“Dansen-sama will see no one. He is not fond of people, you understand. If you really must see him, you will have to put in a request in advance. …We cannot, of course, accommodate those who are ill-mannered enough to demand that the master present himself because they are unable to see the young mistress.”
“Nrgh. Well, I…”
Gilbert was at a loss as to how to respond. Of course, the butler had the more logical argument.
Should he turn back for now, or force his way through?
Gilbert was torn.
Just then, there was a clatter somewhere overhead, from an upper story, and immediately afterward—
He heard a faint noise. No, a voice.
A voice so thin and weak it could easily have been mistaken for the wind.
Gilbert started.
Someone had called his name in a pleading tone, as if asking for help… Or so he felt.
That’s Dahlia’s voice.
Possibly the butler hadn’t heard it. He seemed perplexed by Gilbert’s abruptly sharp expression.
In a corner of his mind, Gilbert thought, This is going to create a big hassle later. …Still. Either way, I—
At this late date, it wouldn’t bother him one bit to be treated like any more of a black sheep by aristocratic society, or by the House of Nightray itself.
Gilbert’s lips curved into a faint, fearless smile.
“Sorry. I’m coming in.”
With that brief statement, he stepped into the mansion, pushing the butler aside. Beyond the door was a modest entry hall, and a large staircase that led to the second floor was directly in front of him. The butler put out a hand to catch his arm, saying, “Please, sir, you mustn’t,” but Gilbert shook him off and made for the staircase.
In a normal aristocratic household, behavior like this would likely have brought the guards down on him. However, the mansion was so quiet that there might have been no other people in it. Once he’d freed himself from the butler, no one barred Gilbert’s way.
He climbed the stairs, calling “Dahlia” as he went.
Once he reached the second floor, at the top of the stairs, he knew right away:
Through the door of one of the rooms, he could hear a weeping voice.
It was Dahlia’s voice, calling his name.
Quickly, he went to the door. The possibility that it might be locked crossed his mind, but when he twisted the knob, it opened easily. Dahlia stood beyond the door, dressed in a thin negligee. When she saw Gilbert, her eyes went wide and she fell silent.
Her eyes were red and bloodshot.
Gilbert didn’t know what to say to her, and for a short while, he was silent, too.
“You…came,” Dahlia said.
She seemed to have mixed feelings about that. Her tone wasn’t one of simple delight.
Gilbert glanced at the door.
“Your father?” he asked, briefly.
Dahlia nodded, uncomfortably. Gilbert continued. “Please let me speak to him. This wasn’t your fault.”
“Won’t you come in?”
Dahlia took a step back, inviting Gilbert into her room. Possibly she had something to discuss with Gilbert before taking him to see her father.
Large bookshelves took up most of the wall space in Dahlia’s room. She had said she loved books, and her room reflected this. She’d mentioned that she liked mystery novels, but all the books wore covers, and the titles weren’t visible.
As Gilbert gazed at the bookshelves, he noticed a faint fragrance.
This room smells nice…
A sweet aroma hung in the air, as though Dahlia were wearing perfume, or burning incense.
“I’ll make tea.”
At a small table in the center of the room, Dahlia tilted a pot and began to pour tea.
“Oh, sure. Thank you.”
“Do you take milk?”
“That’s fine.”
“I can add a drop of brandy if you’d like.”
“No, I don’t really—”
Was it his imagination? Dahlia, who’d been crying just a moment ago, now sounded as if she were in high spirits.
That’s strange, Gilbert thought.
However, as if erased by the sweet scent, the doubt faded in his mind. Dahlia approached, cup in hand, and held it out to him. “Here you are.”
Gilbert took it obligingly—or tried to take it. For some reason, his fingers were unsteady, and he very nearly dropped it. “I’m sorry,” he apologized.
“It’s all right,” Dahlia said shyly. “Go on.”
As Dahlia urged him to drink, Gilbert had a vague sense that something was wrong, but he didn’t know what.
He took a small sip.
Dahlia was watching him, steadily.
…………? Something’s…funny—
Before he knew it, all the strength had gone out of his legs. He staggered, falling to his knees on the carpet. His senses were hazy, as though he were dreaming. The cup fell to the floor, and he fell after it, but there was no pain. Strident alarm bells were ringing in his head.
However, his body wouldn’t listen to him, and even his mind was fading, disappearing beyond the mist.
“For the Great Mother—”
Dahlia’s murmur was the last thing Gilbert heard before he lost consciousness.
A short while later.
A carriage departed from the rear of the Garland mansion, bound for the center of Reveil.
The coachman was the small, elderly butler.
Inside the black carriage, Dahlia sat in one of the two facing seats.
A prone form wrapped in a white sheet lay on the other.
