Chapter 36
Rieta was caught up in many misunderstandings.
When Norman approached Theodore, she thought he was simply trying to give her a chance to speak by creating an opening, since she was hovering nearby but couldn’t easily bring herself to talk. She assumed Theodore’s attentive gaze was the same as everyone else’s—unable to look away from her. She had no idea the reality was entirely different. Smiling gently, she was racking her brain over what she ought to say.
First impressions were extremely important. She hoped that her encounter with Theodore would be unforgettable and, ideally, lead naturally to future meetings. But the sudden arrival of Marquis Blanche completely wrecked Rieta’s plan.
Though she believed Marquis Blanche to be a despicable man who wielded her weaknesses against her, she acknowledged his achievements and thought he had every right to attend the banquet. So she had resolved to maintain basic courtesy and ignore him throughout the night…
‘But why is he exchanging such familiar greetings with Theodore?’
Of course, Blanche was once part of the knightly order, so it was entirely possible they had met. If their relationship was nothing more than an acquaintance, it wouldn’t be an issue. But from the looks of it, they were connected by a deeper, sturdier bond. Rieta grew not just confused but overwhelmed by unease; her shoulders trembled.
Between her and Marquis Blanche, the enmity was deep—almost that of sworn enemies. He was the man who had nearly lost his beloved granddaughter, and she was the one who had tried to brand that granddaughter as guilty. He could not possibly hold her in good regard.
If he were to mention that incident to Theodore… Rieta clenched her fists tight.
“Judging by your expression, you’re thinking of leaving soon.”
“…How did you know?”
“I’ve watched you for years. Do you think I wouldn’t notice something like that? But even if you’re tired, stay at the banquet tonight. You must at least hear the Emperor’s address. As I’ve told you again and again, until the investiture ceremony, do not give the Klagens anything they can use against you.”
“Yes… but when will the address arrive?”
“Any moment now. Hm, I see Silberte’s seat is empty as well.”
“Could something have happened? Aren’t you close friends? Shouldn’t you check…?”
“He’ll handle it on his own.”
Theodore laughed at Marquis Blanche’s indifferent reply. The moment his bright laughter rang out, the first to react was Rieta. The orchestra’s music was too loud for her to catch their exact words, and her impatience mounted. At last, she decided to ask Norman—who seemed to know Marquis Blanche best—the question that weighed most heavily on her mind.
“Lord Winteryle, do you know what kind of relationship Sir Arbelche has with Marquis Blanche?”
“You didn’t know? Marquis Blanche’s son, Ronan Blanche, is Sir Arbelche’s teacher. He grew up in the Marquis’s household.”
Rieta froze, unable to respond right away. Silberte had only told her Theodore came from the slums, never in detail. So hearing that Ronan had been his mentor shocked her deeply.
“The High Priest is from the slums…”
“It was Ronan who rescued him from the slums, and also the one who set him on the path of knighthood.”
How could this be? That meant Theodore’s bond with Marquis Blanche was far more unshakable than she had imagined. Rieta cast a sharp look at the Marquis, when suddenly a dreadful thought drained the warmth from her body.
If so… did Theodore also have ties to Charlotte—the very one Rieta had tried to drive out?
The priest Jamil, who was responsible for managing the donation ledgers, looked startled when Silberte summoned him. Understandably so—since Silberte had never before suggested reviewing the accounts himself. Of course, Jamil must have wondered if something had gone wrong. But Silberte soothed him, insisting it was nothing, and sent him back.
It should not have ended like that.
About ten minutes later, as Silberte read slowly through the records, his sharp eyes narrowed.
“…There’s something odd about these ledgers.”
Back in his younger days, one of his duties as vice-commander had been financial oversight of the order. Though he had little reason to examine ledgers in such detail since becoming High Priest, he still had a quick and precise mind for numbers and bookkeeping.
He flipped to a page dated from last year, running his hand over the entries. He traced the funds used for orphanages, slums, and other charitable activities, until his gaze stopped on the records of the temple’s auction proceeds.
That autumn, foreign gemstones had become all the rage in high society. As a result, donations frequently included flawed gems or uncut stones—items too imperfect to sell yet too valuable to simply discard. Many donors offered such pieces both to rid themselves of them and to gain recognition for charity. Silberte knew this well. He also knew that, in their raw form, no one would buy them at auction.
So they had partnered with Count Joubert, a renowned jeweler, to create small brooches and put them up for auction. The result was a smashing success.
Brooches co-produced by the famously devout Count Joubert and the temple—paired with the fact that the proceeds would aid the needy—created extraordinary demand. At that time, with one grand event after another, fashionable ladies were desperate for rare accessories. They bid aggressively, eager to obtain the brooches.
Thanks to this, substantial funds were raised.
But then, why did the amount listed in the ledgers look like this?
