Chapter 7: Doubt

After Edmund left, Elia came to viscerally understand what it meant to have one’s will hit rock bottom.

I don’t want to move a single inch.

She didn’t eat dinner. She refused, claiming she had no appetite, but in truth she was so tense that she lacked even the strength to eat.

Rather than press Elia to eat, Daisy thoughtfully left her alone. If she had forced her to take even one spoonful, Elia would have choked it down and then spent the entire night vomiting—that much was certain.

What is this? Ever since yesterday, everything’s been a mess because of Edmund. And today we were only together for thirty minutes.

Come to think of it, Elia realized that if she added up every moment she’d ever spent talking to Edmund in her entire life, it probably didn’t even total thirty minutes.

That was why she still couldn’t believe it. That Edmund had come to see her—that it hadn’t been a dream…

And more than that—how had Edmund behaved during that brief, eternal stretch of time?

Calling her by her pet name. Never once looking away from her…

He’d said he missed her. But why?

The questions left in the wake of Edmund’s bizarre behavior tormented Elia relentlessly.

Whenever she tried to read, the words wouldn’t sink in. She sat before her canvas, but ended up setting down her brush without making a single mark.

Finally, she resorted to the last-ditch strategy of burying herself under the covers. But the afternoon’s memories chased her even into the corner of her bedchamber, tormenting her.

Please, I’ll die at this rate!

Elia protested to the Edmund in her imagination—the very Edmund she hadn’t been able to say a single word to when he was right in front of her.

Edmund, why? In all this time, you’ve never once—no, you’ve never even been warm to anyone else. Why today? And why me?

The imaginary Edmund didn’t bother to answer—he simply ignored her. Though it was only her imagination, irritation and relief surged up simultaneously.

How perfectly Edmund-like. Ignoring, ignoring, and more ignoring.

It’s been consistent from childhood until now. From a time even Edmund probably doesn’t remember.

The day she first met Edmund was, naturally, lost to memory. The two families had been exchanging visits even before Elia was born, so perhaps he’d come to see her when she was a newborn.

She imagined them pointing at the infant Elia, who couldn’t even open her eyes yet, and telling Edmund: “This is the child you’ll marry.”

Even hearing that, Edmund probably showed no reaction. Definitely.

What about when she was a little older? Around age four, when she’d just learned to talk and babbled endlessly, yet still received nothing but affection. The Duke and Duchess of Raspe had visited the Count’s estate with Edmund.

Elia had toddled after Edmund, making garbled sounds.

<Eddy. Edddy.>

She must have been taken with the doll-like young master of the ducal house. But to eight-year-old Edmund, four-year-old Elia was nothing but a nuisance.

I couldn’t even pronounce his four-syllable name properly, so I just called him “Eddy” and chased him around. With absolutely no self-awareness.

Why had she done something so insane? It would have been better to beg Eugene to let her ride on his back like a horse.

<Eddy, do you know how to do this? I’ll teach you. Let’s do it together, Eddy.>

<Bored? Should we do something else, Eddy?>

<Eddy… is it that you don’t know how to talk?>

She should never have followed Edmund around, chattering away, unaware she was being ignored.

Unfortunately, young Elia had probably believed that if she kept at it, Edmund would eventually play with her too.

The first and last time Edmund opened his mouth that day was in front of the carriage, just before they left.

Eight-year-old Edmund left those words for Elia’s parents and climbed into the carriage.

Even young Elia understood that it wasn’t meant as a compliment. If he’d thought she was cute, he would have said so in a nicer voice.

The Duke of Raspe probably hadn’t offered any such apology to her parents.

After the guests left, her brother Eugene—perhaps worried Elia might misunderstand—drove the point home.

<Eli, you idiot, the young master was annoyed because you were being a pest.>

<Annoyed? Does “like a puppy” mean annoyed?>

<Yes. He was saying you’re like a clingy puppy with no self-awareness.>

Her pride bruised, Elia stopped chasing after Edmund after that. Instead, she started acting like a real guard dog.

