Episode 68
A distant, deep blue swell surged beneath the ship. It was the first time the man had looked down at the sea since his woman and son had disappeared beneath it. Seeing him look as though he might leap into the sea at any moment, Jenok quietly approached.
“Your Excellency. The current seems rather unusual. How about returning to your cabin?”
“Mind your own business.”
“Or at least put on a coat….”
At the cold refusal, Jenok fidgeted anxiously and held out a thick overcoat to the man.
The weather was so freezing that every exhaled breath turned to frost. Though Jenok himself was bundled in thick layers and felt as if his bones might freeze, the duke standing precariously at the gunwale wore only a dress shirt.
“Take it away.”
“Your Excellency…!”
At the refusal given without so much as a glance, Jenok called to his master again and again. Even though they had chartered three first-class cabins, the vessel they were on was a large passenger ship that could carry hundreds. That meant there were many eyes watching and many mouths to talk.
Killian cast a glance at Jenok, who could do nothing but linger nearby, and let out a snort.
“Worried rumors might spread?”
To the public, he was packaged as a romantic man unable to forget his dead fiancée, but the nobility saw things differently. It was a world where, even if each spouse kept a secret lover after marriage, common sense dictated that outwardly they list their names side by side in the noble registry with a partner befitting their family’s dignity and name. Mostly, the breaking of an engagement was simply a failed business deal; thus, a fiancée’s death was hardly something to commemorate or grieve over. If the woman had been a mere mistress, all the more so.
After secluding himself for half a year on the island where his fiancée died, he suddenly interred a woman whose name had never entered the family registry as an empty grave in the noble family tomb. Then came the successive announcements that he would publish a memorial portrait. People gradually came to feel terror rather than respect toward the name Devonshire. And that terror was fear based on clear facts.
Two fiancées who had died in consecutive accidents.
Killian narrowed his eyes at the faltering, hesitating Jenok, who could not bring himself to answer, and added:
“They say I killed Rowena.”
“Who would dare utter such madness!”
Jenok’s mouth fell open in shock at the unheard-of rumor. Regardless, Killian turned back toward the sea and looked down at his own two hands with tired eyes.
“They say it’s because of my curse. The blood price buried in the Devonshire family.”
It was true that much blood stained his hands. Yet he felt no particular guilt over it, nor had he ever repented. He had never believed in God, nor in heaven or hell. Killian let out a hollow laugh and clenched his teeth.
“God or devil, if either exists, it would be laughable. They would punish the one who sinned, not the one completely innocent. Such a—”
The rest of his words were drowned out by the rough waves crashing against the gunwale. The wind, having grown slightly stronger, lashed across his gaunt cheeks.
“Your Excellency… truly, you must stop now….”
The moment Jenok took another step closer as raindrops began to fall one by one, Killian—who had been staring at his hands as if bewitched—suddenly raised his head.
“Do ghosts exist?”
“Your Excellency…?”
Only when he drew nearer did Jenok catch the faint scent of alcohol.
For the past half year since Rowena Philone had vanished, Killian had wandered searching for her like a madman. He had been ready to mobilize everything he possessed to drain the sea if necessary. By day, he had driven all the islanders into the sea like a madman; by night, he had tormented himself with strong liquor and cigarettes. The change in Killian began the night the painter brought the portrait.
The day after receiving the portrait, Killian—who had woken early, a rare occurrence—officially acknowledged her death and their son’s death. At the same time, he took up the matters he had set aside and steadied the organization that had been faltering in its leader’s absence. On the day he made the empty grave in the family tomb, Killian spent the night there alone, looking far too normal.
But the relief that he had returned to his old self was short-lived. Jenok, who had served by his side for a long time, realized that something inside Killian had completely changed. Killian Maximilian Devonshire had changed fundamentally and completely from that day onward.
“If they exist, why doesn’t she appear?”
Above the sea that had begun to churn violently, a fierce gaze seized Jenok, rendering him unable to move. At the horrifyingly gleaming light in his eyes, Jenok swallowed dryly and quietly lowered his gaze.
It had not been long since the strict Prohibition, which had tightened as the world changed, had loosened.
It was an unofficial visit. He was on his way to open a new trade network for Gilitus Company, which he operated covertly. There was no reason to choose Crotia—which required taking such a long sea route despite its linguistic similarities—as another trade route.
Jenok had thought Killian insisted on choosing the rough sea route despite opposition from his close aides because of the painter’s words. Because the painter had likened Rowena to a goddess of Crotia. Only now did he understand that it had not been merely that.
