“I must go to the royal palace.”

“The royal palace? …Why there?”

“I have something to discuss with His Highness Prince Magnus.”

“Why that prince again, for what? If you have something to say, write a letter. Or send a bird flying.”

“No. I must speak with him in person.”

What could be done to firmly ease Magnus’ wariness?

Living hidden in Benenum as if dead is not enough. I must explore what he truly desires.

“Rude. Please.”

Help me. At the quiet plea, Rude nodded slowly with an expression as if he had bitten into something bitter.

He could not resist Merche’s words with such a face, so he had no choice but to go along with it, knowing it was a cunning ploy.

After returning to the main building of Benenum and checking on the well-being of Mariette and Carla, Merche first collected the pitiful corpse that had not yet been gathered.

As the corpse, meticulously cleansed of various marks, sank deep into the ground, Mrs. Martin’s daughter and young granddaughter who had gathered burst into tears one after another.

Only at dawn, when they had left their place exhausted from crying, did the graveside become quiet.

Merche, who had been standing blankly staring at the tombstone like a doll, slowly approached the grave in that stillness, stopping several times along the way.

Greta Martin. She rubbed the name engraved on the cold stone. Even though her throat was sore and her chest felt heavy, tears did not come in the end.

What a heartless mourning this is. Though her heart was overflowing with the desire to cry her eyes out for the poor woman who had perished.

Merche’s past life, which had been filled with only excessively bleak and harsh days, did not easily permit tears.

“I’m sorry. I was incompetent and couldn’t protect you, madam.”

So it’s alright to resent me, she added such inaudible greetings, which was the entirety of her unfeeling mourning.

Merche, who had turned away without shedding even a single tear, walked under the brightening sunlight.

It was an empty farewell. So much so that she felt ashamed to raise her face to such brilliant light.

“Are you done with everything? It doesn’t look like you cried though.”

Rude, who crossed the inner room as if it were his own house, suddenly poked his head in and blatantly scanned her face.

Satisfied with Merche’s cheeks that were free of tears, he twitched the corners of his mouth.

“So. When are you planning to go to the royal palace?”

“I’m thinking of ten days from now for the schedule.”

In truth, she wanted to set out for the royal palace at an earlier date, but she faced opposition like Mariette’s fervent protests.

To prepare for a meeting with such a cunning fellow, even staying up for a hundred nights wouldn’t be enough! The stubborn old woman’s eyes, as she shouted while striking the armrest, clearly foretold that there would be no compromise.

Probably right now, Mariette would be busy scraping together all sorts of knights and various tools.

Calling in all the strategists who claim to be clever, squeezing out all the worst-case scenarios possible, and then establishing countermeasures accordingly.

Even Carla stuck out her tongue, saying that she had never seen Mariette act so passionately before, even though she was her granddaughter.

“…Why do your eyes look like you’re dying to sleep? How much sleep did you get?”

“I slept enough.”

“You lie well too. Such shoddy tricks won’t work, so just close your eyes and lie down.”

Though Merche strongly denied it, Rude eventually dragged her onto the bed.

Once her body was placed on the soft blanket, it became quite difficult to immediately spring up and stand.

Watching Merche, who was fidgeting with her fingers and unnecessarily grasping and releasing the edge of the blanket, Rude smirked as if it were utterly absurd.

Then his gaze briefly fell on Merche’s fingers.

“What did you touch so much? Did you roll around there?”

At those words, Merche belatedly looked down at her own hands. When did this get on them? There was a small amount of soil that must have been transferred from the graveside.

“What kind of mourning is this… Wait a moment.”

Rude, who had sprung up, returned a moment later with a basin and a white cloth.

Realizing what he intended to do, Merche hurriedly shook her head.

“No. That’s not necessary.”

“Enough, just sit still.”

After saying that, Rude suddenly stopped while holding the basin. As if belatedly recalling something.

“…I’d appreciate it if you could just sit there, or something like that.”

If you don’t want to, then don’t. Rude said with a face that was not sincere at all. Only then did Merche realize that he was making his own efforts in his way.

Coercion or threats. If there was any hint of words that might lean towards either of those, Rude had been forcibly correcting himself lately.

The best thing would be to refine it sufficiently before uttering it, but sadly, Rude had not yet reached that level of cultivation.

Still, what an admirable change this was.

Merche watched Rude’s arduous efforts with joyful eyes. Because of that, she couldn’t even stop Rude as he gently pulled her hand.

“Tell me if it hurts.”

