20.
Bang!
The vibration rattled through her palm, visceral and sudden.
The smell of scorched timber and the sharp, metallic tang of gunpowder hung in the air. Anita could not distinguish which was more pungent; both assaulted her senses with unrelenting intensity.
Then, Lancelot slid the revolver back into her hand.
“Being prepared is praiseworthy. But what good is it if you can’t pull the trigger?”
Anita turned her head, her gaze tracking his profile as he brushed past her. When her eyes fell upon the silhouette sprawled among the weeds, she squeezed them shut.
*I… I killed a person.*
“Don’t mistake this. You didn’t kill him; I did. In modern society, we call this self-defense.”
Lancelot reprimanded her as if he had been anticipating the reaction. His tone was irritable, yet the words leaned toward comfort. It did little to ease her racing heart.
Jill’s voice followed, cutting through the haze.
“He died instantly.”
“You can open your eyes, Anita.”
After a long, shaky breath, she dared to look. A white cloth—the bedding Anita had discarded earlier—covered the servant’s corpse.
How did it come to this?
*Where did it go wrong?*
He was supposed to be a servant from the Edenbahir household, wasn’t he?
*…It’s hot.*
She pushed her hair back from her forehead, her fingers trembling. Out of the chaos of questions swirling in her mind, one surfaced.
“How did you get here?”
Lancelot, who had been staring up at the burning mansion, turned to her.
“I rented the train that departs at noon.”
The train to Buedort ran at six-hour intervals. Anita had left a note, calculating the time it would take for him to arrive on the 3:00 train.
Renting the noon train instead? It was a logistical impossibility that defied all common sense.
“What about the passengers scheduled to board?”
“You’re concerned for them? I compensated them, one by one. Jill handled it.”
The story was so absurd her lips barely moved to speak.
“Compensated? How could you possibly… is that even real?”
Anita knew the overwhelming wealth of the Edenbahir family better than anyone; she had lived in its shadow. But forcing a public train to run empty was a different matter entirely—an incident that could permanently tarnish a reputation.
Lancelot, watching her face, offered a faint, mocking smile.
“Don’t look so sorry. I’m not billing it to you.”
It wasn’t sympathy she felt, but a profound, hollow bewilderment.
Black ash drifted onto his blonde hair. As the sunset-red flames flared, his hair flickered like dying embers.
“It will collapse soon. Let’s head back.”
Lancelot strode past her, leaving the garden.
His clothes were wrinkled and unkempt, a far cry from the image of the pristine ‘Lancelot Edenbahir.’ He was a man who had always maintained a pathologically neat appearance, regardless of the circumstances. Perhaps it was this uncharacteristic dishevelment that made the guilt weigh so heavily on her.
*I’ll ask about the servant… later. He came all the way to Buedort because of me. It won’t be too late to ask when we return to Shavalon.*
Anita grabbed her bag and followed. She offered a belated word of thanks.
“Thank you, Lancelot. If it weren’t for you, I would have been in danger. And I’m sorry for leaving without a word.”
He stopped and turned to look at her.
“I should have told you this sooner.”
He stared at her, his expression unreadable.
“Don’t trust anyone but me.”
That one sentence was the turning point.
“Why….”
The doubts she had buried beneath her throat surged forward.
“Why is this happening? Who is doing this? Who… no, who was it that… my father….”
Lancelot pulled a torn scrap of paper from his jacket and held it out.
“Look closely. That is the true handwriting of Duke Edenbahir. Does it look the same to you as the handwriting on the note the doctor gave you?”
He knew about the note.
Anita’s blood ran cold as she examined the paper.
“…No, it’s different. Completely different. Then, was the doctor the one trying to kill me?”
For what reason?
“Curious?”
A bitter smile played on Lancelot’s lips.
“If you’re curious, you should ask him yourself. Follow me, before it’s too late.”
“Where to?”
“The train. I have no intention of staying here. Jill will handle the cleanup. Since it’s no longer land owned by the Boellony family, it won’t be easy to dispose of.”
As they passed the gate, Anita glanced back at the garden. The fire was devouring the weeds, and the white cloth that veiled the corpse was already curling into ash. The body beneath would soon be nothing more than blackened bone.
“Anita Boellony.”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to show mercy even to the trash who tried to kill you?”
Mercy.
Anita shook her head and returned to Lancelot’s side.
“I just… I wondered if we needed his testimony. I know you have your own plans.”
He was an assassin. Leaving him behind felt like a dangerous gamble.
Lancelot laughed—a quiet, genuine sound of amusement.
*Did he even know how to laugh like that?*
“Why are you laughing?”
“I like what you just said.”
She was baffled. It wasn’t a remark meant to impress.
*I’ve rarely heard him say he likes anything.*
The fact that his approval made her feel better was, in itself, ridiculous. Leaving the burning villa behind, Anita headed toward the station.
***
They reached a private platform adjacent to the main Buedort station.
The train Lancelot had chartered waited there. The experience of boarding an empty carriage to retrace her steps felt surreal. With Lancelot by her side, the terror began to ebb, replaced by a deep, bone-weary exhaustion.
*My hips and shoulders ache so much.*
Once the train departed, the tension left her body, and sleep pulled at her eyelids. She drifted in and out of consciousness until the image of the paper envelope she had found at the villa flickered into her mind, jolting her awake.
“My lady. Are you awake? We will arrive in Shavalon shortly.”
Anita looked at the servant with wary eyes, but upon realizing it was one of Lancelot’s men, she nodded.
“Yes. Where is Lancelot?”
“He is waiting for you. Please follow me.”
Anita followed, clutching her bag. They moved through the carriages—one, two, three, four.
Thud, thud.
“Your Grace!”
Cries of pure terror echoed from the next passage.
“Y-Y-Your Grace! Please spare me! It’s all my fault! I have a young wife and a daughter. If I don’t work, they’ll die!”
*A familiar voice.*
Inside the carriage, Lancelot sat reading a book. He flipped the pages with an indifference that was truly chilling.
“You said you had a lot of questions, didn’t you?” Lancelot said, not looking up. “Why don’t you go and ask him?”
Anita walked to the passage with quick, resolute steps.
Through the glass window, she saw a man sprawled on the floor.
“Sir.”
It was Volches, the doctor of Edenbahir who had deceived her.
Volches’ eyes, hollow with despair, brightened when he saw her.
“A-Anita, my lady. I was wrong. I have committed a sin deserving of death! Please, I beg you, just spare my life….”
“Why did you do it?”
Anita asked, her voice steady. She needed to know.
“I barely survived. Your wife and daughter’s lives are precious, but was my life so trivial to you?”
“It’s a misunderstanding! I didn’t know the lady’s life would be in danger….”
“Don’t lie to me. You’ve watched me since I was fourteen. You deceived me without a second thought.”
Volches hung his head, silent.
Anita looked down at him, her eyes cold, and pulled the paper envelope from her bag.
“Is it this? Was it because of this that you tried to kill me?”