There was someone inside the carriage. A man. The documents he had been holding scattered to the floor. He had been startled by Diana’s cry.

Iela quietly took a seat across from him. The soles of her shoes left marks on several of the papers that had fallen to the floor.

“Miss Lorid.”

His voice was high for a man’s. It was the kind of voice more befitting a young boy than a grown man, which led Iela to guess he was not as old as he appeared.

“Would you kindly move your foot.”

Iela glanced down at the paper pinned beneath her shoe. The man did not seem bothered by whether a stranger might see the documents, or perhaps he assumed she would not be able to read them even if she did.

What filled the pages was a dense, cramped cursive script. The man, who had been waiting for Iela to move, let out a sigh at last.

“It is a prenuptial agreement.”

He seemed to have concluded that she was being stubborn out of curiosity about the contents. He bent down himself and gathered the papers together.

It was a gesture that made no effort to conceal his intention to humor her, as if to say, how amusing, a common woman of no standing wanting to assert her pride.

“As the marriage was requested from our side, we have prioritized Miss Lorid’s interests as much as possible. Would you like to look it over?”

Despite asking, the man did not hand over the documents. After a brief pause, he followed up.

“Or shall I read the contents aloud to you?”

The man curved his lips into a slight smile, as if to say, either way is perfectly fine with me.

“I tend to go over contracts carefully.”

“Ah, naturally, the influence of your father, I imagine. Lorid Trading was one of the most prominent merchant houses in Valita.”

The man tilted his head at the oddly truncated reply, but seemed to decide against pressing further and returned a diplomatic response.

It was an answer that concealed, just beneath the surface, a reproach aimed at Philip Lorid, who went around stealing things despite running no small operation.

“Forgive the late introduction. Anton Mivela, the lord’s deputy.”

The introduction was not the only thing that was late. He still had not handed the documents to Iela.

“I expected to exchange greetings with Mr. Lorid, but he was nowhere to be seen.”

“His health has not been cooperating.”

Iela replied offhandedly and snatched the documents from the man’s hand. They were quite thick. Beneath the heading “Prenuptial Agreement” at the top, numbered clauses followed in succession.

Perhaps because no dowry was being brought in from Iela’s side, the asset division clause in the event of divorce was remarkably specific. It was a provision that had nothing to do with her, given that her goal was widowhood.

The man studied Iela for a moment with a suspicious eye as she read through the pages without hesitation. Does she actually understand this? The movement of her eyes was far too natural for someone merely pretending.

“Valentin Bahar.”

Reaching the final page, Iela read the signed name aloud. The man, Anton, swept his gaze over her with a look of displeasure.

“Valentin. A name that rolls off the tongue nicely.”

It sounded more like a murmur to herself than a remark directed at anyone. And so, once again, Anton felt a vague sense of unease yet failed to find the right moment to call her out on it.

“Will you be signing?”

He opened a drawer fitted inside the carriage and took out a quill pen and ink. The carriage was equipped with various conveniences to allow work to be carried out while traveling on official business.

A portable desk was also installed between the facing seats, so anyone accustomed to the motion could write a short note without ruining the paper. A common woman unfamiliar with carriages should have no trouble signing her name, Anton thought.

Iela spilled the ink. Valita was not terrain well suited to driving a carriage, but the coachman Anton had brought was exceptionally skilled. Moreover, the road leading up to the carriage had already been cleared of accumulated snow beforehand.

It was not a mistake caused by jolting. As proof, Iela had not even picked up the quill. Anton watched with perfect clarity as she opened the ink cap and immediately tipped it onto its side.

“Miss Lorid, this is rather excessive rudeness.”

“I have a habit of spilling ink whenever I see a contract that is too one-sided.”

“I have been making every effort to treat you with the utmost courtesy, and yet it seems the response I receive is not quite in kind, which puts me in a difficult position.”

He finally called out the informal speech she had been using, having let it pass several times before. Iela picked up the ink-soaked contract between two fingers and opened the window, tossing it out without a second thought.

“Miss Lorid.”

“Anton Mivela.”

Their words overlapped.

“Anton Mivela, when you present a contract, you ought to keep in mind the possibility of refusal. Whatever else one might say about Philip Lorid, he was truly exceptional in that regard. He always carries three different contracts on his person when entering a negotiation.”

Anton chewed slowly at his lip. He had not anticipated a situation like this. With his composed mask cracked, he looked decidedly younger.

“You said you prioritized my interests. Fine words, but the contents of that contract told a different story.”

“We did not request a dowry, out of consideration for Miss Lorid’s circumstances.”

“You ought to speak plainly, Anton Mivela. There is no point in complaining that stolen goods are not to your liking after you have already robbed the thief.”

A sharp sting from his bitten lip made Anton realize, belatedly, that he had been letting all of his agitation show.

“Is there a clause you would like to add?”

He asked, making an effort to appear composed. Wind rushing in through the open window swept through Iela’s hair. The neatly tied strands came undone.

“Then shall we spend the rest of the journey discussing how much of an inheritance I stand to receive after bereavement?”

Iela pushed her long hair back carelessly, and she looked like nothing so much as an untamed wild animal. Not merely in the sense of a fierce predator.

Is it not said that humans are social animals? If so, could a human who has cast aside all notion of sociality simply be called an animal outright?

