32.
*Rumble, crack.*
A bolt of lightning split the clear sky, and a flash of white light shimmered beyond the curtains.
For the first time in a long while, the Duke pulled back the heavy drapes of his office window and lifted his gaze toward the sky.
“It’s going to rain.”
A faint, aquatic scent of ozone drifted through the air.
“You said he told me not to come?”
“Yes. He mentioned they plan to hold the funeral quickly, so he would fully understand if Your Grace, with your mobility issues, could not attend. Baronet Kylon sent a letter.”
“Is that piece of trash still alive?”
“Yes. Unfortunately.”
Olive replied with a stoic expression.
Baronet Kylon, the younger brother of Count Adria, was the disgrace of the family. He was a man defined by his reckless indulgence in alcohol, gambling, and women.
The diligent and kind Count Adria had bailed his brother out every time he caused an incident.
“When is the funeral?”
“Seven days from now.”
Olive swallowed his resentment and answered quickly.
Even traveling with haste from here to the Count’s estate in the Southern Region would take ten days. It was clear that Baronet Kylon had purposely delayed the delivery of the letter.
“We leave immediately.”
“Yes. Shall I have Lady Marin prepare as well?”
“No.”
Gerald refused firmly.
“Lady Marin would be of great help, though.”
Olive suggested it again with a look of regret.
After sitting in his chair, Gerald turned his head toward his secretary.
“Olive, do you have a lot of free time?”
“No. I apologize.”
The moment Olive bowed his head, Gerald’s gaze shifted toward the office door.
Zero burst through, his nightgown fluttering behind him. He walked straight over and dropped a heavy wooden box onto the desk with a sharp *thud*.
Zero stared at Gerald’s face for a long moment, unblinking, then bowed his head slightly.
“My condolences.”
“I see.”
Without another word, he turned and walked out.
“Shall I open it?”
Olive asked cautiously.
Gerald nodded silently.
Inside the box lay a heavy cane made of polished ebony. The dark, smooth wood caught the light with a subtle, menacing luster, as if it had been crafted for a specific purpose.
“A cane.”
Olive looked at it with a touch of admiration. It was a tool he should have procured sooner. Although it was the last thing the Duke wanted to rely on, it was a necessary accessory for public appearances.
Olive took the cane and offered it to Gerald.
Gerald caressed the heavy wood with one hand, then pressed a protrusion near the handle.
A sharp, tempered blade sprang from the tip with a click.
The corners of Gerald’s lips curled up in a cold, vicious arc.
“Good.”
***
*Thump, thump, thump.*
Marin was diligently crushing the Mandlesong, her gaze dazed as she stared out the window.
Rain was pouring down as if the sky in the bluish dawn had been torn open.
“Haa.”
As her pink lips parted, a deep, heavy sigh escaped of its own accord.
In the novel, there had been only a single, passing line mentioning that the Count and his wife had died in an unfortunate accident. The exact timing hadn’t even been provided.
Though she knew of the Duke’s condition and the tragic fate of the Count and his wife, she had been powerless to intervene.
Even if she had known the exact timing, she could never have told the Duke.
A commoner woman living in the West predicting the sudden death of a Southern Count and his wife?
She would be branded a spy, or perhaps a witch, and burned at the stake. They wouldn’t have believed her in the first place.
“Haa.”
Yet, the sense of heartbreak and regret remained.
Yuria, sitting beside her mashing the Mandlesong paste, noticed her mood and spoke softly.
“Lady Marin.”
“Yes?”
“Why are you sighing like that?”
At Yuria’s worried expression, Marin forced a smile and gently stroked her red hair.
“It’s nothing. Yuria, thank you for helping me even though you haven’t slept.”
“It’s nothing. I’m happy to help you. But why do you need so much Mandlesong paste? Are you still having headaches? Wouldn’t it be better to tell Mr. Olive and see the doctor?”
Marin had been making the paste daily, using her headaches as an excuse.
