45.
Late at night, when the owls were hooting.
It was just before the clock struck twelve. Anita, who had been dozing on the sofa, felt a chilling touch against her cheek and jolted awake.
She was so startled it was a wonder she didn’t leap from her seat. With a sharp intake of breath, she instinctively turned her head.
Lancelot was sitting next to her.
“…Huh?”
“It’s a miracle your head didn’t roll off. Stop dozing and go upstairs.”
He must have only just arrived, as he sat with his tie still undone.
Anita, not yet fully awake, stared at him with dazed eyes. As if the sight were new to him, Lancelot tilted his head, gazing intently at her.
His right arm rested along the back of the sofa, his legs stretched long under the table, his upper body turned toward her, and his left hand was…
*Ah. He’s propping up my chin.*
What? Her chin? Her eyes widened as she pulled back.
In front of her, his palm remained awkwardly outstretched. Lancelot’s eyes shifted toward his own hand, now devoid of its purpose.
“No, I was… I haven’t finished my book yet. I’ll sleep once I’m done.”
So he had come to the bedroom tonight.
*Well, if he keeps sleeping elsewhere, people will start to think it’s strange.*
It had been nearly a week since Lancelot last returned to the bedroom. She knew he had been distancing himself to both strengthen ties with the nobility and out of consideration for her.
That was why she had decided that, at least tonight, she would make him sleep in the bed.
“Go upstairs.”
“I told you, I’ll sleep after I finish reading.”
“Should I carry you, or will you go on your own feet?”
Yet, Lancelot was the one insistent that Anita sleep in the bed, even if it killed him.
*If I go upstairs, then Lancelot will have to sleep on the sofa…*
He had returned after pulling all-nighters for nearly a week, catching only snatches of sleep while Anita was away. She could see how heavy the fatigue must be just by looking at his complexion, which seemed more decadent than usual.
“Anita.”
*Ah, or should I just sleep in the bed with Lancelot?*
*But he might be uncomfortable. Forcing himself to lie down in a place he finds awkward is tiring in its own way.*
I should be the one to sleep on the sofa… but kind-hearted Lancelot wouldn’t allow it.
“Should I carry you?”
Anita suddenly felt a lump in her throat.
She felt so sorrowful because Lancelot, unaware of her inner turmoil, kept urging her.
“Can’t I just sleep when I’m done reading? Just… can’t Lancelot go to sleep first? There isn’t much left, honestly…”
*I mean, please, just go to bed first!*
A short silence followed. Lancelot, who had been pushing her so intently, bowed his head at an angle.
“Why are you crying?”
Anita felt the lump in her throat tighten.
She was only a little teary-eyed from a mix of guilt, gratitude, and sorrow—she wasn’t crying, absolutely not crying.
“I’m not crying…”
“You are.”
“I said I’m not.”
“It’s not ‘not’ when it clearly is.”
She fixed her gaze on him, straining her eyes. *Look here, why are you insisting I’m crying?*
Lancelot, watching her like a spectator while resting his chin in his hand, asked quietly.
“Is it really that unpleasant to lie in the same bed as me?”
*No, that—there’s no way that’s true.*
She wanted to ask if Lancelot wasn’t the one who found it unpleasant.
But before she could muster the courage to speak, her body was lifted into the air.
“Ah, Lancelot! Wait a minute… put me down…”
“Stay still and be held. It’s your punishment. Surely, even if it’s you, you don’t find being held so unpleasant that it brings you to tears.”
She felt dizzy. It wasn’t the sensation of being suspended in the air that made her head spin, but the reality of being held by him.
Lancelot’s body was solid.
His chest against her shoulder, his arms holding her legs and back firmly, the scent of him washing over her like a window thrown open—everything about him was firm and unyielding.
“I won’t be lying beside you tonight or any other night, so rest easy and sleep.”
As soon as Anita was gently placed on the bed, a memory flickered in her mind.
[I think it would be better if our rooms were a bit further apart.]
[What do you mean?]