<You—why do you keep coming to our house?>

She kept her distance from Edmund and growled at him as if he were an intruder.

Of course, that didn’t change how he treated her. He probably thought of her as nothing more than a noisy neighbor’s dog.

Fortunately, once Edmund entered the Academy, he stopped coming to the Count’s estate altogether. Elia quickly forgot about the boy who had never been friendly toward her.

They met again at her parents’ funeral. Elia was eight, Edmund twelve.

<Eli, your parents… that is, in heaven…>

Her brother Eugene tried to help Elia understand their parents’ death, but it was futile.

Already sharper than other children her age, Elia already knew what death meant.

<Yes. Never again… Eli, now it’s just the two of us.>

Because she understood what death was, she could grieve as deeply as anyone.

Instead of whining about when her parents would return, she cried in her brother’s arms all day long until she finally fainted. The overwhelming sorrow was too much for her young body to bear.

But what about Edmund? Before the four coffins laid side by side, unlike the Roan siblings, Edmund appeared so utterly detached.

He was like a painting. Though it was a joint funeral honoring the Duke and Duchess of Raspe alongside the Count and Countess of Roan, Edmund looked as serene as if he were attending a stranger’s funeral.

Elia wiped Eugene’s tear-streaked face while overhearing the whispers.

After managing to stop her own tears, she looked at Edmund.

The young and pitiful Roan siblings.

The young master of Raspe, now alone.

The more pathetic the former appeared, the more the latter exuded an otherworldly dignity. Even at twelve, tall as an adult, the boy in his black formalwear was simply beautiful.

So beautiful it was terrifying. Elia thought Edmund was terrifying.

<You’ll meet with Edmund tomorrow. I need to discuss the lawsuit with him.>

Even after tragedy struck both families, their connection continued.

Fifteen-year-old Eugene, not yet of age, had to protect the family from relatives, and his only ally was twelve-year-old Edmund.

The trials over succession to the countship, the shameless public opinion battles that discarded all dignity and decency, the plausible offers of “care” for Elia—all the pressure and persuasion she had to endure—it was Edmund’s counsel that helped them withstand it all.

He was the Roans’ savior.

And he was still beautiful.

The boy grew into a beautiful young man, and the ducal house, once predicted to face ruin, rose to become Edmund’s formidable power base.

Soon, everyone came to revere him, and Edmund became the fantasy lover of countless people. His appearance, his power—there was nothing lacking.

Yet though many coveted his side, in the end, it was the young lady of the Roan household who won the man.

Eugene, having safely inherited the countship, first sought Edmund’s agreement, and Edmund—by not expressing refusal—consented to the engagement.

And so the betrothal was established. Regardless of Elia’s wishes.

<Elia, no matter what kind of man he is, the fact that he saved us remains unchanged.>

Eugene, while feeling sorry for his sister, nevertheless pleaded and reasoned.

The Roan household had no choice. It was because of the imperial succession.

The current Emperor had no children. He never had, and never would.

Thus, the candidates for the next Emperor were either the deceased First Prince’s daughter, or the Third Prince, the Emperor’s younger brother. One of the two.

With the power struggle between the two factions looming, the nobility also split into two camps. Naturally, marriages had to remain within each faction.

So for Elia, Edmund was the only option—and for Edmund, Elia was likewise the only one. Unless she planned to do something insane like elope from her house, blinded by love.

<She’s lucky, just for being born into the Roan family.>

When the engagement was announced, everyone envied Elia. They called her the “lucky noble” who had snagged the perfect duke of the Empire simply by being born as the Roan family’s daughter.

But she couldn’t agree. Elia wanted neither love, nor power, nor Edmund.

<Eli, everything the ducal house possesses will become yours. Even so, you don’t want it?>

She couldn’t ignore Eugene’s pleas. He was her only remaining family—the one death hadn’t taken away.

<Eli, if even after you come of age… if your feelings still haven’t changed by then, I won’t be greedy anymore. But could you at least try until then?>

Pretending to be moved by his request to try—just until she came of age—she agreed.

