“Madam, did you know?”

[From Brote, who misses you.]

I poured teal wax over the letter where I had just placed a period. Feeling Vivi’s eyes wandering across the desk following my hands, I picked up the stamp engraved with the laurel tree symbol of the Winter family.

“That folk tale has a hidden story within it.”

The teal wax flowed slowly around the firmly pressed stamp. When I carefully lifted it, a clear laurel tree mark had settled perfectly on the half-hardened wax.

“The King too had a prophecy that descended before—”

“Vivi. Please deliver this to Miriam.”

“……”

I interrupted Vivi’s words and handed her the letter.

“Tell her to send it immediately to the Hopper family in the South.”

Vivi’s gray-tinged eyes, misty like fog, met mine steadily without the slightest retreat.

“Oh, and tell her to come see me when she’s finished.”

“…Yes, Madam.”

Did I react too sensitively in seeing the Head Butler’s face in her expression? After the door closed with a thud and silence filled the office, I took out that book after a very long time, truly a very long time.

Just as he had said, Vivi brought up the prophecy. But I knew this situation wasn’t the prophecy he had mentioned. A true prophecy wasn’t about predicting the future based on experience. Wasn’t it rather ambiguous to call it a prophecy at all?

I placed the blackened, ash-covered book on the desk and blinked quietly. The white sky and teal maze garden stretched before me. Somewhere at the far right, blocked by wooden window bars, the gloomy blue spire shimmered hazily in my vision.

A play was performed in the middle of the hall during the New Year’s celebration banquet.

It told of a queen’s daughter who, kidnapped and unaware of her identity, lived as a commoner until receiving patronage to attend the Academy.

There, she coincidentally met her betrothed from before birth and they fell in love like destiny. Unfortunately, her betrothed already had a fiancée. The princess’s betrothed asked his fiancée to break off their engagement, but the wicked fiancée refused to give him up.

The one-act play depicted how the wicked fiancée persistently tormented the princess, spread all sorts of rumors, and falsely accused her.

How could one not punish such an evil woman?

How could Brote not become angry?

On New Year’s Eve, when the pitiful princess Ariel reclaimed her true identity she had never known, the villainess Brote Veritatis drew a knife.

Just as Brote rushed toward Ariel, now Hermia Beauvesh, who had just reclaimed her true identity and secured her true love, about to plunge the knife into her neck, the knife was stopped by Brote’s half-brother Oscar Veritatis, the benefactor who had helped Hermia Beauvesh discover her true identity.

Unable to bear this, the villainess Brote Veritatis… after taking one last look at her former fiancé who stared at her with shocked eyes, swallowed poison.

‘…ric. Remember me. Don’t forget me…’

Dying before his eyes to leave an eternal shock upon him.

That was the ending of the story written in this book, now blackened and burnt everywhere, having lost its original leather color.

At first, I couldn’t understand it. Couldn’t believe it. Eric was tender, but not a love worth risking one’s life for. We had only met seven times—seven times was too early for such emotions to blossom.

Above all.

“Lies.”

Madame Poporani suddenly dying? That she went to the orphanage for sponsorship and perished miserably from an epidemic? There couldn’t be a greater falsehood.

Since when did death come so easily?

Every word written like a curse was horrifying. I couldn’t even guess why Lady Brandon had given me this book; every sentence within it was just…

‘Witch.’

Witch. Unless it was the witch’s curse threatening Madame Poporani, just as the servants called Lady Brandon a witch.

Filled with rage to the top of my head, I threw the book away and never opened it again.

That is, until that incident happened.

“Brote, and my dear Oscar.”

“…Yes.”

“Mom, do you have to go? The carriage looks strange, and it’s getting late… please?”

“I’ll be back soon, all right?”

Was it autumn when I was thirteen?

Red leaves fell like flower petals in the front yard. The carriage with its collapsing broken wheel. Madame Poporani, ready to head to the orphanage she regularly sponsored, hugged me and Oscar tightly one by one before boarding the new carriage brought by the coachman.

Exactly as written in the book.

The carriage departed, and from that outing onward, Madame Poporani began to waste away.

A month later, like a lie come true, Madame Poporani passed away from illness.

“Darling, please let our children experience the same ‘love’ we had. Show them your mercy, dear.”

Leaving behind the same last words written in the book. Just like that.

If only I had believed the book.

That day. The day she left for the orphanage. If I had stopped her, if I had believed this book a little more. Would today be different? It felt like the bird that had settled in my heart had flown far, very far away. To a distant paradise never to return. So this is what it means for one’s heart to sink, I realized for the first time that day.

Deep guilt took root afterward. In the nest left empty after the bird’s departure.

Was it the following year?

On my way back from the Academy entrance exam with Edith, I met an old man with a long white beard reaching below his neck, wearing a black hat. The moment I saw him asking if this was the way to Count Veritatis’s place, I immediately knew who he was.

And why he had come looking for me.

White beard, black hat, and amber eyes that were practically the symbol of the Veritatis family. He was the former Count, my grandfather, who had passed the family to the current Count and left to travel.

[‘Child. Do you want to be with that boy from the Colin family?’

‘Yes, Grandfather.’

‘Heh heh. Then you must work harder. Unless you claim this earldom, you can’t even dream of marrying that boy.’

