Chapter 52
If possible, in this life, may he marry the person he loves and build the home he desires.
May Hannibal cast off his past completely and live for himself.
May he live happily—not as a lord, but as a man.
“Maybe I should just write that as my wish.”
Anne muttered to herself, staring at the blank sheet of paper in front of her.
In a few days, the Night of the Witch Festival would begin. On the first day, Hannibal and his party would depart from Teganess.
There was a belief that if you burned a letter collected personally by Lord Clayde at the Witch’s Altar, the wish written within would come true.
But after hesitating with all sorts of thoughts, Anne picked up the stationery only to close it again without writing a single word.
“Head maid, something’s happened!”
Anne had been sitting in her room for a short break when a young maid came running.
When she went out, she found Count Arthur in the lobby, confronting Hannibal—and with him, a young woman.
“I told you to hold your parties in the annex. I even set up your bedroom there, didn’t I?”
“Is it your idea of manners to leave guests for over a day without even greeting them?”
Count Arthur, drunk, looked at Hannibal with contempt.
In contrast, Hannibal didn’t bother to hide the scorn and disgust in his gaze toward the woman peeking at him from behind Arthur.
“Please leave.”
With a flick of his hand, the servants by the entrance swung the doors wide open. The sight of him issuing an open eviction order the moment they entered made Arthur’s face flush red with rage.
“You insolent brat! I brought a fine woman to introduce to you out of fatherly concern, and this is how you act? As if you—with your pathetic taste—could ever find someone to carry on the Clayde name. Just because you wear the lord’s ring, you think you’re the master? I am the Count! I am the head of the Clayde family, Hannibal!”
“Just remember that drunkenly causing a scene in front of the staff is an embarrassment. I’ll assume you came here in this state because you weren’t in your right mind—but the fact that she willingly came along tells me she’s not in her right mind either. I’ll pass.”
Even as Hannibal refused, the Count pushed the woman forward.
“You’ve been an adult for years now—are you planning to stay alone forever? You need to marry and have children. That is the duty of Clayde. If not, why would I have married your mother and had you in the first place?”
“…Considering you’ll likely have two or three more children in the future, I don’t think we need to worry about heirs.”
It was the same tired routine every year.
Just before the Night of the Witch, Arthur would appear to rattle Hannibal, demanding he marry, have children, and thrusting women he didn’t want at him.
“The problem is those westerners keep turning a blind eye, even though they know what a disgrace you are.”
“Father. I told you to leave. Or has old age made you deaf?”
Anne, watching the two on the verge of erupting, hurried over to the butler.
“Butler, at this rate they’ll start fighting.”
“They’ll stop at arguing—don’t worry.”
“That’s a relief.”
“Besides, the lord’s neither at the age nor of the build to keep taking hits from him anymore.”
Patrick’s remark was so low it was almost inaudible, but the contempt for the Count was clear.
Trash remained trash no matter where it went, and even in his homeland, the Count’s reputation was poor thanks to the weight of his misdeeds.
Hearing that, Anne quickly snuffed out the brief flicker of sympathy she’d felt for the older man.
“Escort my father and his guest to the annex.”
At Hannibal’s order, servants quickly surrounded the two.
“How did a thing like you ever get born! I’ll make you pay!”
The Count’s voice, shouting as he was driven out, was pitiful.
The woman, who had been watching with hopeful eyes, also turned pale at Hannibal’s icy demeanor and hurried away in fright.
“You’ll regret this, Hannibal!”
Like a man cursing a mortal enemy rather than his own son, the Count stormed out.
For several days, the same thing repeated: the Count would bring a woman, get rejected, and be thrown out. The noisy scene became almost routine.
Finally, the Night of the Witch Festival arrived.
“You must stay healthy and well, my lady, understand?”
“Mm. And Anne—take good care of Sir Sandor, alright?”
“Yes, I will.”
This time, unusually, Anne was being seen off by Victoria as she left the lord’s castle.
Except for Hannibal, who rode on horseback, the group split among three carriages with four people each. Counting the escorting knights, the total number exceeded thirty.
Led by Hannibal, twelve of them set out on the night of the full moon, the first day of the festival.
With knights, supply wagons, and passenger carriages, the procession was quite long.
As they crossed the main road, black ribbons tied along the streets came into view—symbols honoring the Witch.