Those pale blue eyes fluttering in the wind and rain looked as though they wished for a pale hand to reach out from that rough, dark sea and pull him by the arm at any moment. They were the eyes of a man determined to be dragged willingly down into the deep, black abyss, cold enough to freeze his very bones.
“Your Excellency. Please.”
He wondered where the end of that madness might lie, yet he never wanted to know. The man before him was like a time bomb that could go off at any moment. Mustering his courage, Jenok pleaded with an earnest expression.
“You are too exhausted. It has been a long time since you slept properly as well. We will arrive in Crotia tomorrow. You must go straight to the capital. So please, for today….”
“Tomorrow… is it tomorrow?”
Killian ran a hand over his face, then clenched and unclenched his fist, veins bulging.
“Yes. She might be hiding there.”
The whispered words were closer to self-brainwashing. Shaking off Jenok’s arm as the latter tried to support him, he glared at the country hidden beyond the distant sea mist.
The reason he had released the portrait was not for commemoration. It was a desperate struggle and an obsessive wish to grasp even a grain of sand-like hope. Standing once again before the surging sea after combing every inch of the foreign land was not so bad. Whether it was the cold sea or a distant foreign land, he would chase her to the end.
* * *
“Have you been hiding well all this time?”
The face she faced was exactly as it had been the last time she saw it. The door closed behind her. Rowena instinctively knew there was nowhere left to retreat or flee. The first face that came to mind was Damian’s.
“How are you here…?”
“Answer my question first.”
Killian, who had been sitting as if buried in the couch, took out a cigarette and lit it after a long while. The acrid scent of cigar smoke began to spread through the room filled with sunlight.
Damian. I have to find Damian. Rowena’s head was filled with that single thought. She had to send him far away. At the very least, she could not let him be caught by this man who might do God-knows-what to Damian.
Reaching behind her to grasp the handle, she was interrupted when Killian—who had silently stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray—suddenly rose and approached.
“D-don’t come here.”
“Just how long did you think you could run from me?”
It was a tone so calm and so chillingly flat. Terrified of what was to come, Rowena frantically shook the door handle. But it would not open.
Meanwhile, a long shadow fell over her head. Killian, having approached right before her before she knew it, reached his hand out to her.
“There’s no need to struggle. You want me anyway.”
“No!”
Rowena shook her head as if wailing and glared at Killian, who gripped her cheek.
“No. You still love me.”
Killian placed his other hand on her left breast and leaned down to whisper.
“You love me even while you fear and hate me terribly.”
“….”
“You cannot escape me, Rowena.”
Lightning struck a clear sky, and a tidal wave rose upon a calm sea. The hot breath brushing her ear felt as though it would burn everything away. Suffocating heat tightened her throat. Just when she thought she could endure no more, Rowena woke from the dream.
“…ma!”
“….”
“Mom!”
Damian, who had entered at some point and was sitting in a chair at her bedside, was leaning his face close to hers. Rowena, just awakened from the nightmare, rubbed her eyes and looked toward the window. She wondered if she had overslept, but outside, glimpsed beyond the curtains, the sun was just beginning to rise.
“Damian… what….”
“A letter came!”
Damian cut off Rowena’s groggy words and held out an envelope.
“Lady Lauren sent it! Tell me what it says. Okay?”
Rowena nodded, sat up, received the envelope, and read its contents.
“The funeral schedule is longer than expected, so I think it will take even more time. I don’t think I can return for at least ten days. I’ve told the butler everything you might need, and I’m doing well. —Lauren”
The reason Lauren, the mistress of the manor, was away was because of the bad news the butler had brought on the day Damian had first rebelled. Word that her closest friend from her youth had died of illness in the capital. Upon hearing the bad tidings, Lauren had left the estate in a hurry, her face drained of color. It had already been a week since she had left.
With Lauren gone—whose mere presence had filled a room’s atmosphere—the manor had grown even quieter. Damian, who had followed Lauren like an aunt during his stay at the manor, spilled the same question several times a day.
“What did Lady Lauren say? When is she coming back?”
“She said she’ll come back after about ten nights.”
“But it was ten nights last time too.”
“Yeah. It looks like she’ll be delayed a bit longer.”
“That late?”
“She said the funeral schedule got longer. And it’s winter. The distance from here to the capital is far, and carriages are slow—there’s nothing to be done.”
Rowena patted Damian’s drooping back and suddenly asked.