes, Niles sputtered defensively.
“I-I didn’t cry!”
Then he pressed his nose to the glass again.
It was as if he had to double-check the absurd scene unfolding outside.
The butler was annoyed by the smudges he was leaving on the freshly cleaned window but approached silently.
What did “digging up the garden” even mean?
That place wasn’t exactly… diggable.
“…It wasn’t.”
Bernadette fell silent after glancing outside.
Squelch. Thud. Squelch. Thud.
Wearing the same odd dress from her first day with a brown leather apron on top, the new gardener was swinging her shovel with carrot-colored hair flying behind her.
Sure, it was normal for a gardener to dig.
But…
“Isn’t that ground completely frozen?”
The maid dumbly nodded at Niles’s question.
There had been heavy frost overnight. Even the windows were coated with ice.
The soil had to be rock-solid.
“Then how is she even…?”
Yet the carrot-haired girl’s shovel sank cleanly into the frozen ground—again and again.
Squelch. Thud. Squelch. Thud.
“…What kind of experience does that gardener have again?”
“Uh…”
Niles tried to recall the paperwork Lizzy had submitted when applying.
“…She just said she did some farming and took care of a private garden…”
“….”
“….”
What kind of farm was that, exactly…?
The same baffled question popped up in everyone’s head who saw the garden being torn apart—whether by coincidence or due to a rushed tip-off.
A tiny girl had volunteered for a job everyone avoided.
It was enough to make the whole staff suspicious.
But their suspicions had begun to shift direction.
—Maybe she’s an eccentric genius?
—No, she probably got an advance on her pay and enchanted the shovel.
—I heard it was just some shovel lying around the shed.
—Yup, definitely an eccentric.
—Or she’s an assassin. But instead of using poison, she uses… a shovel.
—Would an assassin work that hard?
—Maybe she’s digging to find the bodies of her fallen comrades.
—……
—……
—Why would you say something like that?
—What? What did I say?
Squelch. Thud. Squelch. Thud.
Lizzy, digging with all her might, was completely unaware of the wild rumors surrounding her.
Raising her head to her oddly blurry vision, Lizzy looked around in surprise.
The sun had dipped halfway past the grassy hill.
“Wow.”
Time flies when you’re shoveling.
She hadn’t even reached the pond yet, but about one-third of the garden had been cleared. Lizzy straightened up with pride.
“Feels good pulling out all those dead plants and trees.”
Druids had the remarkable ability to revive plants—but not ones that were completely dead.
Restoring the dead was the domain of the divine.
So Lizzy didn’t hesitate to rip out the dried-up plants.
While plants usually clung to life longer than animals, none had survived years of neglect here.
Except for one patch.
“…”
Her gaze drifted to one corner of the garden near the pond.
There, in the middle of death and decay, bloomed a vivid clump of Peculium flowers.
Thick, leafless stems topped with bright red blossoms—vibrant and impossibly alive for winter.
In the bleak landscape, this bizarre and blood-red spectacle had earned a nickname from the mansion staff:
“The Grave.”
They believed this was where the Duke had buried the bodies.
“…”
An intense silence fell between Lizzy and the Peculium.
Of course, plants didn’t talk—but still.
After their tense stare-down, Lizzy finally muttered:
“Must’ve been really well loved.”
She shrugged.
A surprisingly down-to-earth conclusion.
All life was part of nature’s cycle.
Plants fed on animal nutrients. Animals died and became nutrients for plants.
Once you accepted that, there was no reason to fear the flowers—no matter what lay beneath.
Still, as she walked back to her hut, Lizzy couldn’t help but wonder:
‘If those Peculium are blooming that brightly… someone’s been taking real good care of them.’
But who?
BANG! CRASH—THUD!
Late at night, a sudden, violent noise shattered the silence of the sleeping mansion.
The sound of something falling and clanging—like metal scraping against stone and bodies hitting the floor.
“…!”
Startled as if doused with cold water, Bernadette leapt from bed, wrapped herself in a shawl, and stepped into the hallway.
There, nervous maids peeked out of their rooms.
“B-Butler…”
“Back to your rooms, now!”
She barked, then rushed straight to the fourth floor.
Though half-asleep, she recognized the sound far too well.
She knew what it was—and exactly where it came from.
“….”
The corridor on the fourth floor reeked faintly of blood.
Bernadette followed the trail, the coppery scent thickening as she approached the shattered door to the study.
And when she arrived, she fell silent.
“….”
In the center of the room stood Cyrus Blanchard—drenched in blood.
Under the faint moonlight, his beautiful face glowed eerily, like a sculpture inlaid with crimson gemstones.
His black nightgown was torn and slashed, but he bore no serious injuries.
The same could not be said for the assassin collapsed at his feet.
It was hard to tell whether the attacker was alive or dead—so disfigured was his body.
A black-stained dagger, about the length of a forearm, lay on the floor, dripping blood onto the pale-blue carpet.
Cyrus watched the spreading stains silently, then spoke.
“Clean it up.”
His voice was calm and cold—unbelievably so, given the intense struggle that had clearly just taken place.
Bernadette met his amethyst eyes and inhaled sharply.
They held no rage, no fear, no disappointment.
They were completely empty.
“…Yes. I’ll call the captain of the knights.”
Cyrus didn’t seem to care.
He removed his nightgown and wiped the blood from his face and hands—not gently, but forcefully. He even cleaned the blade before walking away.
His bare torso, aside from old scars, was breathtaking—but thinner than usual.
Naturally so.
If someone had broken into the study at this hour, it meant Cyrus hadn’t gone to bed at all.
“To your chambers, then?” Bernadette asked.
Grabbing some bloodied documents and an old bag from the desk, Cyrus replied:
“I’ll be in the library.”
“…Understood.”
Watching his indifferent retreat, Bernadette let out a thin, sharp sigh.
“When will this cursed smell of blood ever leave…”
Shaking her head in disgust, she nudged the assassin’s shoulder with her slippered foot.
“Ugh…”
A faint groan escaped the man’s mouth.
“Tsk.”
Clicking her tongue, Bernadette pulled a stark white handkerchief from her pocket, wiped her now-bloodstained shoe, and turned to go call the knight commander.
She had to get rid of the bastard before the blood soaked any deeper into the carpet.
🗻