If I try, will I be able to love him? Or should I go to Edmund and beg him to please make me love him?

It didn’t seem like pleading would work, so instead, Elia tried to understand Edmund. Just as Eugene said, they were in the same situation—so she hoped perhaps a sense of kinship might arise.

<Ah, hello. Edmund.>

She met his eyes when greeting him, and even tried to smile, however awkwardly. Playing nice with a man who never responded was its own kind of ordeal.

Eugene said Edmund hid his emotions, but as time passed, Elia’s doubt turned to certainty.

He simply had no emotions to hide in the first place—which was why they never showed.

Edmund was indifferent to everyone in the world. Just like that day, standing before his parents’ corpses without shedding a single tear. How consistent.

Why was it so hard to mimic the weeping people beside him, to force out tears? Why couldn’t he pretend to smile back at his betrothed, who forced a smile for him?

<Eddy, you know that if you live like that, people will fear you. You must know I’m afraid of you too.>

Elia couldn’t understand Edmund, and his incomprehensible behavior instilled fear in her.

Eventually, every night after seeing him, she had the same nightmare.

A pale blue monster would tell the sobbing Elia she was annoying, call her a stupid puppy, and try to devour her.

Elia would run desperately, but thinking of her brother she’d left behind, she’d turn back—and get eaten.

Inside the blue monster’s mouth was cold and terrifying.

Why a blue monster, of all colors? The monsters in books are always black or red.

She later learned the reason. One day, as usual, when Eugene dragged her to the ducal residence, she happened to look up.

There she found the monster’s color. Blue. The icy hue borrowed from a winter lake. Clear and crystalline.

Inside Edmund’s eyes dwelled the blue of the monster.

Beautiful yet terrifying. Terrifying yet beautiful…

She didn’t know which impression was correct. Whether she had mistaken beauty for fear, or fear for awe.

<Hello, Edmund.>

Unable to find the answer, Elia suppressed her fear and looked into Edmund’s eyes. She wanted to confirm for herself whether what dwelled there really was the monster that would devour her.

Her greetings went unanswered, and no conversation ever passed between them—but at least he never averted his gaze.

When Elia met his eyes—knowing it was rude—she could feel Edmund’s gaze briefly turn toward her as well.

<Right. There’s no way he’d eat me. He doesn’t have enough interest in me to bother eating me. Even if I prostrated myself and begged to be eaten, he’d ignore me.>

Her fear gradually faded and then disappeared. Edmund still didn’t seem quite human, but he no longer seemed like a monster that would devour her.

She stopped looking for monsters in his eyes. Instead, Elia began to gaze at Edmund’s eyes the way she might appreciate a work of art—trying to fathom the depths of a deep lake.

Now, only two seasons remained. Spring would pass, summer would go, and autumn would come—the season when Elia would come of age, the season she’d promised Eugene she would try until.

The covers felt stifling, so Elia peeked her head out. On the nightstand, clearly visible from the bed, two music boxes sat side by side.

On the left, a girl holding a bouquet. On the right, a boy hiding a book behind his back.

If wound up, the girl would dance to the music, and the boy would watch her dance, wondering when would be the right moment to give her the book hidden behind him.

<Eddy, you were never quite human. So why did you act so human today? Were you sincere when you said you missed me?>

<Eli, I missed you. You probably won’t understand, but…>

If you thought I wouldn’t understand, then why did you say you missed me? Are you finally trying to show me the feelings you’ve kept hidden all this time?

She recalled the affection in his voice, the emotion reflected in his eyes. Had she imagined it? Or had it been feigned?

Could it be—you’re not just pretending to have feelings you never actually possessed?

That night, Elia dreamed of the monster again.

Instead of trying to devour her, the blue monster handed her a book.

When she opened it, inside was written a feeling of longing.

But Elia couldn’t read the monster’s words.

The monster’s heart, saying it missed her—of course, she couldn’t read it.

She was so curious about its contents… about what kind of book a monster would write.