13
“Sooo…What next?”
Break spoke from the shadow of a tree trunk in the elm forest that surrounded the Garland mansion. Oz, who’d watched the carriage drive away down the lane from the shadow of the next trunk over, looked back at Break. His eyes seemed to ask, What’s going on?
“Sorry. I’m coming in.”
Oz had seen Gilbert push the butler aside and force his way into the mansion after he’d been denied a meeting with Dahlia.
The sight had made him wonder if Gilbert was serious. If this was how things were, there was no place for the Anti-Socialization Plan. Break had said, “My, my, Gilbert-kun, how manly of you…” and seemed to be enjoying himself, but Oz couldn’t share his enthusiasm.
Now a carriage had left the mansion.
From what I saw, it didn’t look like Gil was inside, but…
He’d only caught a brief glimpse through the carriage’s small window; he might have missed seeing him. He’d seen only Dahlia in the carriage.
Had Dahlia left Gilbert in the mansion and gone out alone? …That would have been unnatural.
“Dahlia Garland, aged nineteen, only daughter of Dansen Garland, the head of the Garland family.”
As he spoke, his voice matter-of-fact, Break stepped from the shadow of his tree trunk onto the lane that ran through the forest.
Oz followed Break out onto the lane. He gazed down it, as though he were watching the carriage that was already out of sight.
“Night Butterfly,” Break murmured.
“Night…Butterfly? What’s that?” Oz echoed Break’s words, puzzled.
“The name of a boutique just off the high street. It doesn’t carry famous brands, but it does have a wide array of dresses designed to appeal to fancy madams. From what I hear, business is fairly good. I’ve seen a few at parties, and they’re quiiiiiite…”
“‘Quite’ what?”
“Gaping décolletage, you know. Like this. They’re dresses created to tempt men.”
As Break explained, with gestures, Oz’s face went rather red.
“They’re also designed to be quite easy to take off.”
Oz choked a little.
The topic was a bit too much for someone who hadn’t yet climbed the stairway to adulthood.
“S-so what?! Why bring that up now?!”
“Dahlia’s
never been one for going out. For the past six months, however, she’s been spotted entering and leaving Night Butterfly frequently… And it isn’t as though she’s started attending parties.”
As the conversation unexpectedly connected with the subject at hand, Oz had no idea what to say. However, at Break’s next words, his expression suddenly changed.
“Besides. There are dark rumors about the proprietress of Night Butterfly.”
“…Such as?”
“That the proprietress is running a secret club under the boutique. That, although they call it a club, they actually conduct antisocial devil worship— And that, in that case, it resembles a black magic cabal, or something along those lines. Of course…”
Break paused for a moment.
“Dahlia may be involved. …Perhaps.”
Oz felt seriously uneasy. At the same time, he had a few questions.
“Break, why…? When did you check into that?”
Break’s answer was casual. “Gilbert-kun did come to me for advice about it, you know. I’ve always done at least that much for him.”
He’d had fun messing with Gilbert, but behind the scenes, he’d run proper investigations on the other parties. That did sound like Break, but Oz wasn’t quite satisfied.
“In that case, you could have told me about it, too.”
“But you didn’t ask me. —Not about Dahlia’s past. ”
At Break’s unabashed answer, Oz’s shoulders slumped. It was entirely possible that, while Break had had fun toying with Gilbert, he’d been entertaining himself by watching Oz as well. Oz glared at Break. He considered making a sarcastic comment, but decided against it.
If what Break said was true…
“Wait, then, Dahlia might be…”
“Exactly. You can’t judge by appearances. …It’s possible there was some intent behind her approach to Gilbert-kun.”
By “intent,” he didn’t mean “socialization with an eye to marriage”…
When his thoughts had taken him that far, Oz realized that something felt off. What had Gilbert told him the night before?
He’d said the request to socialize wasn’t something Dahlia herself had wanted. Her father, the head of the Garland family, had planned it.
When he mentioned this to Break, Break responded with a short, “Oh, that.” Then he said, “Master Dansen is no longer with us. He passed away about six months ago.”
14
The faint hiss of burning candlewicks.
Gilbert awoke, surfacing into a dull headache.
He seemed to have been blindfolded with some sort of cloth: His field of vision was pitch-black. He could tell that he was seated in a chair. His arms and legs had been lashed to the chair’s arms and legs, and he couldn’t move them at all. —He’d been tied up.
He’d had tea in Dahlia’s room, and then he’d collapsed.
That was as far as Gilbert’s memories went.
Where…am I?
He’d awakened to find himself a prisoner.
Ordinarily, it wouldn’t have been odd for someone in his situation to feel confused or frantic, but Gilbert was calm.
