Chapter 34

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Translator: Harry Potta

Chapter: 34

Chapter Title: The Count's Circumstances (4)

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"How was it?"

"What do you mean?"

"James Christopher. How was his condition?"

"Well, I only caught a glimpse from afar. He seemed upset that he couldn't meet you, Master. He even said to call you since you're here."

Eyes like a snake hunting for prey. Just recalling the man I'd seen earlier sent chills down my spine.

There are all sorts of people in the world, and I'd encountered my fair share since childhood. To my eyes, that man exuded danger. The kind you wouldn't want to brush against, even with the hem of his clothes—as if he were the type who could devour another person whole.

"He did look scary. The vibe he gave off, too."

"Exactly. So stay away from him. Be careful not to end up alone with him. And if you do cross paths, keep your head down, don't meet his gaze, and don't speak to him."

"Would I even have a reason to?"

"You never know with anyone. Since you're attending to me, it's not impossible."

"Why would someone like that be connected to you?"

"Every rule has its exceptions."

A sigh-like murmur escaped him. He seemed down somehow, so I lowered my shoulder to offer him some comfort. He shifted his body.

"He wasn't like that before."

"Ah, you said you're old friends with Ethan Christopher, right? So you must have seen him often, then."

"Not often, just occasionally. He always looked busy. Still, back then, he was gruff but responsible, someone with qualities worth emulating. He even played with us kids sometimes. James changed after Count Christopher—Ethan's father—passed away."

"Count Christopher?"

"It was a murder."

Good heavens. I pictured bright, cheerful Ethan. There wasn't a trace of such gloom in his demeanor. Then I thought of his younger brother, Lucas. He definitely carried a shadow over him. He smiled, but there was something listless about it.

"What about the culprit? Did they catch them?"

"They suspect an intruder, but no one was caught. A servant nearby at the time was fingered as the suspect, but without solid evidence, the case was closed unsolved. And the Christopher family passed to James. He's the Count Christopher now."

Maybe that's why he's so used to giving orders. His attitude was downright overbearing. Recalling it again gave me goosebumps, and I rubbed my arms absentmindedly.

"After he took over the family, he changed completely—like he wasn't the person I knew. He doesn't hesitate to use any means for his goals. Exploiting people, killing them... even his own blood if necessary. Yeah... he became someone else entirely."

"No way. Even so, could he really change that much?"

"Maybe that's his true nature."

No one truly knows what's in another's heart. He added that and curled up tighter. The wind was still chilly—maybe he was cold—so I scooted closer. Our bodies touched, sharing warmth. But the parts that didn't were still cool.

"So if you run into James, run. Don't look back, no matter what. Even if someone grabs you, don't turn around. It's for your own good."

"What about you, Master?"

"Me... I'm running as hard as I can right now."

For how long? I started to ask, but he fell silent. Was he pondering? His closed eyes gave nothing away. He looked peaceful on the surface, but maybe inside it was rotting away.

Then the most fundamental question bubbled up.

"Then why did he go after your eyes...?"

"......"

At that moment, Vincent opened his eyes. The weight pressing down on me lifted, and he stared into the void. I worried I'd upset him.

But that wasn't it. The wind flipped his hat back, revealing golden hair fluttering in the sky. He didn't move a muscle. His gaze fixed on nothing, as if chasing the past.

"Like I said before, some secrets need to stay secret. Peeking when you shouldn't just brings disaster. Right or wrong doesn't matter. It's whether you can bear the consequences."

"......"

"James wasn't after me."

The surrounding wind hummed, carrying his voice. But another gust swallowed it. The secret hid away, silence devouring even the air around us.

I couldn't breathe.

Secrets must stay buried. Yet he'd revealed a thread of this one to me.

"It's not me who needs to end it."

He pulled his hat back down deep, as if hiding himself. Then he leaned on my shoulder again and reached back to rattle the iron door. As the creaking echoed, he closed his eyes.

Now only the wind howled. I mulled over his words in my mind. Then I startled—even as I tried to shake it off, the thought resurfaced, and I pondered it carefully.

