[“Daddy.”

Young Brote spoke.

The Count turned his head indifferently, seemingly not hearing.

“Um, Daddy?”

Young Brote called to the Count once more. Thinking her voice was too small, that she was too small for him to notice her properly. That he simply couldn’t hear her voice.

Believing he wasn’t deliberately ignoring her.

The Count’s amber eyes, reddish like embedded embers, swept indifferently over young Brote’s face before moving on. Young Brote stood frozen, fidgeting with her fingers.

Then she remembered little Oscar running with an excited “Daddy!” into the Count’s arms. And she recalled the Count lifting Oscar in return, smiling so broadly his teeth showed.

Young Brote decided to be a little braver. Though she felt shy and nervous having never done this before, she thought she could manage it.

After all, young Brote had spent countless hours secretly observing the Count, Madame Poporani, and young Oscar during their “afternoon moments.”

She had carefully studied how young Oscar pronounced the Count’s title, how he raised his voice to capture the Count’s attention, what sounds he made when laughing. She had examined everything thoroughly.

“Daddy!” she cried, running forward to stand before the Count with arms outstretched. And there she froze.

Wait, this isn’t right. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go… What did I do wrong?

As young Brote stood there with a bewildered expression, the Count’s gaze finally fixed upon her. His face might have belonged to the devil said to live in the western mountains or the witch from the eastern forest. His eyes, with whites showing all around, were terrifyingly cold in his pale face.

“Brote. Stop this nonsense.”

His voice was frightening, grinding like teeth. So frightening.

Brote stepped backward, feeling her legs trembling, and fell. She bit her lip to hold back the tears threatening to burst forth. The Count disliked Brote’s crying. He disliked noise. He simply disliked Brote.

Young Brote could not, for the life of her, understand why.]

[It was a day like any other.

Young Brote was habitually observing their “afternoon moment”—picturesque like a fine painting—while planning her next strategy. Young Oscar’s voice, half-buried beneath birdsong, reached her in fragments.

“…night, …this…age… fairy tale… right?”

The Count’s eyes softened, melting like dripping honey or half-melted caramel. His thin lips moved quietly near young Oscar’s ear, saying “Of course,” in a conspiratorial manner that captivated young Brote’s attention.

‘Fairy tale!’

Yes! That’s it! Countless fairy tales that she had read alone on sleepless nights flashed through young Brote’s mind. She recalled those short, lovely sentences she had forced herself to read even with drooping eyes, curious about what would happen next.

Young Brote had been so cold throughout those nights of reading. Though she knew the fireplace was crackling with all its might, her fingertips exposed outside the blanket to hold the book had been freezing. Everything else had been fine, but that part had made her feel so forlorn.

But what if… what if Father held her in his strong arms and read her fairy tales?

Young Brote’s lips twitched into an involuntary smile, happy just imagining it.

That night, Brote took a fairy tale book and invaded the Count’s study. The book she brought ended up thrust into the fireplace, reduced to kindling. It had been her favorite book.

Young Brote’s legs trembled like a newborn fawn’s. In the Count’s amber eyes, contempt boiled red like the fireplace flames had leapt into them. Brote hesitated, backed away, turned around, and fled.

Down and down the seemingly endless spiral staircase. Then she missed a step.

The mansion servant who discovered the unconscious Brote was one who had come out early in the morning to clean, yawning repeatedly with a wet mop in hand.]

“Thank goodness. Thank goodness, Brote. Thank you for waking up, Brote.”

When I finally opened my eyes after two weeks, the person at my bedside was neither my mother, Lady Brandon, nor my father, Count Veritatis, but the Count’s mistress, Madame Poporani.

Only Madame Poporani stayed by my side, embracing me with my head tightly wrapped in bandages while repeatedly offering thanks to the gods.

When I placed my hand on Madame Poporani’s protective arm, I was overwhelmed by a sensation that my world had collapsed and reassembled itself.

I understood then why bees were so irresistibly drawn to their “afternoon moments.” The embrace that held me wasn’t soft like a doll’s, but it was warm and solid. It smelled pleasant. My throat tickled. The sensation was like harboring a bird in my chest, or having pillow feathers stuffed beneath my throat—a gentle, persistent tickle.

“Oh, Brote. Lady Brandon came by. She left this… for you. I’m not sure if I should give it to you.”

And then, that book. The book Lady Brandon left behind. I accepted it.

“Well… I doubt she would leave you anything harmful. But it seems strange… there’s nothing written in it.”

That book with its untanned leather cover the color of flesh, supposedly blank inside.

When I was around ten years old, Lady Brandon sent me an invitation. It was a letter requesting my presence at a small gathering she was hosting.

The Count was furious that she had deliberately excluded Oscar from the invitation, but he couldn’t refuse to let me board the carriage she had sent specifically for me. So I climbed into the carriage alone and headed to her destination—her seaside villa.

