Chapter 5.
The Less Tiny One and the Even Tinier One (3)
“……”
“……”
The silence stretched on.
Cyril, who was leaning back against the headboard with his arms crossed, opened his mouth irritably.
“What is it?”
“Can I come in?”
“……”
A sound like air leaking escaped Cyril’s mouth.
She was already inside. Why ask if she could come in?
It was a question he couldn’t understand.
“You’re already in.”
“No. I’m here.”
The girl pointed down at her feet. When he glanced over, she seemed to be standing on the threshold.
In other words, she was insisting she hadn’t come in yet.
It was behavior unimaginable in the ducal castle.
Cyril recalled that anyone who entered his room— even the duke and duchess—always asked permission first before opening the door.
But in this case, the one who opened the door hadn’t been the girl, but Jerome.
And strictly speaking, he’d opened it to leave, so it was hard to say he’d let her in…
“Just come in.”
Taking that into account, Cyril granted permission.
Only then did the girl, who had been standing stiffly like a tree, step inside. Her fluttering steps looked oddly light.
She walks strangely.
Cyril found his gaze drawn to her feet with each step, then suddenly froze.
“…Why are you climbing up?”
“I want to talk.”
The girl, who he thought would stop at a reasonable distance, was trying to climb onto the bed.
Startled, he asked why she was doing that, but her answer was shameless.
Cyril, dumbfounded, asked again.
“This is my room.”
“This is our house…”
Even as she said that, she seemed to sense something was off and hesitated before stepping back down.
She glanced outside, likely because a maid was waiting there.
“……”
“……”
Silence fell again. Her blue-green eyes blinked slowly.
Wasn’t the visitor supposed to explain their reason for coming first?
Cyril thought so with his sharp mind, but the girl remained unmoved.
“Why did you come?”
In the end, unable to endure it, Cyril asked again.
At that, the girl dragged out an “Um…” as she thought.
As her eyes drifted upward in contemplation, Cyril’s patience evaporated.
You came here and now you’re thinking about why? Then why did you come at all?
“What’s your name?”
“What?”
“Your name. You don’t know?”
The girl repeated the word slowly, treating Cyril like an idiot.
“Name.”
Her overly clear enunciation was strangely polite—and irritating.
“What do you need to know it for?”
“So I can call you.”
“Why would you call me?”
“Because you’re in our house?”
He’d only been sulking out of irritation, but the girl refused to yield even an inch.
Cyril shook his head, feeling like he might actually become stupid if this continued.
“Cyril.”
“Cyril? That’s really short.”
“Cyril Valentin de Tesar.”
“That’s long…”
The eyes that had been sparkling with interest instantly turned gloomy.
Is my name being long something sad for her?
“…Just call me Cyril.”
“Okay.”
Thinking that, Cyril offered a compromise. The girl accepted it readily.
“What about me?”
“Adriana.”
“Oh.”
The girl let out a short exclamation. Her already large eyes widened into perfect circles. Her mouth followed suit.
“That’s wrong.”
“What?”
Just as Cyril was about to think it was a little cute, everything rounded snapped back into place.
With a solemn expression, the girl crossed her index fingers into an X.
“It’s not Adriana. It’s Adrienne.”
“…That’s the same thing.”
“It’s different.”
A child who rarely left his bed had little to do besides read.
Cyril exaggerated only slightly when he thought he’d learned to read before he learned to walk.
His head was full of knowledge, and that miscellaneous knowledge told him that “Adriana” and “Adrienne” were essentially the same name.
But the owner of that name insisted they were different, wearing an unnecessarily resolute expression.
Even if they’re different, it’s basically a nickname….
That thought crossed his mind, but Cyril didn’t want to be dragged around unnecessarily, so he gave in half-heartedly.
“Cyril.”
“What.”
“I’m leaving.”
Having appeared out of nowhere, introduced herself, and apparently completed her mission, Adriana—no, Adrienne—turned around.
Flutter, flutter.
Her retreating figure disappeared like a mirage.
Feeling slightly dazed, Cyril thought—
She’s really strange.
And so Adrienne was defined in Cyril’s mind as “a strange kid.”
＊ ＊ ＊
It was already the third day since Cyril had come to Casinel to recuperate.
Surprisingly, he was spending his days peacefully.
He still coughed constantly, as always, but overall, his condition was far better than before.
Most of all, he slept well.
Deeply. Without a single seizure.
That alone was extremely encouraging.
Perhaps because of that, Cyril impulsively accepted the count’s invitation to dine together, despite having always eaten in his room.
“Oh.”
Adrienne, who was already seated at the round table, greeted him when she spotted him.
Cyril briefly wondered if that could even be called a greeting, but in any case, she had acknowledged him.
“If there is any dish you prefer, please don’t hesitate to say so.”
“Thank you.”
Words far too solemn for a six-year-old, and a reply far too calm for one, were exchanged.
Adrienne alternated her gaze between her father and Cyril, then nodded.
Cyril felt uneasy at the meaningless nod but chose to focus on the table instead.
A tart topped with roasted mushrooms and squash, minced meat simmered to make it easier to digest, salmon steak cut into bite-sized pieces…
The dishes were all things that would be easy for Cyril to eat.
Perhaps the ducal chef had given instructions.
Thinking about it, even the meals brought to his room had always been tailored to his tastes.
Sensing the careful consideration, Cyril quietly picked up his utensils.
Aside from the occasional clink of Adrienne’s cutlery against her plate, the meal passed in near silence.
