Chapter 63
While the mansion had been empty, something must have happened, because unlike yesterday, the first floor was crowded.
The reception room and waiting area had clearly exceeded their capacity, and several people were scattered throughout the hallways.
No matter how you looked at it, the atmosphere didn’t seem favorable to them, so Heine took a cautious step back to secure an escape route. As his back and elbow pushed the door open, a rush of cold wind swept in.
Lanje and Erna followed his lead. Even if the lunch they’d had in the village was the worst, there should still be at least one decent place if they looked hard enough.
To think they were desperate to return to the village after practically fleeing from that mystery broth dish earlier. That was how ominous the stares raining down on them felt.
“Milady!”
Just before they managed to slip out safely, a booming voice stopped the three in their tracks.
“You’ve finally returned!”
The viscount’s son had spotted Lanje and was approaching, with Gunne following behind him.
It was an overly enthusiastic welcome. Of course, yesterday he had tried some strange flattery too, but he hadn’t even come out to greet them then.
At the word “milady,” Lanje felt like breaking out in hives and quickly turned around. It wasn’t too late to leave now.
But despite the crowd, there were still guests arriving, as someone threw the door wide open—the same door Heine had pushed.
Old men bundled in thick clothes stood blocking the doorway, staring curiously at Heine, who had just opened it.
“Excuse me.”
He instinctively apologized and stepped aside, and as the old men passed, they gave Heine, Lanje, and Erna a long look, whispering among themselves. Only a faint phrase reached her ears—they weren’t from around here.
In that brief moment, the viscount’s son closed the distance, and Gunne shook her head as if to say, Don’t even think about running.
Ignoring the old men, the young man spoke to Lanje in an even more ingratiating tone.
“As you can see, many have gathered upon hearing of Lady Swanhilde’s visit.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re the marquis’s granddaughter—and the one who will make an important decision for Lesvar! And, haha…”
A forced laugh followed, and Lanje made no effort to hide her distaste. Still, none of those who claimed to have come to see her cared about her feelings.
Gunne had only announced a few hours ago that Lanje’s opinion would weigh in on the heir selection.
That so many had gathered in such a short time was thanks entirely to the viscount’s son.
With his lacking skills, he’d attempted direct communication magic, sparing no effort or expense to gather people who could persuade Lanje to choose him.
Local notables tied to the timber trade and even government inspectors dispatched from the capital—an impressive lineup indeed.
Thankfully, or perhaps inevitably, the Morigen administrative officer, who would have had to confront the inspector, was nowhere in sight.
Still, since the marquis had entrusted his granddaughter with such authority, the turnout was substantial.
Pushed into the reception room, Lanje had to speak with them one after another.
They’d come under the pretext of a greeting, but for some reason, Gunne seemed to expect her to host the meeting.
Honestly, Lanje still hadn’t abandoned the thought of escaping.
Couldn’t I just climb out the window?
But Gunne was the marquis’s close aide, and Lanje had accepted the marquis’s test. Conversations like this might well be part of assessing a candidate’s character.
Should she just give up on the whole test? The tempting thought flickered for a moment, but she hadn’t lost her mind that far yet.
She had too many ties to sever and couldn’t afford to leave empty-handed.
Besides, outside was the dead of winter in the northern lands—another important reason to stay put.
Why did I come to Morigen during winter break, of all times?
Summer would’ve been better by far.
Anyway, after an entire afternoon of listening to strangers and even spending dinner with them, the conclusion she reached was this: the viscount’s son was far more troublesome than she had imagined.
If he’d only been as odd as her first impression suggested, Lanje might have seriously considered Heine’s proposal to strike a deal with him. But the problem lay in the motives of this horde of so-called supporters.
They all insisted that the viscount’s son must inherit Lesvar, and when you stripped away the talk of principles and tradition, their real reason was simple:
It’s easier to control a fool than a doll.
An automaton wouldn’t be swayed by emotion or take interest in schemes. If an automaton inherited the viscounty, the marquis’s influence would only grow. That was even specified in the late viscount’s will.
