---
*Crack! Rumble.*
Lightning split the clear sky, and white light flashed behind the curtains.
For the first time in a long while, the Duke pulled back the heavy drapes in his office and turned his face toward the heavens.
"It's going to rain."
The air carried a faint briny tang, thick with moisture.
"He told you not to come?"
"Yes, Your Grace." Olive's voice was carefully measured. "The funeral will be held quickly. If Your Grace is unable to attend due to ill health, they will understand. The letter was sent by Baronet Killon."
"That scum is still alive?"
"Unfortunately, yes," Olive agreed, his tone flat and dispassionate.
Count Adria's younger brother, Baronet Killon, had long been a disgrace to the family name. Drunkenness. Gambling. Women. He was a perpetual fountain of scandal and shame.
The decent and kind-hearted Count Adria had always helped his wayward brother regardless.
"When is the funeral?"
"In seven days," Olive answered quickly, barely containing the anger simmering beneath his words.
From here to the southern count's estate, even taking the fastest route, the journey required ten days.
Killon had deliberately delayed the letter.
"We leave immediately."
"Yes, Your Grace." Olive hesitated for only a breath. "Shall I prepare Miss Marin?"
"No."
The refusal was absolute.
"Miss Marin could be of great assistance," Olive pressed, regret threading through his voice.
Gerald settled into his chair and turned his head toward his aide.
"Olive. Do we have time for this discussion?"
"No, Your Grace. Forgive me."
Olive bowed his head. At that same moment, Gerald's attention shifted toward the office door.
It flew open.
Zero strode in, his nightgown billowing behind him like a pale specter. Without ceremony, he slammed a heavy wooden box onto the desk.
He studied Gerald's face in prolonged silence. Then, slowly, he inclined his head.
"Please accept my condolences."
"Thank you."
Zero turned and left without another word.
"Shall I open it?" Olive asked cautiously from beside the desk.
Gerald nodded in silence.
Inside lay an ebony cane.
Black. Smooth. Polished to a gleam that seemed almost liquid in the dim light.
"A cane," Olive murmured, admiring it with a pang of guilt. *He should have thought of this himself long ago.*
The Duke did not truly need a cane—but for appearances, it was essential.
Olive lifted the cane from its velvet bed and placed it in Gerald's waiting hand.
Gerald's fingers traced the weight of it, feeling along the shaft until they found a small protrusion near the handle. He pressed it.
A razor-sharp blade sprang from the tip with a soft *snick*.
The corner of Gerald's mouth lifted—a predator's smile.
"Not bad."
---
*Knock-knock-knock.*
Marin ground the mandrelson with steady, rhythmic motions, her gaze drifting involuntarily toward the window.
The pale blue pre-dawn sky looked as though someone had torn a hole through it. Rain poured down in relentless sheets.
"Haah..."
A deep sigh escaped her parted lips.
*The novel described the count's death in a single line: an accident. There wasn't even a precise timeline.*
She had known about the Duke's blindness. She had known about the tragedy awaiting the Count and his wife.
But she could not have helped.
Even if she had known the exact date—what then? What could she have done?
*Some Western commoner warns of misfortune befalling a southern count's family?*
She would have been branded a spy. Or a witch. Burned at the stake.
And no one would have believed her anyway.
"Haah..."
Still, her heart ached. A dull, throbbing pain that wouldn't fade.
Yulia, seated nearby and helping prepare the mandrelson paste, called out softly:
"Miss Marin?"
"Hm?"
"Why are you sighing so heavily?"
Seeing the worry creasing Yulia's face, Marin forced a tense smile and gently smoothed a hand over the girl's red hair.
"It's nothing. Yulia, thank you for helping—even though you didn't sleep."
"Oh, what are you saying? I'm happy to help!" Yulia's brow furrowed. "But why so much mandrelson paste? Do you have constant headaches? Perhaps I should tell the manager to send for a doctor..."
Marin had been using the excuse of headaches to justify making mandrelson paste every day.
But the truth could never be told.
Mandrelson was still a poisonous plant.
If something went wrong, Yulia—who had been helping prepare the paste—could be implicated alongside her.
*This must remain her burden alone.*
"It's just mild pain. This paste is exactly right for it."
"I see... then I'll keep trying my best."
"Thank you."
*We might have to leave for the south this morning. Traveling with the Duke requires a great deal of paste.*
The flower itself was a common weed, easy enough to find. But making the paste in secret was difficult. Best to stockpile now while she could.
At that moment, a knock sounded at the door.
"It's Olive."
Marin glanced quickly toward the window. A warm yellow streak of light had begun to peek through the pale sky.
"Yes?"
Yulia answered immediately and moved to rise, but Marin patted her shoulder and stood first.
"I'll get it."
"Alright."
Marin glanced down at her dress—already suitable for travel, ready to leave at a moment's notice.
She opened the door to find Olive standing there, his eyelids reddened and swollen.
His face, usually bright with easy smiles, was clouded with grief.
*Olive grew up alongside the Duke like a brother. He must have known the Duchess well.*
"Mr. Olive."
"Miss Marin."
Olive's eyes widened slightly when he noticed she was already wearing her traveling clothes.
"I'm ready," she said. "We can leave any moment."
Olive regarded her with quiet approval.
"You prepared in advance. That's precisely why I'm here."
"Are we leaving now?"
"No." His expression shifted, becoming guarded. "His Grace's orders: Miss Marin is to remain here."
"*What?* Why?"
Her pale green eyes flickered with undisguised disappointment.
"He didn't explain his reasons. Please rest for now."
As Olive turned to leave, Marin's hand shot out and grabbed the hem of his coat.
"Wait! His Grace *needs* me."
Olive paused. He looked at her again—and smiled, though the expression was crooked, almost sad.
"Yes. He does."
"Then *why*—"
Marin stared at him, bewildered.
Olive gently pried the fabric from her fingers. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Hesitated.
"Mr. Olive."
"Ah..." He exhaled. "I can guess the reason, but..."
"What reason?"
"Will you be able to ride in a carriage?"
"Ah..."
Marin's lips trembled.
*How does he know? And what exactly does he know?*
Her greenish eyes darted with worry, but Olive continued calmly:
"I don't know the cause, but I realized during our last journey that you cannot tolerate carriages."
Marin exhaled slowly, relief washing through her. *He thinks it's simply fear.*
"Then I'll ride horseback—"
Olive shook his head.
"It will be a forced march. The riders will barely sleep. A ten-day journey must be completed in seven. At least in the carriage, you could rest."
"Ah..."
Marin fell silent, her head dropping.
She couldn't claim she would manage the carriage.
The mere *thought* of it made her dizzy. Nauseous.
Olive regarded her with gentle pity.
"Then—I must take my leave."
Marin's head snapped up, her eyes pleading.
"May I at least see you off?"
Olive's expression softened, and he nodded.
"Of course. Will you come now?"
"Yes. Just give me a moment."
"I'll wait downstairs."
"Alright."
Marin hurried back into the room. Yulia was still carefully working the mandrelson paste.
"Yulia, may I ask a favor?"
"Yes?"
"I haven't slept all night—I'm starving." Marin pressed a hand to her stomach with exaggerated drama. "Could you please bring me some hot tea and a few warmed buns?"
"Of course! I'll fetch them right away."
Yulia smiled warmly and rose to her feet.
"Thank you."
The moment the door closed behind her, Marin moved.
She had told Yulia the paste was for her own use. Taking it openly would raise questions she couldn't answer.
*I need to slip out before she returns.*
Working quickly, Marin packed a small basket: cloth, a dry towel, and every jar of mandrelson paste she had prepared.
She needed to hurry.