33.
* * *
Marin grabbed the picnic basket, hurried down the stairs, and bolted toward the main gate.
Waiting there were knights mounted on their horses and a massive, coal-black carriage drawn by four stallions, emblazoned with the crest of the Vines Ducal Family. It was larger and more ornate than anything she had ever seen.
“Huff, huff. Your Grace!”
Marin steadied her shallow, winded breath and called out in a low voice.
The Duke, already seated inside, turned his head toward her.
“What is it?”
“This.”
She held out the picnic basket she had been clutching to her chest. Olive, standing guard outside, promptly took it from her.
“We have already prepared more than enough provisions.”
“It’s not just food. It’s—well, it’s a gift for Your Grace. Not quite a gift, but something like that.”
Olive peered at her as if wondering what on earth she was blathering about, but she stubbornly feigned ignorance.
“Bring it here.”
“Yes, sir.”
Olive placed the basket inside the carriage.
“Is your business finished?”
“Yes.”
“Then we depart.”
As the Duke leaned back against the seat, Marin whispered, almost to herself, “Please, travel safely.”
The carriage filled her vision, its looming presence stirring a cold fear in her gut. She clung to the desperate hope that no harm would come to them.
No one heard her whisper—except the Duke.
He paused, turning his head back toward her. Though his eyes were concealed, it felt as though their gazes locked across the space between them.
The Duke’s red lips parted slowly, his expression softening just a fraction.
“I shall return safely.”
Marin’s light green eyes widened in surprise at the unexpected reply. She had no idea how he had caught her words, but they had reached him all the same.
“Yes!”
Marin smiled brightly, nodding vigorously.
The Duke leaned back once more and signaled to Olive.
“Depart.”
“Understood.”
Olive mounted his horse, and the carriage pulled away, quickly disappearing from the estate grounds.
* * *
“Hey, little one.”
“I’m not a little one!”
The young boy, busy with his toys, puffed out his cheeks and glared at his older sister, Monica.
With jet-black hair cascading to his waist and bead-like black eyes, he looked at his sister—who possessed the grace of an angel—with a mix of pride and annoyance. He hated it when she teased him.
“You don’t even reach my waist, so you are definitely a little one.”
Her black eyes twinkled with mischief.
“I’m not! I’m not a little one!”
“Oh my. Is our little one angry? Should I give you some candy?”
“Hmph. I’m not playing house with you anymore, Sister.”
The boy crossed his arms tightly and turned away, his chin jutting out. This time, mere candy wouldn’t be enough to appease him. His sister, so much older and wiser, treated him like a toddler, and he would never forgive her for it. He was done with playing house.
“You’ll regret that, you know?”
Monica giggled, drawing out the end of her sentence.
“Hmph. I don’t know what that means.”
She looked at her brother, whose cheeks were puffed out in a stubborn pout, as if she found him impossibly cute.
“It’s an enormously big candy, you know?”
Monica sat down with a thud in front of him, pulling a cloud-white confection—fluffy as a cumulus cloud—from behind her back.
The boy’s eyes went wide. He had never seen such a thing.
“Is this candy? Isn’t it a cloud?”
“I plucked it from the sky just for our little one.”
“Wow! Really?”
“Of course. For you, what is a cloud? I could pluck the stars if you asked. So, you’ll keep playing house with me, right?”
Monica held back a laugh and extended her pinky finger, a silent plea for a promise.
“Yes! Sister, I will!”
The boy quickly hooked his pinky with hers. Clutching the cloud candy, he gazed up at his sister with eyes full of adoration.
Monica smiled radiantly and ruffled his black hair. A pretty sister. A brave sister who could catch clouds and stars. Hehe.
* * *
“Ah, it hurts! Mother! Father! Sister! My head hurts. My ears, my nose—my whole body is stinging! Waaah!”
The child rolled on the floor, screaming in agony. The secret of his lineage had manifested far too early for a five-year-old.
The Duke gritted his teeth, watching his son with a bitter, haunted gaze. Beside him, the Duchess swallowed her tears, silently sharing in the boy’s torture.
Suddenly, the bedroom door burst open. The sound was like a thunderclap to the child, who covered his ears and fainted instantly.
Monica, startled, tried to rush forward, but the Duchess blocked her path.
“Mother.”
“Do not go any closer.”
“But he’s in pain! He’s screaming—why isn’t anyone comforting him? He’s only five!”
As Monica raised her voice, the Duchess pressed a finger to her lips, demanding silence. Monica turned to her father, her expression raw with frustration.
“Father. Why is he in so much pain?”
Instead of answering, the Duke carefully scooped up his unconscious son. He looked at his daughter’s distraught face and gave a slow, pained shake of his head.
“……I am sorry.”
* * *
A distant cacophony of noise broke the silence.
The boy opened his eyes. Today was the day his sister was leaving for the Southern Region for her wedding.
For years, he had been isolated in the spire, living in absolute quiet to avoid the agony of sensory overload. After learning the truth of his heritage, his life had become a singular, grueling practice of self-control.
It had been a long, long time.
In the beginning, he had thrown tantrums, demanding to be let out, but he soon learned that crying only amplified his pain. So, he kept his mouth shut.
Perched in the highest point of the estate, he sought to minimize the noise, but even the roar of a rainstorm was enough to render him unconscious. His sense of taste had become so acute that he could barely swallow food; his sight was so sharp he could see individual dust motes dancing in the air, forcing him to keep his eyes closed just to endure the day.
The boy who had once been full of laughter slowly lost his voice. Without human contact, his emotions withered.
“Hey, little one.”
From far below, his sister’s voice echoed faintly.
The boy scrambled to his feet and pressed himself against the spire’s window. The tower was encased in high, inaccessible ramparts, but beyond them, standing under a great tree, was the sister he hadn’t seen in ages.
She looked just as beautiful as an angel.
He watched her, desperate to etch her face into his mind so he wouldn’t forget her. She hadn’t seen him, her gaze fixed on the top of the spire as she spoke.
“You can hear me, right? I know you can. ‘Family secret,’ my foot. Who am I? I’ve found it all out. You can hear my voice even from here, can’t you? Father is being too harsh. How could he deny me a goodbye just because I’m leaving to be married?”
Monica’s black eyes welled with tears. She quickly wiped them away with her sleeve and forced a spirited tone.
“Hey, little one. I’m getting married. He’s a kind, good man. When I first saw him, I thought an angel had descended from the sky. He’s so handsome, I’m going to take him and live happily ever after.”
*Snort.* The boy, having smiled for the first time in years, was startled by the sound and clapped a hand over his lips.
“I’m going to live well, so when you get out of there, come visit me in the Southern Region. I’ll send you letters. Even if you can’t reply, make sure to read them. Promise?”
His sister held her pinky finger out into the air, a ghost of their childhood promise. The boy reached out, trembling, trying to hook his own finger through the air to meet hers.
She dropped her hand, finally breaking down.
“I wanted to see our little one all grown up……. I’m sorry. I couldn’t even give you a hug. I’m sorry, Gerald.”
She had used his real name, Gerald, instead of “little one.”
Monica knelt on the grass and wept like a child.
Gerald scrambled to his desk. He scribbled words onto a handkerchief, wrapped it tightly around a stone the size of his fist, and tied it with shaky hands.
*Clang.*
The stone shattered the window, arcing through the air to land precisely at Monica’s feet.
Startled, she picked it up. As she unwrapped the handkerchief, she clutched the fabric to her chest and sobbed harder than before.
[Congratulations on your wedding, Sister.]