Watching Iela bring up her spouse’s death before the vow ceremony had even taken place, Anton quietly pressed his palm against his stomach, which had begun to ache.

* * *

“Iela, reverence! Don’t forget. Not aggression, reverence!”

The cry of the one woman who had come out to see her off suddenly rang in his ears. Anton finally understood what that strange farewell had been worried about.

She had been warning him of Iela Lorid’s aggression.

His spirit somewhat deflated, Anton said he would draw up a new contract and have it delivered before the vow ceremony.

Watching the woman who had subtracted society from the concept of a social animal wipe her ink-stained hand with a handkerchief, he felt something surge up from within him.

It was the irritation of seeing someone who paid no mind to the social graces and manners that any civilized person ought to possess, yet had every intention of enjoying the conveniences that civilization had produced.

“We have passed through the castle gate.”

It is best not to provoke a wild animal carelessly. Anton looked out the window as though nothing had happened and announced their arrival.

Iela also turned her gaze outside. A desolate landscape greeted her.

“The trees were felled due to an increase in intruders of late.”

“Intruders?”

Anton spoke as though making excuses, and Iela played dumb.

“There is a lawless lot who seem to think of the lord as being trapped inside the castle. Goodness knows where that notion spread from. It is a relief that Miss Lorid does not appear to lend an ear to such baseless rumors.”

If it were merely a matter of being confined to the castle, intruders would not be frequent enough to warrant felling trees. The outsiders who came to catch a glimpse of the lord from the rumors were mostly writers from third-rate occult publications.

The root cause was old Grandfather George. That elderly native of Valita would grab hold of the occasional visitor and ramble on about how the lord had been cursed by a witch, or how he had lived for two hundred years without dying, an immortal who could not age.

It was only that much information, yet eccentrics did not hesitate to make their way all the way to Valita, perched at the very edge of the map.

Because the supposedly cursed individual was a nobleman, a fixation on pinning down the specifics had merged with a base sort of curiosity.

“The lord simply prefers not to go out.”

The excuses continued.

“A curse, of all things. Is that not absurd? In this day and age, not even a child would believe such a thing.”

He was not a man skilled at lying. Even Iela, who had not believed a word of old Grandfather George’s ramblings, found herself intrigued enough to sense the faint smell of a secret.

Before Iela could let her curiosity show, the carriage came to a stop. Anton, visibly relieved, rose and stepped out first as though making an escape.

“Your hand.”

“I’ll pass.”

The cheek of Anton, whose offer of a courtesy escort had been declined, flushed ever so slightly. Iela jumped down the steep steps on her own and took in the castle with her eyes.

“What a sight.”

It was easy to understand why the third-rate publications had been so eager to come. From a distance, the sheer scale had simply struck her as befittingly large for a place where a nobleman lived, but the castle seen up close was nothing short of a ruin.

The remnants of its former glory only made it all the more gloomy. Her eyes met those of a gargoyle statue perched atop a spire. Whether it was an optical illusion, the eyes of what was nothing but a lump of stone seemed to flash for a moment.

“Shall we go in.”

The heavy door swung open. Iela stepped inside and tilted her head.

Stained glass windows coated entirely in dust, a marble floor left with tracks of snow and mud, and a high ceiling blanketed in cobwebs throughout.

“Miss Lorid?”

Anton, who had been about to lead her through the hall and into the drawing room, turned around upon noticing the absence of the person beside him.

“The castle is somewhat lacking in upkeep.”

“Somewhat?”

“Severely.”

Anton corrected himself without argument. He had grown fairly accustomed to it, but he was aware that the castle did not look like a space fit for human habitation.

“It makes me want to go back to being a child.”

It was a continuation of the earlier conversation.

“If I were a witch, I would have avoided a castle like this.”

“It would be more advantageous to blame it on a witch, I suppose.”

“Miss Lorid would not have to contend with midnight intruders brandishing crosses and wearing garlic around their necks.”

Anton extended his arm again.

“The drawing room is presentable.”

Iela declined his arm with indifference. Anton folded his now-useless arm and pressed it against his stomach.

The main drawing room was, as Anton had promised, in better shape than the hall. The thick layer of dust was the same, but a portrait hanging on the wall caught Iela’s eye.

“That is the lord.”

Anton introduced the subject with a note of pride. It was a man with blue hair. His languidly half-open eyes were a shade deeper than his hair. His slightly parted lips looked so vivid that even in a painting, one could almost feel their moistness.

He was an extraordinarily beautiful man, but far from Iela’s taste. She did not care for the condescending expression on his face. Above all, she could not see the point of being shown a portrait from his youth.

“They say wine reveals its true worth the longer it ages.”

“Wine?”

“But I happen to prefer everything new. New arrivals for goods, and fresh-season fruit for produce.”

Iela ran a finger along the dust on the portrait.

“Such an aged portrait. I wonder how much dust has settled on the real thing.”

Leaving a bewildered Anton behind, Iela asked again.

“Is he actually capable of walking out on his own two feet?”

Only then realizing that the wine had been a metaphor, Anton opened and closed his mouth. Words welled up in abundance, but not a single one of them was an answer he could actually give, so he closed his mouth again.

Since silence can sometimes signify agreement, Anton’s stomach pains grew all the more severe.