Then who on earth was that man after?

To my eyes, it was just a vast, beautiful place. The surrounding forest, the gardens within, the grand mansions, the ornate interiors with their intricate patterns, the furniture, decorations, even the frames on the walls—every inch was so stunning it could blind you. I hadn't come to dream, but being here made dreams come alive.

This was a space of sweet dreams. But beneath the brilliant colors lurked darkness. A sticky, pitch-black void that would swallow you whole if you touched it.

Then think about it. This isn't the place for empty dreams.

Maybe it was too naive to think money brings happiness, abundance brings joy.

The sun set, darkness swallowing everything, as I left the forest. Just in case, I entered through the back door, where Isabella greeted us. No words meant the man had likely gone.

After that, nothing unusual happened. Back to my routine of attending to him. The brief shake-up settled into calm, and my heart stayed peaceful.

[When I look up at the sky, I want to leave. To some far-off place where no one knows me.]

I read the letter in golden script as always. But amid the flourish, sorrow peeked through. Something wrong? I tilted my head, and Isabella handed me the next one. The envelope read, "To Paula." From Violet.

[I'm writing because I want to talk with you alone, Paula.]

Below, she mentioned ordering a new dress but fretting over the tacky lace at the hem. More dress complaints followed, then her daily life, wrapping up the letter.

I took up my pen and wrote a reply to Violet. My mundane days might pale next to hers, but they filled a full page. I sealed it, then reached for the golden-script letter—but Isabella stopped me.

"No need to reply to that one anymore."

"Ah."

She took it and tossed it into the fireplace. It burned quickly. At first, I wondered if that was okay, but then I remembered finding the first golden letter in the hearth. Later, Isabella explained they don't keep those—straight to the fire. Probably to leave no traces.

Still, it felt like a loss. We'd exchanged quite a few. Answering had been awkward at first, but it grew fun. I'd look forward to them, wonder excitedly what they'd say. I'd even save up good moments to share in replies.

Just a few lines, but I put care into them. That's why even her short notes always felt polite. Once, curious about the sender, I'd guessed among Vincent's circle. No luck.

I couldn't tear my eyes from the golden script turning to ash. I filled the regret with letters to my new correspondent.

Then one day, as even that routine grew familiar.

Late at night, with the moon hidden by clouds and only the afternoon rain lingering in the mansion, urgent knocking suddenly echoed. Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I fumbled on the nightstand. The lamp oil was low, so I lit the spare candle, grabbed the holder, and left my room. Hearing it too, Vincent emerged from his.

"I'll go check. Go back to sleep, Master."

"I'll come with."

"It's fine. Please go in."

"I'm wide awake now."

Rare stubbornness from him—we headed down together. Rain-soaked man at the door. Seeing his face snapped me awake.

"Lord Lucas?"

What was this in the dead of night? Scanning him head to toe in shock, I heard him mutter something. Drowned by rain. "Pardon?" I stepped closer; he looked up.

Lightning flashed. Thunder crashed amid the glare, revealing his anxious face—there and gone. A few more strikes, then darkness fell, but his pallor stuck out in that brief light.

"Lord Lucas?"

"I... came to see Brother Vincent."

I whirled around. Vincent stood at the foot of the stairs, gripping the railing. Lucas's gaze met his.

"Brother."

"Come in."

Vincent turned up the stairs; Lucas followed. Water dripped in his wake, marking a trail. I shut the door quick and hurried after.

In Vincent's room, I fetched a towel from the bathroom and handed it to Lucas. He thanked me, wiping his face.

Then silence. Faces full of unspoken words—yet Lucas held back, Vincent waited.

In the heavy quiet, Vincent took my hand.

"Go back to your room."

"But..."

"It's fine. Go."

I glanced at Lucas. Safe to leave them alone? But Vincent shook my hand again, so I reluctantly returned to my room. Instead, I pressed my ear to the wall, lay down, eyes closed. Our beds flanked it, so faint sounds carried if I focused. Not enough to make out words.

Soon, muffled voices hummed. They talked long after the candle burned out.