[When the donation list was filled with rocks—well, uncut stones—I wasn’t sure what to do, but you were truly wise.]
[I did nothing. It was thanks to Count Joubert. His reputation for piety helped greatly. I should send him a letter of thanks.]
[We secured enough to distribute generously for at least four months without issue. In particular, it’s fortunate we can support Gretel Orphanage. Last summer’s floods hit them hardest…]
Recalling this exchange with Rettran, Silberte frowned. “Enough for at least four months,” Rettran had said—not in exaggeration, but with genuine confidence.
So surely, when they divided the funds, they had been more than generous.
Yet the ledger showed otherwise. Over those four months, the disbursements were only slightly above average—not generous at all.
The natural question arose: where did the rest of the money go?
Anyone else might have overlooked it, satisfied that the donations were not lacking and were even above the norm. But Silberte was different.
He remembered the bags of gems and stones, the Count’s expert craftsmanship, the fervor of wealthy women eager for unique jewelry, and Rettran’s excited reaction. All this should have amounted to far more than the numbers written here.
“The funds were embezzled.”
The realization hit him alongside a wave of betrayal.
Managing the donation ledgers was Priest Jamil’s duty—and Silberte had trusted him. He hadn’t checked the records himself, partly for lack of time, but mostly because of that trust. For years, he had simply accepted the summarized reports of expenditures.
If he examined other ledgers, he would likely find the same. In fact, the odds were very high.
With a sharp thud, Silberte closed the book. Now he understood why Jamil had looked so nervous when Fon brought the ledgers to the meeting room earlier.
He had feared discovery. But then, where was the stolen money now?
Wait.
Overshadowed by the shock of betrayal, Silberte had almost forgotten something.
He quietly repeated the name. Jamil’s full name was…
“Kenis. Jamil Kenis.”
Charlotte woke up in high spirits that morning.
Aria had been eating well, even the foods she disliked, and recently showed great interest in the books in the study. Of course, she made sure Aria stayed away from the desk drawers, since they held letters exchanged with Baroness Vervel regarding Aria’s adoption. But instead, she spent time reading aloud whatever books Aria found interesting.
Despite never having been formally taught, Aria could read surprisingly well. Charlotte remembered the day the letter announcing the return ceremony arrived—Aria had read through most of it with ease, stumbling only on difficult characters.
Though some pronunciations were garbled, her ability was still remarkable. Perhaps someone had taught her before she was abandoned?
As Charlotte stroked her daughter’s hair while she read carefully word by word, she suddenly heard a faint rustling sound.
What was that? It almost sounded like squeaking…
Aria had heard it too, staring wide-eyed at Charlotte.
“Mommy.”
“Yes?”
“I want a snack.”
Ah, so she was just hungry.
Charlotte laughed softly and called for a maid. But no one came. Then she remembered what Anna had mentioned.
In the north, the land of Nostrid, it was always cold, and every month brought fierce snowstorms. They began with light flurries for several days, then suddenly escalated into blizzards that buried the villages.
Thankfully, the storms never lasted more than two or three days.
Still, during that time, the roads iced over and windows often shattered under the pressure. So the household staff would spend the morning boarding up windows. Charlotte told Aria to wait and stepped out.
As expected, she found the maids bustling about on the first floor, nailing boards over the windows. Among them was Anna.
“Anna.”
“Yes, my lady? What is it?”
“Aria wants a snack.”
“She’s been asking often lately. She even begged me for bread a few times.”
“If she’s eating well, that’s good.”
“My lady, do you realize how plump her tummy is getting?”
“But isn’t she adorable?”
“Oh, my lady!”
Despite her complaints, the snacks Anna brought included raisin scones, syrup-glazed maleca, and rich cheesecake—an assortment of delicious treats.
As she grumbled about Aria’s cheeks being as soft as dough, Anna suddenly flinched. Charlotte, too, stiffened.
“Kyaaaah!”
It was the piercing cry of Suu. The sound came from Aria’s room. Charlotte rushed back, only to find chaos.
Through the wide-open doors, she saw Suu’s front paw drenched in sticky black liquid. Usually aloof toward everyone but Aria, Suu bolted straight into Charlotte’s arms, trembling, one paw lifted. His fur and even his mouth were smeared with the black substance.
“…What is this?”
Anna approached the puddle of dark fluid on the floor. Among it lay bits of flesh and shreds of torn paper. She squinted at the writing.
“Madam, Aria, adoption…” It was a letter from Baroness Vervel regarding the adoption. But why was it torn to pieces? And what was this burning-smelling liquid?
Anna nudged one of the fleshy scraps with her shoe. It rolled over—revealing a rat’s tail.
Stunned, she lifted her gaze toward the room, and gasped aloud.
“Mommy…”
Aria, sobbing miserably, barely managed to call for Charlotte.
