Chapter 15

Edric rose from his seat and stretched broadly.

As he did, the opening of his robe parted, revealing the taut swell of his chest.

Confronted without warning by such a magnificent sight, Sebas Charlton let out an audible gasp.

Edric pleasantly ignored the sound of admiration and tossed the newspaper onto the table.

A breeze entered through the open window, making the pages flutter.

[Look beneath the walnut tree. Something will make your heart race.]

Edric wore a sociable smile.

Across from him, Bishop Roan’s eyes widened with excitement. After pausing to take a sip of tea, the bishop resumed his argument.

“The gift of prophecy has been passed down through Your Excellency’s maternal family for generations. Surely the day will come when you begin seeing things as well.”

“And what would that change?”

“You would become the pride of our diocese.”

“So you intend to use me to expand your diocese?”

“I certainly wish to expand the diocese, but I would never dream of using Your Excellency.”

Bishop Roan waved his hands in denial, though to Edric, the gesture looked suspiciously like an emphatic admission.

“I don’t find that particularly convincing.”

“How could I possibly use Your Excellency? To be perfectly honest, the thought did cross my mind once, but I immediately repented before God.”

The man had only recently passed fifty and possessed considerable ambition.

But his curiosity was even greater.

Had he not become a clergyman, he might well have become either an inventor or a swindler.

Instead, he had attached himself to Edric with the fervor of a fanatic.

The reason he bombarded Edric with letters every day, showering him with flattery and praise, was that Edric’s mother had been the final saintess of the fallen kingdom of Bormios.

“And it was not merely prophecy,” Bishop Roan often said. “They say she could grant people’s wishes as well. A truly sacred ability.”

He also liked to say,

“Although not a single portrait of her remains, I have heard that she was as beautiful as an angel.”

On that point, Edric agreed wholeheartedly.

Considering his own appearance, naturally his mother must have been beautiful.

That was probably why the late emperor had forgotten his duty.

The late emperor had gone to the temple seeking the saintess’s blessing and instead summoned Edric’s mother to his bedchamber.

That was how Edric had been born.

Misfortune had a long tail.

True to that age-old saying, another tragedy followed before long.

The late emperor died.

As foolish and impulsive men so often did, he departed this world without cleaning up the mess he had created.

And so the enraged dowager empress was left to deal with his numerous illegitimate children and mistresses.

The late emperor had at least left behind one legitimate son, so the dowager empress, who held the real power, quietly eliminated her husband’s mistresses.

It was a painfully predictable story.

And yet, within that sort of tale—the kind found everywhere in history books—fate had been born.

An elderly gentleman of great wisdom had rescued the infant Edric as he cried in the arms of his dying mother.

That man had been the late Count Livros.

From the moment Edric was gathered into those strong arms, he became an orphan boy of House Livros, his true birth kept secret.

I really have come a long way.

Remembering the past, Edric smiled faintly.

It felt as though all of it had happened for one reason alone—

so that he could meet his lady.

How could his heart not swell at the thought?

He set down his teacup and rose.

Suddenly, he wanted to see Rowena.

“Speaking of repentance… I suppose I should meet my confessor. Should I go down to the underground prayer chamber now?”

Edric descended the polished stone stairs and stopped at the entrance to the confessional.

He remembered Bishop Roan’s warning.

“A noblewoman who arrived before you is currently making her confession. All are equal before God, so even Your Excellency must wait your turn. I ask for your understanding.”

Even without the bishop’s warning, Edric had no intention of cutting ahead.

In fact, he had never intended to make a confession in the first place.

How could he confess when he had committed no sins?

The very instant Edric thought that—

he committed one.

Deliberately listening to another person’s secret.

It was something no gentleman should ever do.

And yet he could not make himself walk away.

Because the secret he had stumbled upon belonged to Rowena.

The voice came from a confessional some distance down the corridor leading toward the waiting room.

Through a wooden door carved with elaborate grapevines and angels carrying trumpets, a voice flowed as gently as a stream.

“Despite countless days of effort, I remain exactly as God created me, in my natural state.”

The confessor in the adjoining compartment exclaimed in surprise.