With careful touches as if handling fragile glasswork, the soil that had clung gradually fell away.

Looking at her fingers submerged in the cold water of the basin, suddenly, Merche looked at Rude’s gloved hand.

Was it an illusion? Thinking she had glimpsed a red color, Merche opened her eyes clearly once more and scrutinized the surface of his glove.

“…Rude.”

The moment she was certain that it was indeed red, and that it was the trace of a wound seeping through noticeably even on the dark-colored glove, Merche grabbed his hand.

Don’t. It’s nothing. Ignoring the clinging false excuses, she carefully rolled up and removed the wet glove.

And only then, at last, did Merche face Rude’s bare hand that he had tried so hard to conceal.

A fairly large laceration as if a shard of glass had scratched across it. However, even that was made to seem laughable by the bumpy, blotch-like scars.

The appearance of the back of the hand, clearly different in color compared to normal skin. Merche was momentarily dazed.

“How did this happen?”

“It’s nothing. Just earlier when I was breaking the window, I was holding the window frame and unfortunately…”

“These are burn scars, aren’t they?”

Faced with the blue eyes blinking worriedly, Rude swallowed back the lie he was about to fabricate.

“…Do you really need to know this too?”

Merche answered silently with an upright gaze.

Rude knew well that this was quite a stubborn response from her, meaning she would absolutely hear it.

“Then promise first that you won’t spout nonsense like saying you’re sorry or that it’s because of you after hearing it.”

“…What kind of incident would make you say such things…”

“Promise first. If you don’t, I’ll keep my mouth shut too.”

“…I promise.”

Haa, Rude, exhaling an irritated sigh, spat out a name.

“Genovefa.”

That crazy old man did it. At the calm confession as if it were someone else’s business, Merche made a sound of suppressing her breath.

“Why…, for what reason to go this far…”

“That old man thinks I’ve gone crazy over you and smeared filth on the family he’s been desperately protecting. You know well his twisted mind, don’t you?”

-How lowly raised ones make even the family lowly!

That ear-piercing roar that still vividly comes to mind even to this day.

Of course, Rude didn’t care at all, but after Merche left, Genovefa completely lost the composure he had maintained like an iron wall and became extremely eccentric.

He would call Rude and question him, saying “Do you think I believe that nonsensical lie about imprinting on Merche?”, but at times, as if instinctively realizing it was true, he would rage and thrash about.

It was probably the thirty-eighth or thirty-ninth time after that.

It must have been around the time when he had driven away a woman he had pushed in, saying he would somehow draw out Rude’s imprinting, with just a few curses.

Around that time, Genovefa came looking for Rude holding a wooden log that had been partially burned.

Whether it was because he didn’t imprint as ordered, or because of the anxiety that came from Rude’s power gradually starting to overwhelm Genovefa’s around that time.

Though the exact reason is unknown, that day Genovefa finally brought the log down on Rude’s hand, leaving an indelible scar.

How can you do such a beastly thing! Elizabeth, who cried out like that, suffered with an even more pained expression than her son, but Rude himself was indifferent.

-Bring gloves. The kind that can be worn even while sleeping.

He had a servant run errands for gloves, making the skin covered by gloves more familiar than his real skin.

So that he wouldn’t take off his gloves out of habit when standing before Merche.

He who had already shown only ugly things, if he were to show this hideous flesh pressed by fire, would he receive a glance mixed with hatred? Rude fretted.

But Merche had finally found the bare skin that he had tried so hard to conceal with all sorts of efforts.

The touch that carefully examined, afraid it might hurt if touched, felt just like a hand hesitating to avoid something dirty, and an unbearable sense of urgency arose.

Rude, who had roughly tended to the bleeding wound first, withdrew his hand back.

“Enough. Don’t say anything. I don’t want to hear it either.”

“Don’t wear them.”

Merche stopped the hand that was trying to hide back into the glove as before.

“Isn’t it stuffy? The wound will fester.”

“No.”

“Why must you wear gloves?”

“Because it’s unsightly.”

As if he couldn’t show such a dreadful hand, Rude naturally rejected his own hand.

Merche carefully held that abandoned hand.

“It’s not unsightly.”

The touch that conveyed a faint warmth with her fingertips was warm.

As always, it was a gentle and soft touch.

Perhaps surprised by the sudden contact, the hand that was held without even thinking of escaping was stiff.

Weaving her own fingers haphazardly between the long, straight fingers, Merche recalled Rude who had called his own hand unsightly.