Chapter 33
That morning, Marquis Rinko awoke in a foul mood the very moment he opened his eyes in bed. In his dream, the late Duke—long dead—had appeared, staring down at him for a long time before vanishing.
“Damn nuisance, first thing in the morning.”
The Marquis did not believe in dreams or superstitions. Normally, he would have forgotten such nonsense as soon as he rose. But today, even as he sat in his office, the unpleasant chill of that dream refused to leave him. He couldn’t focus, and his body felt oddly unsettled. Just as he was about to stand up, hurried footsteps came rushing toward him.
A sinking chill spread through his body, as though his heart had dropped to the floor.
Unable to bear the anxiety coiling like a snake around his chest, the Marquis rushed to the door himself. He flung it open—and startled the man who had just raised his hand to knock.
“M-Marquis!”
“What has happened?!”
He desperately prayed it would be nothing worth his worry. But the report that poured into his ears was impossible to ignore.
“All of the finance ministers have been summoned?!”
When the Marquis sat down at his desk with a stony face, the nobles around him hovered uneasily before asking in careful voices.
“My lord Marquis, what is the matter?”
“Have they found the missing documents?!”
“The sorting has just been completed. They are still searching…”
“Check if the financial records from the recent quarter are there! Quickly!”
He could feel the cold unease writhing in his gut like a snake. He prayed with all his might that the missing files were not those. But damn it all—his cursed dream had come true.
“They’re gone?”
“Yes. The financial summary documents of the latest quarter are missing.”
One set of mismatched documents. Five men responsible.
Each of them would have tried to shove the blame onto the others. In the end, when the falsified accounts were exposed, Walter would seize the chance to wrest control of the finances for himself.
The Marquis suppressed the urge to scream and forced his mind to race. He could not let this castle fall into the hands of a green whelp.
He summoned only the essential men into a locked chamber and issued his orders.
“Recreate the missing records this instant. Any discrepancies—put them under the names of the five who’ve already been summoned by the Duke.”
“My lord Marquis, but that is…”
“This is nothing but the Duke’s ploy to purge every man of finance from this castle. Unless you act, you’ll not only be cast out—you’ll be forced to cough up sums of money you’ve never even laid eyes on. Is that what you want?”
The tail must be cut off.
While the nobles under his secret orders frantically reconciled the records and pinned every discrepancy onto those five men, the Marquis pondered whom to sacrifice and whom to spare. Pinning the blame on all five was far too risky.
The wisest course was to heap all the guilt onto the most useless one, the one who provided no benefit, and sever him cleanly.
Yet fortune’s goddess, ever fickle, was still on his side in that desperate moment. His wife brought him glad tidings.
“So you’re saying—the Duke’s woman actually struck the Count of Rewen’s daughter’s maid?”
The chill melted away, replaced by exultation.
To flaunt herself so recklessly, relying on nothing but the Duke’s empty prestige—how delightful! The Duke, who had granted that woman the chandelier chamber, would now have his judgment questioned by the nobility.
“Spread the word: seize this chance and drive that insolent wench out of the castle.”
Now, let’s see… If matters turned this way, the nobles’ attention would shift to the Duke and his woman, and perhaps the issue of the missing accounts would fade away entirely.
But hope born atop unease quickly crumbled. New tidings arrived.
“M-Marquis! His Grace has summoned the Chief of Security!”
“The Chief of Security? Why now?!”
“To hold him accountable for the maid’s imprisonment last night…”
“W-what? What happened, that the Chief of Security himself should be summoned over it?!”
Unable to contain himself, the Marquis rushed off to confront the Duke in person. But what did he see? Count Rewen, the Chief of Security, coming toward him in the distance—white as a sheet, utterly shattered. The Marquis darted forward and seized his arm.
“Are you all right? No—what did His Grace say to you?!”
“Excuse me, let me through!”
The Marquis’s gaze shifted, creaking, following the broad back of a burly young man striding past. Joseph Lexton—the man who had once torn apart his office like a rampaging boar—was now all but glowing with excitement as he strode away. And in his arms, thick bundles of papers.
“What is that he’s carrying?”
The Marquis fought to keep his voice steady as a chill ran down his spine. Count Rewen bit his lip before replying.
“Documents concerning the Richmond Duchy’s private forces…”
“What?”