‘Why?’

‘…Well. It’s time you knew.’]

After Madame Poporani died, all “Brote” had left was Eric. “Brote” didn’t even have Edith, so Eric was all she had left. Following her grandfather but not truly trusting him, Eric was ultimately the only one she could believe in and rely on.

[‘You know too, don’t you? That boy from the Colin family, like you, is the eldest but… hated by his father. That boy will never inherit the Colin family. So, child. Think carefully. One of you must claim your family, mustn’t you?’]

The only thing Brote could understand from that conversation was one thing: to be with Eric, she needed to claim the Veritatis family.

She didn’t know that this action would repay Madame Poporani’s kindness with enmity. Didn’t know she was taking Oscar’s place. Didn’t know the elders of the Veritatis family and the Count’s opinions conflicted with each other.

No, she pretended not to know while knowing. To be with Eric. The justification was sufficient. Nothing else mattered.

The Brote in the book could act that way because she never opened the book. She could live that way because she felt no guilt.

But me? I was different. I couldn’t threaten Madame Poporani’s child with my own hands—the woman who had given me my first warmth. Her passing so miserably was my sin.

So what choice did I have?

I brushed away the ash-covered black cover with my hand. The book, burnt black beyond recognition, now forever concealing its contents except for the few pages that survived.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Madam, Miriam is here.”

“…Come in.”

After pushing the book back into the deepest part of the drawer, I straightened my bent back and held my head high.

“I’m thinking of going to the library. Do you have time, Miriam?”

* * *

Throughout hundreds of seasonal changes, Manderley remained ever green. Derien glanced over the tiresome scenery and looked down at the old man nodding off while seated in the magical device.

“Butler… I made a mistake, didn’t I?”

“Ah, yes… Yes, Master. Pip mentioned that she’s been sending many letters lately.”

The dozing old man opened his eyes to answer Derien’s question and let out a dry yawn. Then he raised his bony hand to rub his darkened eyes spotted with age marks.

Derien glanced at the old man and sighed. He roughly pushed back his black hair and paced back and forth in front of the office window. Pip, the white owl who had been curled up enjoying a nap on the sunny windowsill, narrowed his yellow eyes at Derien.

Surely annoyed by Derien’s restless pacing.

“…She had a lover. They seemed quite close.”

“That’s far enough. Don’t climb any higher, Butler.”

“Young Master… you need to make an effort. When you’re worried she might run away even if you treat her well… All you have is your glossy exterior, and you can’t even use that properly.”

“Damn it.”

Yes, truly. He hadn’t intended to.

When he faced those round, innocent eyes, he felt his breath catch and his stomach churn, causing him to lash out angrily at the woman.

‘What are you doing here?’

That day, Derien felt his heart pounding for the first time in a very long while. His heart, which hadn’t beaten for so long he couldn’t even remember when, began to beat again.

Was it guilt, or something else? A part of him—conscience or emotion he thought long dead—seemed to have survived the long years and sprouted in that moment.

‘Why?’

Many lives had been extinguished or continued here at Manderley, but this was the first time he’d felt this way. Derien didn’t know why. He couldn’t even guess. If anything bothered him, it was…

That gaze.

Those innocent black eyes wrapped in wariness, questions, and well-honed pride—that gaze disturbed him. They were merely black eyes, nothing new to him, and yet. Strangely.

They were different. They felt different.

‘Like the night sea.’

A deep blue night sea of unfathomable depth, where not even waves stirred.

Was it just because of that color? Or because of those unwavering eyes? For some reason, he couldn’t forget those eyes.

“Young Master, if you miss this opportunity…”

“I know. I know.”

“…Well, I’m sure you know what you’re doing. I’ve just unsettled you with my needless old person’s worry.”

“……”

“…Getting old. Even without rain, every joint aches. Please consider it the complaints of an old man, Young Master.”

“…Right. …This time, I must end it.”

For that end, Derien was waiting for the right time.

When the woman herself had uncovered enough of the secrets surrounding him. When she doubted him, proved things, approached the truth. And then, when she came to believe.

When after doubting and doubting, she finally came to believe.

Derien was waiting for that moment. Without belief, it was useless. Belief was the core and the most fundamental starting point of what they called this curse.

However. That woman…

‘…Either she has no interest at all. Or she can’t forget that man, her lover.’

She didn’t bat an eye at her absent husband, the North, or the numerous rumors. She simply locked herself in her office like someone being chased, just working, working, working. Only handling tasks that didn’t even exist.

So, that day. He provoked her. Calling her “my lady” in an improper tone, whispering that she should fulfill her duties.

The women before her, those they had brought before this woman, had responded keenly to even the smallest rumors about him without his direct intervention. He hadn’t needed to go this far. He could just sit like a statue hardened by time and wait for them to uncover the secrets and reach the starting point. That was the role they wanted Derien to play from the beginning.

“May this old man say one more thing?”

“…Go ahead.”

“This time, you need to be more proactive. Who knows? She might truly come to love you and be willing to give her life. At least… unlike you, she knows what love is.”

“Ridiculous.”

Recalling the woman who resembled the calm night sea, Derien collapsed onto the sofa. Hoping that she would thoroughly investigate his past as soon as possible.

“Ah, tell Gross that Babette and her group are trying to ruin things again.”