“Pardon? You mean…”

“I mean that I am still a v*rgin, Father Bernoulli.”

“So…”

“It has never once been accomplished.”

“Not even once?”

Rowena’s confessor was a man named François Bernoulli, around seventy or perhaps seventy-one years old.

Possibly because his hearing had begun to fail, his voice was extremely loud.

Unfortunately, Rowena was now sitting before the elderly man trying to convince him that Gerard Rendel was only half a man.

“Yes… I swear before God that I have never once shed blood. Sob… h-hic… That is why I came here to repent.”

“My lady, please calm yourself. Repent? Whatever do you mean?”

“It is entirely my fault. Imagine this, Father. If you were given a quill pen, but no matter how often you dipped it in ink, it refused to write a single word, whose fault would that be? Wouldn’t it be the fault of the person holding the quill?”

“How could that be your fault, my lady? Clearly the pen is broken.”

“No! No, Father! When someone else holds that quill and writes with it, the ink flows perfectly well. It only has trouble when I hold it. So it must be entirely my fault!”

“Oh, my lady…”

The old priest’s trembling voice passed through the thin latticework separating them.

Then Rowena’s voice followed through the same openings, shaking with emotion.

Edric’s chest trembled along with it.

Gripping the front of his shirt, Edric’s lips slowly curved upward.

So softly it was almost inaudible, he murmured,

“I’m still in my natural state too.”

Ninety years in his previous life.

Twenty-six years in this one.

For an astonishing total of one hundred sixteen years, there remained within him a territory no one had ever been permitted to enter.

What extraordinary chastity.

Impressed with himself, Edric stretched out his long legs and took several large steps backward.

Belatedly, he was attempting to preserve what remained of his manners as a gentleman.

Rowena’s voice could no longer be heard.

Yet the ripples left behind by her words continued shaking his heart.

“If I perform good deeds, surely my wish will be granted?”

Rowena smiled pitifully.

Sympathy pooled in Father Bernoulli’s wrinkled face.

The wish Rowena referred to was for her husband to be able to hold his head proudly even in bed.

It was something that would never happen, but Rowena faithfully continued acting the part of a noblewoman who refused to abandon hope until the very end.

“There is a piece of land outside Erisvale that House Livros purchased some time ago. My grandfather intended to build a small country house there where he could spend time alone. But after his death, the plan was abandoned.”

She continued.

“I would like to lease that land to the temple free of charge for the next one hundred years. Please use it for a worthy purpose.”

“Your intentions are so holy and noble that surely God will answer your prayers.”

Bishop Roan, seated opposite her, eagerly seized the opportunity to speak.

As though he had been waiting for precisely this moment, he immediately presented her with documents.

Rowena picked up a pen.

When she dipped the nib deeply into the ink, thick black droplets fell from it.

Seeing that, Father Bernoulli let out a long sigh.

“Come to think of it, isn’t the opening date for submitting the late Count Livros’s canonization documents approaching?”

At Bishop Roan’s question, Rowena nodded.

“That’s right.”

“I pray to God for him every day. If the late Count Livros were elevated to sainthood, imagine how greatly the prestige of our diocese would rise. Surely God Himself would be pleased.”

Rowena answered with a smile, then neatly signed several documents.

“And I also intend to donate a portion of the income from the vineyard near the border each year. For the next five years, I’m thinking of donating all of the profits, and after that, half.”

Bishop Roan beamed and immediately brought out another set of documents.

Rowena signed those as well without hesitation.

Within only a few minutes, the assets her grandfather had owned—and which Gerard had disposed of without her permission in her previous life—had slipped straight into God’s pocket.

If Gerard discovered this, he might rip off his gentlemanly mask and fly into a rage.

But it did not matter.

She had already signed the donations into effect.

There was no way to take them back now.

Rowena set down the quill and raised her head.

Her eyes met those of the man who had been watching her from directly across the room the entire time.

It was the Marquis of Windervane.

With one arm draped over the back of the sofa, he wore a gentle smile.

For some reason, he seemed to be in an especially good mood.

He had been that way ever since she encountered him on the stairs leading out of the confessional.

In his captivating voice, though with a slightly excited tone, Edric Bernhardt had said—