As Cyril moved his hands slowly, there came a point when he stopped touching his food altogether.
Noticing this, Adrienne nudged her father.
“Does the food not suit your taste, Young Master? If so, we can prepare something else right away.”
The count, who had already been watching closely, asked gently.
“No, it’s fine. I’m—”
Cyril shook his head and trailed off.
His pale face looked clearly unwell.
Clenching his fists as if holding something back, Cyril suddenly sprang to his feet.
“Ugh—”
But as he turned hurriedly, he ended up vomiting.
A servant barely managed to catch him as his knees buckled, but the lower half of his body was already soaked in vomit.
After a long struggle, Cyril lifted his head.
His face, already pale, was now completely drained of color.
And then—
“……”
His eyes met Adrienne’s.
Cyril staggered upright and began to run, as if driven by some unknown force.
“Attend to the young master!”
The butler’s voice followed behind him.
Adrienne stared at the afterimage of Cyril fleeing across the soiled floor.
The golden eyes that had trembled with fear burned deeply into her mind.
＊ ＊ ＊
Vomiting marked the beginning of a familiar seizure.
Collapsed on the bed, Cyril gasped for breath.
Jerome, who rushed over at once after hearing the commotion, handled things with practiced ease.
All he could do, really, was give medicine and massage Cyril’s limbs to keep them from stiffening.
Only after a long while did the trembling finally subside.
Jerome, who had stayed by his side the entire time, quietly stepped away once Cyril began to come to.
After an episode, Cyril always suffered from intense self-loathing, and he didn’t want anyone to witness it.
Especially today, after showing such an unsightly scene in front of the count and his daughter, the shame would be unbearable.
Why now? Why again?
Just as Jerome expected, Cyril was struggling.
Adrienne’s wide, startled eyes were vividly etched in his mind.
I was fine. I was fine this time—so why…?
Remembering the vomit spread across the clean floor made his head spin.
Anyone would be disgusted by such a sight.
Cyril naturally recalled how his parents used to swallow sighs whenever similar things happened when he was younger.
That was why, at some point, he’d started preferring to eat alone—to ensure no one would ever witness such a disgrace.
And yet, what had possessed him to suggest eating together?
Overwhelmed by self-reproach, Cyril weakly rubbed his face into his pillow.
I should say I want to eat alone from now on.
As he struggled to erase the image of himself from his thoughts, Cyril pushed himself upright.
Even though it wasn’t something he needed to say immediately, the thought that he had to say it dominated his mind.
Instead of pulling the bell cord, Cyril chose to walk himself.
It was stubborn pride—he wanted to appear even a little more composed.
At the ducal castle, he was the frail young master.
But at Casinel, he hoped—just a little—that this would be seen as a single mistake.
“……”
Opening the door after dragging his heavy steps forward, Cyril froze.
The cause was the small figure sitting beside the door.
Red hair lay messily over a white dress, and the child sat curled in on herself, head lowered.
It was Adrienne.
Only then did Cyril notice a maid standing nearby with an awkward expression.
From before, it seemed she was Adrienne’s attendant.
“Oh.”
Sensing someone, Adrienne slowly lifted her head and met Cyril’s eyes.
That single syllable carried a note of familiarity.
But Cyril wasn’t in the mood to face her.
Looking at her reminded him of his earlier mistake, and that alone was humiliating enough.
No matter how well-mannered he was, a child was still a child.
He wasn’t mature enough to chat cheerfully with someone who had witnessed such an ugly scene.
“Cyril!”
Pretending not to see her, Cyril turned away—then stopped.
He wasn’t mature, but he also wasn’t heartless.
His mind told him to ignore her and keep going, but his body refused to move.
In the end, he stood there awkwardly, half-turned.
“Here.”
Suddenly, a small white hand appeared.
Something that hadn’t been visible before now rested in her palm.
Red, dotted with yellow seeds—
A strawberry.
Adrienne remained seated, lifting only the hand holding the fruit, resolute.
Lacking the courage to meet her eyes, Cyril spoke without looking down.
“…You eat it.”
As he turned away again, another hand rose.
This time, it held a ripe pomegranate.
Cyril glanced down before he could stop himself.
The area around Adrienne’s stomach was stained red.
She must have hugged the fruit tightly all the way here.
“This is good.”
“……”
“Really good.”
“……”
“I didn’t eat it. I brought it for you…”
Her red hair caught the sunlight streaming through the window and glowed.
After hesitating, Cyril slowly shifted his gaze.
Her utterly innocent eyes stared at him, as if asking, You still won’t eat it?
“If you’re full, just eat one. You don’t have to eat both.”
“……”
“It’s good. I promise.”
As she spoke, Adrienne extended her hand.
Watching the motion, Cyril’s lips parted slightly.
His throat felt warm.
Even though she’d seen that disgusting scene, even though she knew he couldn’t possibly be full, the eyes asking him that question were sincere.
Looking into them, it felt like nothing bad had ever happened at all.
In the end, Cyril took the fruit.
Adrienne didn’t look particularly pleased. She just stared at it quietly, then said abruptly—
“My legs hurt.”
“…Then stand up.”
“My legs hurt, so I can’t.”
Her awkward posture supported the claim.
Idiot….
Muttering that to himself, Cyril still held out his hand.
Adrienne lightly took it.
Her hand, sticky with fruit juice, should have felt unpleasant—but Cyril didn’t really mind.
Perhaps it was because the strawberry smelled so sweet.
Or because the pomegranate looked too delicious.
Cyril decided to think of it that way.