“I had no choice, Marquis. His Grace declared that he could no longer trust the internal troops of the castle, since they knew nothing of the maid’s imprisonment…”
For a moment, the Marquis wondered if this was all some dream. The Duke, barely returned the day before, was already seizing both finances and military forces—while he, Rinko, stood and did nothing.
As he staggered through that grim reality in a daze, the shade of the late Duke seemed to loom before him once more, looking down with that same dark gaze, like the shadow of the castle’s ruin itself.
“I trust you, Marquis Rinko.”
That gentle, almost kind voice scraped against his eardrums.
Black hair. Black eyes. A towering warhorse beneath him. The Duke astride it, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the vast lands of Richmond.
“Should anything befall me, I leave Mother and Walter in your care.”
The Marquis recoiled in horror, fleeing like a man pursued. He ran to his office and took everything in with his eyes—the Duke’s old desk, his chair, even the quill pens. All of it.
Yes—all of it is mine.
The bloodshot gleam in his eyes shone with a fevered light. He would not fear a ghost. He could neither undo what had been done, nor surrender what he had seized.
“It’s mine. Everything in this castle is… mine.”
He repeated the words again and again. Once a wise man’s voice, now damp and rotten, seeped into the air, making it heavy.
＊ ＊ ＊
Lady Isaac now knew the meaning of the phrase “one’s insides rotting to slush.” Her head burned hot, but her stomach was cold, as though her entrails might simply rot away and drop from her.
“You mean to tell me this is all the budget allotted for the Dowager Duchess?!”
Even before her furious voice, the Marquis’s maid did not blink, but shot back coolly.
“It was drafted to match what the Dowager used last quarter. What exactly is the problem?”
“The last quarter’s budget was already woefully lacking! With this, she cannot even buy a single proper gown for winter—yet you dare ask what the problem is?!”
When Lady Isaac raged, the Marquis’s maid smiled with a mocking curl of her lips.
“Well, I wouldn’t know, Lady Isaac. You never leave the annex anyway—so why would you need new clothes? Hmhm. If you truly find the budget lacking, then go complain to the Treasury yourself. Of course, it would be best if the Dowager went in person.”
“….”
“Oh, by the way—how fares the Dowager herself?”
Lady Isaac stiffened, while the maid covered her grin behind a fan embroidered with exotic patterns, likely imported from the East. Sunlight glinted off its bright surface.
“It has been quite some time since I last saw her. I was worried. After all, she so longed for the Duke’s return—yet now that he has, she still does not rise from bed. That was rather unexpected. But then again, what in this castle these days isn’t unexpected?”
Leaving behind that scornful laughter, the Marquis’s maid strolled away at leisure.
For over ten years, treatment of the Dowager had declined little by little, like clothes soaked by fine drizzle. It was exhausting—too exhausting—to remain by a mistress who had surrendered all her rights. Even reacting to each jeer and slight had grown wearisome.
Yet Lady Isaac could not allow herself to break as well. She straightened her face, drew herself tall, and walked the cold, shabby corridor as though it were a grand hall of the imperial palace.
The only room in the annex that still held warmth: Eliza’s chamber. To Lady Isaac’s surprise, Eliza was awake.
“Your Grace the Dowager.”
Lady Isaac’s heart leapt with gladness as she hurried to her side. Though the Dowager sat slumped against her pillows, it was still infinitely better than lying down as always.
“What is all that noise?”
Her voice was slow, weary. Lady Isaac answered quickly.
“The Marchioness’s maid just paid us a visit.”
A careful spark of hope kindled in Lady Isaac’s chest. Eliza—who had been still as stagnant water for so long—had risen of her own accord, even complaining of noise. Perhaps now she might ask why the maid had come, might ask what was happening in the castle.
But cruelly, Eliza did no such thing. She merely lifted her frail hand toward the bright window.
“Draw the curtains. I shall sleep a while longer.”
“….”
Lady Isaac had not wept even when the news of the late Duke’s death was delivered. But now—now she wished to wail her grief aloud. If only the Dowager would ask why the maid had come, if only she would ask what was happening in the castle—then Lady Isaac was ready to tell her everything.
“What are you waiting for, Arwen? Draw the curtains.”
But Lady Isaac could not disobey. Even as she withered alongside her mistress, she could only pray, again and again, that her lady would wake from this stupor.
Yet as she reached up with heavy hands to draw the curtains, her movement halted in midair. Her eyes flickered in shock.
For along the path through the rear garden, a man and a woman were walking toward the annex.
