Gerald stirred from a deep sleep, as though he had drifted back through the years to childhood.
"Heeee—!"
The horses harnessed to the carriage let out long, desperate neighs. Foam frothed at their mouths as they collapsed one after another onto the dirt road.
They had covered a ten-day journey in six, racing through the nights without rest.
The mandrelson paste that Temporary had prepared proved remarkably effective. Each time he applied it, the burning pain in his eyes subsided, and sometimes—*sometimes*—he even managed brief snatches of sleep.
"We've arrived, Your Grace."
Olive's voice came from outside, rough with exhaustion.
Gerald concentrated on the sounds drifting from Count Adria's house. His heightened senses caught whispers that were never meant to be heard.
"The Duke will be here any minute. *Damn it.* What's a blind idiot doing here?"
"Darling, they'll hear us—"
"Who'll hear? Damn it. I... my brother and sister-in-law..."
"Shh. Speak quietly."
"Who could possibly hear what we say in this room?"
Gerald removed his blindfold and let it fall to the carriage floor. Then, gripping his cane, he stepped outside.
With his eyes closed and the ebony cane in hand, he appeared truly blind.
"This way, Your Grace."
He followed the sound of Olive's voice and footsteps.
The guards stationed at the Count's gates bowed hastily, faces tense with unease, and pulled open the iron doors.
Gerald and Olive entered the mansion.
The butler of the Adria household—a man named Moro—came rushing out to greet them, bowing low.
"Y-Your Grace! Welcome!"
Gerald stood motionless, his expression utterly blank.
Ignoring the butler's frantic bows, Olive surveyed the entrance hall with sharp eyes. He stepped forward.
"We sent a letter informing you of our arrival the day before. Where are the Count's daughters and son?"
Moro dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief, his hesitation palpable.
"T-the thing is..."
Olive's gaze turned cold.
"Why don't you answer immediately?"
"You see, we... we didn't receive any letter..."
"Welcome, Your Grace."
A new voice cut through the tension, dripping with false courtesy.
"It must have been such a hardship, traveling all this way with your eyes in such a state. You really needn't have troubled yourself."
Olive turned toward the speaker.
A handsome man with golden hair and bright blue eyes descended the grand staircase at a leisurely pace.
Baronet Killon.
Behind him walked a woman in a black mourning dress—though the gown was trimmed with jewels far too extravagant for grief.
"If you had warned us in advance," Killon continued smoothly, "we would have at least arranged a proper reception. My apologies."
"We sent a letter the day before," Olive replied, his smile polite—and razor-sharp with sarcasm. "I'm curious. Did no one receive it?"
Killon's expression flickered. He rounded on the butler cowering behind him.
"*Butler.* Did you receive the letter? Why didn't you report it to me?"
"S-sorry, my lord! I didn't receive it either!"
Moro was sweating as though he'd been dunked in water, his excuses tumbling over one another.
"Ah. So that's how it is." Olive inclined his head, his tone dripping with false understanding. "No one received it."
"Darling." The woman at Killon's side tugged gently at his cuff. "Won't you introduce me?"
"Oh—yes. My betrothed."
The woman stepped forward, her movements languid and practiced.
"Greetings, Your Grace. It is an *honor* to meet you." Her scarlet lips curved into a smile. "I am Jelmia Rose."
She fixed the Duke with a look that was half-lidded and brazenly inviting.
Olive regarded her as though she were something mildly absurd, then turned back to Killon without acknowledgment.
"Where are the Count's daughters and son?"
Killon's jaw tightened for just a moment before his smile returned.
"The children are consumed with grief. They've refused to leave their rooms."
"But since His Grace has arrived, they are obligated to greet him."
"Exactly! I'll give them a proper scolding. You simply *can't* reason with young people these days. Ha-ha-ha—"
*Knock.*
The cane struck the marble floor.
The stone cracked beneath it with a sharp, grinding crunch.
"*Oooh—!*"
Moro, who had been watching from behind, went limp and collapsed to the floor in terror.
