The child in the Marchioness de Toten's arms was tiny—barely six years old, or so he appeared. The illness was immediately apparent without any explanation, and I understood at once that this was the son everyone had spoken of with such careful sorrow.
He looked far weaker than I had imagined. Now the butler's words about there being little hope no longer seemed like exaggeration. They seemed like mercy.
"Butler! What were you doing instead of bringing Ryder back to his room?"
A sharp cry made the butler bow his head in silent guilt.
"Please don't scold him!" The boy's voice emerged thin and reedy. "I asked him not to stop me!"
"Ryder..."
The Marchioness Toten stroked her son's head with extreme caution, as though she were touching something fragile—something that might shatter at the slightest pressure.
"Were you looking for me because I left your side?"
"Yes. And then a guest arrived, and I didn't want to just lie there alone."
The gazes of the Marchioness, the butler, and the child himself all turned toward me. There it was. The reason for everything happening here stood right before them.
I felt so awkward that I wanted to retreat behind Henna, but I immediately stopped myself. If I showed weakness now, rumors would spread by tomorrow that Evangeline Rohanson had ignored propriety and hidden behind her maid like a coward. I had to stand firm.
"*Ahem*... I'm Ryder Toten, my lady."
The boy's voice was so quiet it seemed he didn't even possess the strength to cough properly. As he introduced himself, gasping for breath between syllables, the guilt inside me became almost unbearable. I should have insisted that the Marchioness of Toten come to the Rohanson estate. Then none of this would have happened.
The Marchioness looked at me with a hint of expectation in her eyes, silently reminding me of the proprieties. I quickly gathered the hem of my dress and, following the rules Dolline had drilled into me, curtsied in return.
"I am Evangeline Rohanson. Thank you for welcoming me despite your ailment, Lord Toten."
I bowed with what I hoped was convincing modesty, but the mother and son regarded me strangely. _What? What's wrong?_ I had tried my best!
The Marchioness of Toten averted her gaze. It was like a momentary shock—perhaps she truly found it difficult to look directly at me. Instead of offering an awkward smile or any acknowledgment, she simply pretended not to notice me at all. This studied inattention was an unexpectedly subtle gesture of tact.
"Are you satisfied now? Your cough is worsening. Come—you need to return to your room immediately."
"*Cough, cough, cough*... Yes, Mother." The boy turned to me with obvious effort. "Lady Rohanson, I am unwell. Please forgive me—I must take my leave."
After my greeting, the Marchioness wasted no time in ushering Ryder away. He had fulfilled his duty as host; now he must immediately return to rest.
"Yes. Please take care of yourself."
The boy, despite his weakness and noticeable unsteadiness, refused to be carried. He leaned on a servant's supporting arm and walked on his own two feet, each step a small act of defiance against his failing body.
The Marchioness Toten watched him go. Only when her son had completely vanished from sight did she speak again, her voice barely above a whisper—so quiet that Ryder could no longer possibly hear:
"How old do you think he is?"
_Age?_ Six, I would have guessed. Perhaps even younger, if I were being charitable.
"About six."
"Ryder is eight." Her voice caught slightly. "But because of his illness, he appears much younger."
Now everything made sense. That explained why he spoke with such maturity, such careful precision despite his frail frame. It was as though the illness had stolen years from him, leaving his body even more fragile than it should have been at that age.
---
The Marchioness of Toten returned to her chair only when her son was completely out of sight. The flawless socialite mask had vanished from her features. She sank heavily into the cushions, almost collapsing, and now looked utterly exhausted—as though maintaining composure had drained her of everything.
"...You're right." Her voice emerged flat, resigned. "Since you've been frank with me, I'll tell you what's truly on my mind. What I really wanted was to see with my own eyes that Lady Rohanson had genuinely recovered."
This was her first honest confession.
"I wanted to understand how someone whom even holy water couldn't help was able to recover."
The Marchioness involuntarily glanced away. I followed her gaze and saw a decoration on the wall bearing the symbol of the sun god. It wasn't a simple emblem, but an intricately carved, complex design.
The same one I had already seen on Gabriel's uniform. The workmanship was too delicate, too ornate. Gabriel, who had painted Donau's body like a moth drawn to flame, certainly couldn't have reproduced something like this himself.
"That was too obvious a strategy." She managed a bitter smile. "You understood everything immediately, of course. I was simply taken aback—I hadn't expected you to speak first."
"Your butler gave me a hint."
"The butler...?"
"Yes. He is truly devoted to you and this house. And he tries to keep his efforts secret, so you remain unaware."
_Butler, I haven't forgotten about you! When you receive your bonus, remember that it's all thanks to me!_
The Marchioness of Toten clearly had no idea how much he had been working behind her back. She repeated the word thoughtfully several times:
"Butler... the butler...?"
She was probably considering whether to award him something—or calculating how generous the reward should be.
Having reached some internal conclusion, she stopped muttering and looked up at me again, returning to the heart of our conversation.
"Since you spoke first, may I ask directly? Is there a way to cure Ryder? How did you recover?" Her voice cracked with desperation. "Please tell me. If there's even the slightest chance for Ryder to improve, I'm willing to give *anything*..."
At last, this long-anticipated moment had arrived. The Marchioness de Toten probably saw me as a lifeline lowered from the heavens themselves.
But I would have to dash her hopes. It must feel like a physician pronouncing a terminal diagnosis. I braced myself for the full force of her anguish to fall upon me.
"I'm sorry that I cannot meet your expectations, but... there is no way."
"What?"
The Marchioness asked again, as though she hadn't heard correctly. For a moment, I wanted to smirk—thinking sarcastically that *one can't spit on a smiling face*—but I stopped myself in time.
