"Nothing's been decided yet. There's still the Marquise de Toten..."
"There are two days left until the Crown Prince's birthday. Do you really think the Marchioness will contact you in that time?"
It seemed Raphael had never encountered people simply vanishing into the shadows without explanation. As someone with considerably more life experience in such matters, I decided to enlighten him.
_Let me tell you something, Raphael. When a person "dives"—whether in a romantic relationship or a professional partnership—they usually never resurface. That's precisely why they call it "taking a dive."_
"Or there's my mother," he continued, desperation creeping into his voice. "If the enemy is a duchess, Bishop Marik won't be able to do anything against her."
"But you said you'd broken ties with her?"
"No! She's just *saying* that!" Raphael's words tumbled out in a rush. "She's actually worried about me—I know she is. I'll grab the hem of her dress and beg her to be your chaperone if I have to."
He blurted this out almost frantically. Genuine concern etched lines across his face. So he did possess a sense of duty after all. It touched me, just a little.
"And also..." He lowered his voice. "It seems you're being followed."
_What?_
That detail hadn't appeared in Gabriel's letter. Were they truly watching me because of these ridiculous rumors? But I hardly ever left the house! How were they even planning to keep tabs on me?
Before I could respond, Jelly—who had been peacefully picking grapes behind us with an air of complete indifference—spoke up without so much as glancing our way.
"Oh, that guy who was always lurking around the house? I already took care of it."
_Took care of it?_
Wait—Jelly! Had he been secretly patrolling the perimeter and performing dark heroic deeds this entire time? And here I'd been thinking he was just lounging about, scolding him constantly for his laziness!
"What do you mean, 'took care of it'?" Raphael's voice sharpened. "If their observer disappears, they'll become even *more* suspicious!"
It seemed I truly had been unfair to Jelly. Perhaps there was no reason to scold him after all.
Raphael, who hadn't immediately registered who had spoken, flared up—then caught sight of Jelly and faltered, embarrassment flickering across his features.
"Lady... by the way, who is this?"
_Is this really the first time they've met?_
"Me?" Jelly answered before I could. "I'm Jelly."
"I'm asking the *lady*!"
A thin spark of tension crackled between them. _Oh no._ Could Raphael actually see him as a rival for Daisy's heart? Since Daisy was clearly drawn to Raphael now, I should have taken his side. I scrambled for an explanation.
"Jelly is... my dog?"
_Oh._
In my haste to avoid creating unnecessary complications with Daisy and explain our relationship as simply as possible, I hadn't even noticed what I'd said. Wonderful. Now they would think I was discriminating against werewolves...
"That is—a werewolf who serves me. Like a dog."
I corrected myself, but the words had already escaped. _Doesn't that sound even worse?_ Like something a malicious employer would say? Raphael scratched his ear with the expression of someone who had just heard something deeply questionable.
_Sorry, sorry!_
Jelly himself didn't seem the least bit offended by being called a dog. He merely wagged his tail obediently.
_With a tail?_
Did I imagine it? He was in human form. I must have imagined it.
_No, I didn't imagine it!_
Jelly really did have a tail. And ears too. When the pointed ears atop his head pricked forward, my hand twitched involuntarily. So I *had* been right last time! But why were they showing now, when he usually hid them so skillfully?
Fortunately, Raphael didn't seem to notice—he was still busy scratching his own ear. I shot Jelly a desperate glare. _Get rid of them! Now!_
He immediately retracted both ears and tail.
"What are you doing?"
"Huh? This?" Jelly blinked innocently. "The owner likes things like that, right?"
"Do I? *Me?*"
What nonsense! Why would I like that?
"Yes. Isn't that why you only ever pet Fl—I mean, Pudding?"
_Ah._
So he wasn't referring to some bizarre preference—he simply meant I favored animals over him. And here I'd been imagining all sorts of terrible things! It seemed Jelly was jealous of Pudding, which explained why he constantly emphasized that I was his boss. But the comparison was absurd. Pudding was still a child. He naturally required more care and attention.
I was about to reprimand Jelly and tell him to act his age, but I noticed Raphael's gaze. He was studying Jelly with obvious bewilderment, as if uncertain how to approach him.
_Had he actually noticed the ears and tail?_
Unlike before, Raphael spoke to Jelly in an unexpectedly soft, almost cautious voice.
"Uh... ahem... you..."
"Are you calling me?"
"If you are being subjected to any kind of... *unacceptable pressure*... be sure to report it."
"What?"
_What on earth is he talking about?!_ Unacceptable pressure?! Did he take me for some sort of perverted werewolf slave collector? At this rate, I'd be adding yet another entry to my already extensive list of scandalous rumors. How could I even defend myself? Saying "I don't like werewolves" was impossible—that would sound even more suspicious! They'd probably assume I was trying to conceal my true tastes, and the situation would spiral into something far worse and infinitely more depraved!
Jelly seemed taken aback at first, but a moment later he burst into laughter so violent he nearly toppled from his chair.
"Hey, you're funny. So you're suggesting I file a complaint about my boss?"
_Don't call me boss!_ You've never used that word before! Don't create grounds for new suspicions!
"Even if I did report her..." Jelly wiped tears of mirth from his eyes. "Who would be able to handle her?"
Still chuckling, he returned to picking grapes. Occasionally, as if to show off his dexterity, he tossed berries toward Pudding, inviting him to catch them.
But our proud Pudding caught one grape... and hurled it straight back at Jelly's face with such determination it might have been a projectile rather than a fruit.
Jelly took the grape square on the nose and erupted into fresh laughter, as if this were the finest entertainment in the world. _Where exactly was the werewolf suffering from unfair exploitation?_ He seemed more like an unemployed vagabond who had found himself a generous patron and was living quite comfortably, thank you very much!