Killon and Jelmia turned pale. They stared at the Duke.
His eyes remained closed. His scarlet lips curved into a smile—cold as winter frost.
"It's too noisy. You're buzzing about like mayflies."
"W-what impudence!" Killon's voice rose in outrage, though his eyes betrayed his fear, flickering like a cornered animal's. "We are in *mourning!*"
"To my room."
The Duke spoke as though Killon were nothing more than a dog barking in the distance—utterly beneath his notice. The command was directed at Olive alone.
"Yes, Your Grace."
Moro scrambled to his feet on trembling legs.
"I-I'll show you the way."
They disappeared down the corridor, following the quaking butler.
---
Jelmia glanced at the cracked marble, then arranged her features into an expression of wounded delicacy. She pressed herself against Killon's chest.
"My *goodness.* His Grace is too much. How dare he treat you with such disregard, my dear—and you a *baronet,* no less."
Killon glared down the empty corridor as though staring at a sworn enemy. His teeth ground together.
He raked his fingers roughly through his golden hair, venting his fury.
"We'll see what tune he sings when *I* become the Count."
"When you're Count, will His Grace still be able to order you about?"
At Jelmia's honeyed consolation, Killon's expression softened. He pulled her into a tight embrace.
"Jelmia... I'll make you a Countess soon. Only one more day. Just wait."
"Yes." She smiled against his chest. "I'll wait." Then, gently, she pushed him away, freeing herself from his arms with practiced ease. "But darling—you're so busy, aren't you? Go quickly."
"True. So much to do." He released her with visible reluctance. "Damn it all—I didn't expect the Duke to arrive before I found that boy. We'll talk later."
"Later, darling."
She watched him climb the stairs, his footsteps heavy and loud.
When he disappeared from view and only Jelmia remained in the entrance hall, she drifted toward the spot where the Duke had struck the floor.
"I didn't think the Duke would actually come." She traced a finger along the edge of the crack, her scarlet eyes dancing with interest. "He must have loved his sister more than I thought. *Ho-ho.*"
Whistling softly to herself, she studied the fractured marble without looking away.
*A puppet—and such a greedy one, at that. So very convenient.*
---
Meanwhile, Killon ascended to the third floor and retrieved a key from his pocket.
*Not presenting the children when the Duke arrived would raise questions.*
"Damn the Vines," he muttered through clenched teeth.
He was sick to death of everything connected to that bloodline.
His sister-in-law had meddled in all his affairs. Even while *dying,* she had managed to smuggle away the youngest—Perido—and ruin his carefully laid plans.
If both his brother and the boy had died, the title of Count would have reverted to him naturally.
*If only his sickly brother had died young.*
*If only his sister-in-law had borne only daughters, never a son.*
*If only his brother hadn't tossed him this pathetic baronet title—a rank so low that even knights looked down upon it.*
Then he wouldn't have had to dispose of his brother and sister-in-law with his own hands.
Killon stared into the empty air, his eyes blazing with old fury.
*They were to blame for everything.*
He inserted the key into the heavy lock and turned it.
The door swung open. He stepped inside.
Three girls leaped to their feet.
Killon surveyed his nieces with unconcealed displeasure.
The eldest—**Daya**. Her hair was lustrous black, her eyes a deep green like a forest canopy, her lips soft and pink. She regarded him from beneath her lashes with cold indifference.
Beside her stood the second sister—**Garnet**. Her thick golden hair gleamed like molten metal; her green eyes, tilted at the corners like a cat's, blazed with open hostility.
And the youngest—**Rubiena**. Delicate in appearance, with light brown hair and pale green eyes, her small frame cowered anxiously behind Garnet.
Having inherited the finest features of their handsome parents, all three sisters were dazzlingly beautiful.
Garnet and Rubiena were fifteen and nine years old respectively—still so very young.
But Killon was already dreaming of the day he could marry them off, one by one, to wealthy aristocrats.