At the small social gathering Lady Brandon hosted for children, I met “Eric” for the first time.

After that initial meeting came a second and third. By the seventh meeting, Brote of House Veritatis was officially engaged to Eric of House Colin.

On the late afternoon when Lady Brandon visited the Veritatis mansion for this engagement, I had my first opportunity to sit face-to-face with my mother.

Will she congratulate me? Will she wish me happiness?

I waited for her with such excited thoughts.

There were many rumors about her. The servants called her a “witch.” A witch with ominous black hair and matching eyes who had coveted Madame Poporani’s position.

I didn’t believe those rumors, but…

“M-Mother.”

“Brote. It’s been a long time. Ah, no. Is this our first time? Just the two of us like this?”

“…Yes.”

“I see. From the looks of it, the Count’s household hasn’t starved you. Did you receive the book I gave you?”

“Yes, Mother. I received it.”

“Did you? But you haven’t opened it yet, Brote.”

“…Should I have opened it?”

“Haha. Such innocent words. My child, how could I force you? It’s your ‘choice.’ Your ‘decision.'”

“……”

“Just remember, Brote, my daughter. Every action has its price, and that price is determined not by you but by fate.”

“Fate…?”

“You’ll understand in time, Brote. Oh yes, Eric is a good boy. Take care.”

Perhaps, I thought, the rumors weren’t entirely fabricated.

After our conversation, I couldn’t help but recall that book. I searched my entire room until I found it and, unable to resist the momentary impulse, opened the pale dusty, unpleasantly flesh-colored book.

I had no idea what happens to curious cats who can’t resist temptation.

* * *

Knock-knock.

A light tapping on the small carriage window interrupted my reading. I closed the book and opened the window. A knight with his face close to the opening greeted me, “Good afternoon, my lady!”

“Good afternoon, Sir.”

“Yes! My lady, I wanted to inform you that we plan to cross the gate to the North this evening. Have you ever experienced sensitivity to mana?”

Book-Brote had crossed the southern gate many times to reach the Academy in the capital. Though only once, I had done the same. Neither of us had experienced any problems. I shook my head slightly at the knight wearing pale silver armor with red tassels from the North.

“No, I haven’t. I’ll be fine.”

“Ah, that’s a relief. The gate to the North is one thing, but Manderley Mansion is particularly unbearable for those sensitive to mana.”

“Is that so? But why? It’s just a mansion, not a location with gates for long-distance travel.”

I nodded kindly, encouraging the knight to continue. Whether naturally talkative or simply in good spirits, the knight’s face lit up as he chattered enthusiastically.

“Oh, my lady! Manderley Mansion isn’t an ordinary residence like you might imagine. Not that I’m questioning your judgment…”

“I understand your meaning. Clearly Manderley Mansion holds a special place in your heart.”

“Hehe, yes. Once you see it, my lady, you’ll surely come to love it too.”

Afterward, whenever he had the chance, the knight would approach me to share various stories about Manderley Mansion.

Stories like this:

“My lady, do you know why Manderley Mansion is called Manderley?”

“I wonder… Now that you mention it, it is strange. Usually estates are named after the family. ‘Winter Mansion’… hmm, perhaps the sound wasn’t pleasing?”

He waved his hands frantically, pretending I’d said something scandalous.

“Oh my, my lady! That’s not it at all. Long ago, before the current Beauvesh family ruled the kingdom, there lived a queen named ‘Manderley.’ And she was incredibly—incredibly!—beautiful. She had long black hair like ebony that could swallow moonlight, eyes as black as an abyss, contrasting with skin white as snow. And her lips were so red that when the queen stood beside roses, bees would fly to her lips instead of the flowers.”

“Is that so? The description reminds me of someone.”

“Ah, my lady… yes.”

“Hmm. Go on.”

He clicked his tongue and instantly closed the distance between us to continue his story.

“Anyway, the king built a separate palace for that queen. Of course, now only the walls remain, everything else has collapsed with time.”

“I see. So the mansion was built on the site of that palace, hence Manderley Mansion. Is that right?”

“More or less, yes. Oh, my lady, this is the final gate.”

He slid my carriage window closed. The carriage shook, my stomach churned, and my vision spun. When the window reopened, I glimpsed the tip of a somewhat gloomy blue spire.

The wind rushing in was bone-chillingly cold. With each breath, my nostrils filled with an acrid yet sweet and bitter scent I’d never encountered before.

Bump. The carriage stopped.

“Welcome, my lady.”

The voices of the lined-up servants echoed once more. “Welcome, my lady.” The person who had spoken first, standing at the front, placed a hand on their left shoulder and bowed.

“Miriam Gross, head butler of Manderley Mansion, at your service, my lady.”