I glared at Raphael indignantly, and he immediately looked away.
"Ha-ha-ha... Of course it's a joke. You understand, right?"
_No, I don't understand!_ I had actually been trying to support his romance with Daisy, and in return he was branding me as a malicious exploiter!
I continued to stare at him. Raphael visibly began to fidget, hastily gathering his things.
"Just in case, I'll still try to meet with my mother."
He was attempting to flee.
_Where do you think you're going?!_
"No need."
"...What?"
Even if he grabbed her skirts and wept, would it work? From any common-sense perspective, the chances were nonexistent.
If I were in her position—if my son, having severed ties with the world and entered a monastery, suddenly reappeared years later begging me to protect his romantic interest and become her chaperone—I would throw him out in indignation. I felt sorry for the Duchess, truly, but such an idea needed to be discarded immediately.
"Is Bishop Marik the kind of person who would readily agree to become a chaperone for a lady she doesn't know?"
"No." Raphael's shoulders slumped. "She's kind, but she knows her limits. Even if you asked, she's unlikely to agree."
_Exactly._
If such a person was *offering* her services, it meant she found me extremely suspicious. If one listened to all the rumors swirling around Evangeline, many were so dark that the average person would scarcely believe them—and from there, it was a short leap to suspecting demonic possession.
"If the Marquise de Toten doesn't appear, I will accept Bishop Marik's offer."
"But Bishop Marik is *dangerous*—"
"A desperate refusal will only make me appear more suspicious."
Regardless of the genre, whenever someone flees, the suspicious parties inevitably seize them and launch an investigation. The more you hide and evade, the more suspicions multiply—and the more persistently they pursue you.
They would dig everywhere, conducting such a thorough inquiry that I would constantly be accused of obstructing their efforts. I would stake my own lock of hair that Bishop Marik would do precisely that. So running wasn't the wisest option. Far better to keep moving forward.
And most importantly—the *me* of today was no longer the same.
That disastrous period when I played my part terribly, constantly betraying signs of possession? _Long gone._ After all, I had learned more than just etiquette and dancing! Allow me to introduce a renewed Evangeline—honed by Dollina's exacting instructions and Daisy's memories of the original!
Now I was confident I could fool even Count Rohanson himself. Speaking of which, he had—for reasons I couldn't fathom—suddenly suggested we have lunch together on the day of the reception. A perfect opportunity for a little test.
_Although, isn't it customary to fast on the day of a ball?_ What a tactless man. Then again, perhaps that explained why he seemed equally indifferent to whether his daughter had become a villain or been possessed by someone else entirely.
"I beg you..." Raphael muttered, almost to himself. "Let the Marquise de Toten come..."
_What a strange man._ It seemed Raphael truly didn't trust me after all. Or perhaps Bishop Marik really was that terrifying. She wouldn't perform an exorcism on me by, say, *beating* me with a branch from the World Tree, would she?
The very thought made my stomach clench with unease.
I had intended to maintain my dignity, but watching Raphael's pitiful expression, I found myself thinking it really would be better if the Marquise de Toten appeared. Still, it would be unconscionable to demand she abandon her sick child.
Perhaps I should simply advise Raphael to seize this opportunity and reconcile with his estranged mother. Meanwhile, he was gazing at me with glistening eyes.
"Since there's still no word... does that mean she won't come?"
The sight of him looking so thoroughly frightened awakened something mischievous within me.
"Shall we make a bet?"
"What?"
As expected, Raphael frowned as if he had heard something utterly foolish.
"I bet that the Marquise de Toten *will* come."
He stared at me in surprise—probably because I, who had seemed so certain of the opposite, was now wagering against my own argument.
"You think so? They say her child is gravely ill."
"Who knows?" I shrugged with feigned nonchalance. "The situation could change."
_Ugh._ That's the problem with novices... Didn't he understand the art of betting against expectations? That was the entire *point* of gambling!
Of course, privately, I believed the opposite entirely.
_I don't want to be beaten with a stick carved from the World Tree!_
_Please come!_
---
## — The Storm's Vigil —
Torrential rain had fallen for five days straight, and at last, the day of the Crown Prince's birthday reception arrived.
By midday, the sun had vanished entirely, leaving only black clouds that blanketed the sky and spewed curtains of water upon the earth. As night descended, the world—already swallowed by those churning shadows—grew bleaker still. The downpour, seemingly determined to drown everything in its path, lashed furiously against the windows as though trying to force its way inside.
Kinder Toten checked once more that the windows were tightly secured, then drew the heavy curtains closed. The Marquise de Toten mansion, usually filled with the warm scent of sunshine, smelled damp and musty today—like old stone and sorrow.
Kinder had not slept for several nights running. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath her eyes. Her eyelids were swollen and red; she had shed too many tears, yet more always seemed to come. From sitting in the chair beside the bed all day, her lower back ached as though it had been shattered. But she forgot the pain entirely when she heard a faint, barely audible voice.
"Mother..."
"Ryder!" She was at his bedside in an instant, stroking his sweat-soaked hair, forcing herself to speak calmly when every instinct screamed at her to weep. "Yes, Mama is here."
His body burned beneath her palm—an alarming, unnatural heat.
Five days ago, when the rains had begun, Ryder's condition deteriorated sharply. Yesterday, he had lain with his eyes closed the entire day, ravaged by fever, and only managed to regain consciousness in the pale hours before dawn.
Ryder had been frequently ill since birth, but never before had he suffered so severely. The servants in the Marquis's household had secretly begun preparing mourning clothes.
And yet, only one soul in the entire mansion still refused to accept—even for a moment—the thought that the child might die.