However, she couldn’t tell anyone the truth.
Mandlesong was, strictly speaking, a poisonous plant. If something went wrong, Yuria, who had been helping her, could be implicated. It was a burden she had to bear alone.
“It’s just a light headache, and this herb is perfect for it.”
“I see. Then I’ll work harder.”
“Thank you.”
She had heard they might leave for the Southern Region as early as morning. To accompany the Duke, she needed a significant supply of the paste.
Since it was a common weed, the flowers were easy to find, but it was difficult to process them without prying eyes. She intended to make as much as possible to take with her.
Just then, a knock sounded at the door.
“It is Olive.”
Marin cast a hurried glance out the window. A warm, golden light was beginning to peek through the blue dawn.
“Yes.”
As Yuria, who had answered immediately, moved to stand, Marin patted her shoulder and stood up first.
“I’ll go.”
“Yes.”
Marin quickly checked her dress. She was ready to leave at a moment’s notice.
When she opened the door, she found Olive standing there with dark, reddish circles under his eyes. His face, which usually held a soft, composed smile, was clouded with sorrow.
Having grown up like a brother to the Duke, Olive had clearly been fond of the Duke’s sister.
“Mr. Olive.”
“Lady Marin.”
Olive’s eyes widened slightly when he saw her already dressed for travel.
“I’m ready. I can leave at any time.”
Olive looked at her with an expression of weary pride.
“You were prepared in advance. I actually came here to discuss that very matter.”
“Shall we depart immediately?”
“No. It is the Duke’s order. He says that Lady Marin should remain here.”
“What? Why?”
Marin’s light green eyes wavered with disappointment.
“He did not explain. Please, rest comfortably in the meantime.”
As Olive turned to leave, Marin reached out and grabbed his sleeve.
“Wait! The Duke needs me.”
Olive turned back, offering a bitter smile.
“Yes. He does.”
“Then why?”
Marin stared at him, her confusion plain.
Olive gently pulled his sleeve from her grip, his lips parting and closing in hesitation.
Marin called his name again.
“Mr. Olive.”
“Sigh. I have an inkling as to why, but…”
“What is it?”
“The carriage—can you actually ride in it?”
“Ah…”
Marin’s pink lips trembled.
How could he know? How much did he know?
As Marin’s eyes wavered with anxiety, Olive continued, “I don’t know the exact reason, but I noticed you couldn’t handle the carriage when we moved here last time.”
Marin breathed a sigh of relief internally. He simply thought she had a vague fear of travel.
“Then, if I ride a horse…”
Olive slowly shook his head.
“It will be a forced march. Those who ride horses intend to travel without stopping for sleep. We have to cover a distance that takes ten days in just one week. If you could ride in a carriage, you would at least be able to rest inside, but…”
“Ah…”
Marin trailed off, bowing her head.
She couldn’t bring herself to admit she could not handle a carriage. Just the thought of being confined inside one made her head spin and nausea rise.
Olive watched her quietly with a look of pity before speaking.
“Then I shall take my leave.”
Marin lifted her head abruptly, her look earnest.
“I can see you off, right?”
Olive smiled softly and nodded.
“Of course. Would you like to come out now?”
“Yes. Please, just a moment.”
“I will wait downstairs.”
“Yes.”
Marin hurried back into the room. Yuria was still working on the paste.
“Yuria, could I ask you for a favor?”
“Yes.”
“I’m quite hungry, perhaps from staying up all night. Could you bring me some warm tea and toasted bread?”
Marin spoke with a stiff, awkward tone, rubbing her stomach.
“Yes. I’ll bring it right away.”
Yuria smiled kindly and stood up.
“Thank you.”
She exited the room.
Because she had told Yuria that the paste was for her own headaches, it would seem suspicious if she carried it out while Yuria was present.
Marin hurriedly packed some cloth, a dry towel, and the jars of Mandlesong paste into a picnic basket.
She had to get out of the room before Yuria returned.