They must have gotten away with all kinds of shady business before, but with that change, it would become impossible. So they’d rather seat an idiot on the throne.
Lanje held her head, her thoughts tangled.
It wasn’t just about picking one; she needed a valid reason, and on top of that, her research material issue was intertwined. No easy answer there.
Even her small wish to lie down for a while couldn’t be granted, as one last group still awaited her.
That final group was the old men who had appeared behind Heine earlier in the day.
Whether they were here to evaluate her or simply ensure she didn’t run, Gunne sat in on the meeting and introduced them.
“They are the village chiefs from nearby.”
Lanje, thoroughly fed up, spoke before they could finish their greetings.
“If you’re here to tell me a person is better than a doll, I’ve heard that plenty today. Why don’t you just go home? I can’t give you an answer yet anyway.”
Gunne had witnessed her ordeal firsthand and didn’t think she needed to hear more of the same.
Gunne herself didn’t think highly of the viscount’s son. Listening to hours of forced compliments was torment for her too.
So why should they both suffer through this?
Having reached that conclusion, Lanje flatly refused further conversation.
“We’re not here to support the young master.”
Since everyone started out by saying that, Lanje remained unimpressed.
“Oh? Then what, you’re going to share thirty heartwarming anecdotes about him? Heard those too…”
But the old men gave an unexpected reply.
“No, we’re here to persuade you that you should choose Skadi.”
For a moment, Lanje was stunned, but then realized that must be the doll’s name.
It had a name?
That thought passed quickly, replaced by a stranger one.
So there are people who’d side with the doll after all.
Resting her head on her hand, Lanje observed the old men more closely.
“You saw the crowd the young master brought in, right? Did the doll contact you?”
If humans retaliated by rallying their own supporters, that was only natural. But for a doll to make such an emotional decision seemed odd.
She asked out of genuine curiosity, but the men must have found her tone unsettling, as they hastily denied it.
“The young master spread the word, so it eventually reached us, that’s all.”
“As you know, Skadi is an automaton. He doesn’t plot behind the scenes.”
Lanje accepted that explanation.
Of course the viscount’s son had contacted them directly, thinking he was being discreet, but preparing for an outing is always noisy. News would inevitably leak through servants—where he was going and why.
The old men’s late arrival could easily be explained by the delay in the news reaching them.
“I get the gist.”
Straightening up, Lanje nodded.
“But… for men your age to say an automaton should be the heir—that’s surprising.”
Someone like Count Swanhilde, of similar years, would never even imagine such a thing.
He would rule that no matter how incompetent, his son must succeed.
At best, he might seek an alternative branch, but he’d never acknowledge an automaton. He’d probably explode, insisting that at least a human should inherit.
That was common sense.
Even Lanje, with little stake in this matter, felt a twinge of unease, so it was no wonder the marquis had postponed his decision.
So what made these old men think so radically?
After a day of boredom, Lanje finally felt intrigued.
This was bound to be more interesting than the greedy sycophants praising the viscount’s son or trying to use this as an excuse to curry favor with the marquis.
“You said you came to persuade me, so tell me why.”
Seeing that she was willing to listen, the old men sighed in relief.
“…Skadi may not be human, but that makes him all the more fair.”
“Above all, he’s lived in Lesvar for countless years. When I was a boy, he was here in this mansion, looking exactly the same.”
“Skadi knows everything about this place…”
It was almost the same argument the local notables had used for the viscount’s son, so Lanje felt a little disappointed.
“If that were enough, the viscounty should have gone to someone like you long ago.”
This mess had blown up because of the will, but incompetent heirs inheriting titles and estates by blood was nothing new.
Like that unwanted future when her great-uncle Swanhilde claimed everything.
He was pathetic even compared to Eirik and her grandfather, Heser, yet he monopolized the inheritance because Lanje was known as an illegitimate child back then.
“You don’t seriously believe in meritocracy, do you?”
Her tone was light, but the question carried a clear nudge for the real reason.
The old men didn’t dodge it.
Their sighs grew heavier, and one of them finally spoke in a low voice.
“You’re right, milady. But even so… how could we ever accept as our lord someone who has taken a life?”