[I thought it might be a way for us to respect each other more.]
[If that is what you wish.]
Could Lancelot be misinterpreting that conversation?
*He might think that I hate sleeping with him.*
Looking back, it had been a very one-sided proposal. Terrified of the word ‘mistress,’ hadn’t she abruptly demanded their rooms be further apart?
*But if he isn’t misunderstanding…*
If I act presumptuously and he tells me not to get the wrong idea, then I…
Anita, wavering, eventually called out to him.
“Lancelot.”
He, who had been standing by the window undoing his tie, turned to look at her.
“Just in case, I’ll tell you. I wasn’t crying because I hate lying down with you. What’s the point of throwing a childish tantrum like that? I just…”
*Ahem.* She gave a short cough, fearing the atmosphere was becoming too heavy, and continued.
“I was just nervous because you said we’d be lying in the same bed. Truly.”
Lancelot turned his head back to the window. Had he understood the intent of her words? Fearing she might worry, he parted his lips.
“I heard Bimark Paulofna looked for you earlier today.”
That was, to say the least, sudden news.
“Bimark-orabeoni?”
“Yes.”
“My goodness, he came down to Hixen. Is it because of Her Majesty the Queen’s birthday celebration? But I didn’t see him at the ball… Did you hear anything else?”
Perhaps it was because she had heard news of Bimark for the first time since her father went missing? Anita’s voice became noticeably brighter.
In contrast, Lancelot’s mood did not seem improved.
“Should I have?”
“That’s not it, but… he must be worried about me. Since Father went missing so suddenly, and I held a wedding so abruptly.”
She had only informed Bimark of her father’s disappearance. The only reason she hadn’t told him of the wedding was because, even until the day of, Anita herself couldn’t believe she was marrying Lancelot.
Since she had sent the letter just before the wedding, it was a fair guess that he had traveled the moment he received it.
“It’s been nearly a year since we last met. I hope he hasn’t been hurt anywhere. I wonder if he’s grown even taller.”
She missed him dearly. Bimark, now the only son of the Paulofna family, had been like an older brother to her. Even though summer break—when Bimark returned from boarding school—was the only time they could see each other for long periods, they had always been comfortable.
To her, who lived a lonely life except for the winters she spent meeting Lancelot and Claunia, Bimark was a friend, a teacher, and family. Perhaps that was why it had been so hard to share the news of her marriage; she hadn’t wanted to cause him unnecessary worry.
“I really want to meet him and have a conversation. Did you hear where he is staying? Since he didn’t come looking for me separately, I assume he isn’t at the Imperial Palace.”
Lancelot, who had been listening in silence, unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and spoke in a low, heavy voice.
“My wife is incredibly thoughtless. Not content with bringing up another man in front of her husband, she even says she wants to see him without a second thought.”
For a moment, Anita wondered if she had misheard.
*Wife, husband… No, she shouldn’t be dwelling on that.* She jumped out of bed and approached him.
“What are you saying? Bimark-orabeoni is family, Lancelot. You know that—after he lost his parents, he was supported by my father…”
Lancelot looked down silently at the pale hand gripping his arm, then stopped his hand that had been reaching for the third button. It was as if he had only just realized that Anita was standing in the same bedroom as him.
“D-did I upset you by talking about another man?”
“No.”
“Then why are you so annoyed? Is it because I didn’t want to lie in bed? I told you, I was just nervous.”
“Do I look annoyed to you?”
“Yes.”
Lancelot looked at Anita with an inscrutable expression. He scrutinized her face as if intending to peer right into her brain, then blurted out one remark.
“There are times when I find it maddeningly frustrating that I cannot peer into your head.”
That was exactly what she wanted to say.
“Um. Are you asking because you’re curious about why you look annoyed?”
“…And you, you often seem as if you’re peering into mine.”
“No way. To me, reading your thoughts is the hardest thing in the world. This is just…”
What was she supposed to say?
*It’s just… it feels like I would know if I just looked.*