In this setting, such an expression wouldn't appear merely impudent. It would look like pure madness. I quickly composed my features into something serious, though it probably wasn't particularly convincing. Acting had never been my strength.
"That's a lie." Her voice rose. "A lie, isn't it? You're simply hiding the truth from me! Why? Is my offer insufficient?" She leaned forward desperately. "I could give up the Marquis's house itself! Lady Rohanson, I *beg* you! Please tell me!"
The Marchioness had clearly decided I was concealing something vital. In her desperation, she had even included the entire Marquis's estate as a bargaining chip. With each word, she pressed closer, as if trying to extract an answer from me through sheer proximity.
"Marchioness, the truth is that there is nothing you can do."
Compassion squeezed my chest so tightly that I didn't even notice when I reached out and grasped her shoulders.
"Why won't you answer? Is it because I used Sir Gabriel to get closer to you? Yes, I had ulterior motives! But didn't it benefit you as well? Please—have mercy on Ryder! His situation mirrors your own so closely!"
Her face contorted with pain that could no longer be contained. She looked as though she might shatter into tears at any moment.
_No._ But in reality, there was nothing I could offer. Evangeline had died, and I had simply possessed her body through some inexplicable twist of fate. The Marchioness didn't believe me—of course she didn't. That was precisely why the butler had warned me in advance.
_Forgive me, Grandfather, but your secret mission is failing spectacularly._
This approach wasn't working. I needed to try a different angle. Explain that I truly had nothing to share. Wait—*rumors*. Yes. I could use the rumors.
"Have you heard the whispers claiming I'm not the real Evangeline?"
"Is that supposed to be true? Please don't mock me!" Her voice sharpened with indignation. "Such manners cannot be learned in a day or two!"
_Failure!_ It was all because Dolline had taught me too well! Not in a day or two, but in just a couple of weeks. That was how capable I apparently was.
I needed to construct an explanation the Marchioness would actually believe—something that would make her retreat. But my mind had gone blank. Desperately, I glanced at Henna, searching for any hint, and she, as if reading my thoughts, barely moved her lips to form a single word.
_Our Henna is a genius!_
Yes—the Marchioness Toten was a devout follower of the sun god, which meant this path should work. I leaned close and whispered in her ear, as though revealing a forbidden secret:
"I summoned a demon."
"*What?*"
"I prayed to a demon to bring Evangeline Rohanson back to life."
Henna, watching me, silently mouthed the word *demon*, then shuddered and covered her mouth with her hand. She seemed startled by how effectively her suggestion had landed.
I smiled—the same smile that had once terrified Donau. Acting wasn't my forte, but playing a villain came surprisingly naturally. Perhaps because Evangeline *was* a villain, and everything she did inevitably took on darker undertones in the eyes of those around her.
"Tell me, Marchioness—would you be able to turn away from Rachel, whom you love so dearly, and turn instead to a demon?"
Of course not. The Marchioness of Toten was a zealous follower of the sun cult, and in this world of books, the influence of religion was felt with particular intensity. It wasn't coincidental that saints were so revered. Her reaction was entirely predictable: for several long moments, the Marchioness was simply speechless.
But just to be certain—as if hammering the final nail into the coffin of her hope—I added:
"And what if the price demanded isn't the Marquis's house, but a human life? What if it's the life of a completely innocent person?"
This idea hadn't arisen from nowhere. It was precisely this theory that the rumors had once proposed to explain why Evangeline had been buying children. The same wild speculation that had made Misa cry out that she couldn't work with human skin.
Later, from Misa, I learned that the most common hypothesis was the belief that Evangeline required human lives to sustain her own health.
Even though I had used this terrifying version to finally shatter the Marchioness de Toten's false expectations, an uneasy feeling lingered inside me. If such rumors persisted, then I truly needed to step into society and dispel them through my own actions.
---
## — Ryder —
Returning to his room at the Marchioness's insistence, Ryder found himself in a deeply melancholy state.
"Am I... a burden?"
"Not at all." Luck shook his head firmly. "You conducted yourself admirably."
The way the boy had performed his duty as host—greeting a guest despite obvious pain—was remarkably mature for his age. Moreover, though he could have collapsed at any moment, he had walked to his room unaided.
"How did I appear from the outside, butler? Did I look like the Marquis of Toten?"
"Yes. Very much so. The late Marquis would have been extremely pleased to see you."
Only when Luck invoked the late Marquis in his praise did Ryder seem genuinely satisfied. His shoulders relaxed slightly. He staggered momentarily, and Luck quickly extended a steadying hand, but the boy caught himself against the wall and regained his balance.
"Forgive me... I'll rest now..."
Luck silently admired the child's fortitude. His body was wasted, as if death already had one hand upon his shoulder, yet he never allowed that weakness to show.
If he hadn't been cursed with that failing body, he would have been perfect for the role of heir to House Toten. If the boy had been born healthy, Luck probably wouldn't have had to devise such schemes behind the Marchioness's back.
"Don't strain yourself. Lean on me." He kept his voice gentle. "No one can see us, can they?"
Ryder was one of those rare children who cared about appearances—not only before other aristocrats, but even before the servants of the household. He wanted to appear to them not as a sickly boy, but as a true heir to the Marquis's throne.
As the butler had noted, everyone in the house was currently occupied with receiving a guest they hadn't entertained in far too long. The upper floors stood empty.
Convinced by this reasoning, Ryder allowed the butler to lift him. Luck was startled by how light the child felt in his arms—like carrying a bundle of hollow reeds—but he concealed his shock and carried the boy toward his chambers.