Anne’s carriage companions were Delo Sandor, a middle-aged woman, and a middle-aged man.
“I didn’t know the Witch’s Forest was only three days away.”
It usually seemed much farther, but now it felt strangely close, looming like a mirage.
“The road shortens on the Witch’s death anniversary,” the older man said in a deep voice. “No beast, no wind, nothing blocks the way. It’s the Witch’s promise to leave Clayde’s path free of obstacles.”
Anne gazed out the window as she listened.
Directly ahead was the silver hair glinting brighter than sand in the sun. She suddenly wondered—what was he thinking as he made this journey?
Among commoners, being chosen as one of these twelve was considered the honor of a lifetime. The road taken with Clayde was revered as a holy pilgrimage.
Most people couldn’t even get near the forest itself.
But Hannibal had to travel this way every year, always with different people.
“What sort of prayers do people offer?” Anne asked.
“My mother’s knees ache terribly, and medicine doesn’t help—so I’m going to pray for her to get better.”
“My goal was to make the pilgrimage with the lord. I’ve got nothing else to wish for.”
The answers were surprisingly pure and simple.
“What about you, miss? What will you pray for?”
Anne hesitated. She was only here to fill an empty spot, pushed into it by Sandor at Hannibal’s order—she still hadn’t decided.
“…I’ll think about it before we arrive.”
While the others had already written full prayer letters for Hannibal to deliver, her own sheet of paper was still blank.
“Pray to meet a good husband.”
“What do you need a husband for? She’s the head maid—she’ll marry fine without that. Better to pray for plenty of sons and daughters.”
“No point having children if they turn out troublesome. You need kind, filial children.”
As they bickered lightly, Anne listened with an amused smile. Then she felt Sandor’s gaze and turned to him.
“What will you pray for, Sir Sandor?”
He lowered his eyes with deliberate arrogance.
“I’ll pray for my sincerity and truth.”
Being a Westerner who believed in the Witch, he wouldn’t lie here.
Still, it left Anne uneasy. She knew noble marriages weren’t decided by love alone.
Even if it wasn’t love but ambition, that didn’t make it false—but at least with Clayde’s intimidating presence, he probably wouldn’t dare have affairs or mistreat his wife. In that sense, he was somewhat trustworthy.
“We’ll rest here for today.”
Hannibal, walking alone far ahead, halted his horse. The party began setting up camp on the spot.
“I thought there was an oasis between Teganess and the Witch’s Forest—but it’s nothing but desert here. Strange.”
It was said you could glimpse desert just beyond the dry rocky grasslands of Teganess, but the Witch’s Forest appeared lush and densely green even from a distance.
And yet, desert stretched right to its doorstep—it was an odd sight.
“That’s why they call it the Witch’s miracle. Without Clayde, the West wouldn’t have such abundance.”
Without the oasis, survival in the West would be far harder. Anne was beginning to understand the people’s blind loyalty and faith.
Hannibal, despite having attendants and knights with him, was pitching his own tent among the knights who were setting up camp with practiced ease.
“Our lord, putting up his own tent—oh, my.”
An elderly man looked on in pity, though he couldn’t even pitch his own.
Once Anne finished her own, she went over to him.
“Let me do it for you.”
“A young lady shouldn’t be doing such rough work—”
“It’s fine. I’ve done this plenty of times.”
She hammered the stakes into the ground, tied the ropes, and had the tent up in no time.
“You’re the head maid of Lord Teganess’s castle, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
A middle-aged woman, struggling with her own tent, glanced over at Anne—who naturally helped her as well.
Elsewhere, two middle-aged men were helping others who couldn’t manage.
“You’re good at this, miss. Do head maids have to be skilled at pitching tents too?”
“I’ve got a younger brother. When we were kids, we camped out in the yard a lot.”
In truth, she’d learned while on the run with Gray, but she gave the easy excuse without hesitation.
“Is that so? And you’re from the capital, right?”
“Such a kind-hearted person, then. No wonder our lord made her head maid.”
And so, Hannibal, the knights, and noble-born Sandor settled in one area, while Anne stayed with the commoners in another.
It was more comfortable among the common folk anyway.
“Our lord’s a truly good man, isn’t he?”
The innocent, trusting gazes of the people turned toward Anne.