He might have had a headache, but his thoughts were sharp and clear.
He didn’t immediately raise his voice. Instead, he used his free senses to explore his surroundings. In the air, he caught the lingering scent of blood. When he listened carefully, he heard faint breathing, as though several people were watching and waiting. They had Gilbert surrounded. Was Dahlia among them? He couldn’t tell that much. …But.
…She set me up?
Why? He didn’t know.
He was fairly sure that Dahlia had mixed a sleeping potion into his tea.
On top of that, the sweet fragrance that had hung in Dahlia’s room had probably been a type of incense, compounded to dull the senses. Something to keep him from noticing the drug in his tea… In that case, her methods had been meticulous and sophisticated. It meant she’d counted on Gilbert coming to the mansion from the very beginning.
At length, he heard one sharp footstep, and someone addressed him. “Are you awake, chosen ‘sacrifice’?”
The voice was a woman’s…but not Dahlia’s. It wasn’t a voice he recognized.
Although it was superficially cool, a dark fanaticism lurked deep within it.
In an indifferent tone, without flinching in the slightest, Gilbert asked a question of his own:
“So you’re the ringleader?”
“I’ll thank you to refrain from using that boorish term. —Call me the ‘Great Mother.’”
“That’s quite a name.” Gilbert sounded mildly disgusted.
“Heh-heh! You’re a steady one. I suppose I’d expect no less from a son of Nightray.”
Gilbert was a bit startled.
Did the woman know what it meant to do harm to one of the four families, to whom the crown had granted vast authority? On top of that, even among the four, the House of Nightray’s position was unique. Did she know how serious a matter it was to lay hands on a Nightray?
From the woman’s words, he could tell that she did know, and had done so anyway.
Clack, clack. The woman’s footsteps approached Gilbert.
“That is precisely what makes you a worthy offering for our god.”
As she spoke, the woman’s hands twined around the back of Gilbert’s head, and the blindfold fell away.
Gilbert found himself looking at a woman’s enraptured face. She seemed to be somewhere between thirty and forty.
Although her features were regular, they gave the impression of being somehow warped. The fault lay in her eyes. They were the eyes of one in the thrall of a mad obsession. Her showy, provocative dress clashed oddly with the old book she carried carefully under her arm.
The woman leaned in close to Gilbert, as if she meant to kiss him.
However, Gilbert ignored her and glanced quickly around the room. It was a stone chamber, and not very large. From the absence of windows, he guessed it was underground. Seven or eight women stood solemnly along the walls.
Among them, he found Dahlia.
“Dahlia.”
When he called her name, briefly, she gave a small gasp and averted her face. Gilbert returned his gaze to the woman in front of him.
“Was Dahlia acting on your orders?”
“She was. She’s known as ‘Black Widow’ here.” The woman smiled.
Black Widow. A type of venemous spider.
It was a byname, Gilbert thought. Like his “Raven.”
His brother Vincent’s words flitted through his mind. All women are venemous spiders.
He put off thinking about that until later, focused on the woman in front of him, and continued. “From the very beginning, you mean?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Her smile widened, and the woman began to speak proudly. She told Gilbert she’d researched him, studying him thoroughly to discover what sort of woman would be able to create a vulnerability in his heart.
She’s not wrong. Gilbert suppressed a bitter smile. If she’d needed a woman to ensnare Gilbert, Dahlia had been the perfect choice.
I sure am calm, aren’t I…? Gilbert thought, laughing at himself a little. I guess I really do belong to “this side” of the world—
More than he did to the bright world of marriage and socialization, of proper relationships.
Here he was, able to maintain an incredible calm.
It was equally true that, somewhere deep down, a part of him regretted having that ability. …But.
“And yet, this foolish child!”
Interrupting Gilbert’s thoughts, the woman spoke loudly, her tone acidic. She approached Dahlia.
As Dahlia flinched, shrinking back, the woman slapped her across the face with all her might. The dull sound echoed through the stone chamber. The blow had been powerful enough to send the delicate Dahlia reeling, but she only apologized in a faint voice: “I’m very sorry.”
As the woman pressed a h
and over Dahlia’s neck, making her wince in agony, she glanced at Gilbert.
“When it came to snaring you, she hesitated. Such a nuisance.”
Gilbert’s eyes widened slightly.
“This after I told her I’d resurrect her precious father through the power of our god.”
“Her father?”
At Gilbert’s murmur, the woman began to speak, her face suffused with a sense of superiority.
“Ah! I see you didn’t know. The girl’s father passed away six months ago. He’s long gone. Well, of course you wouldn’t have known: She hasn’t told anyone about it. An only child and her only parent… The affection that bound them to one another must have been incredibly deep.”
The woman—the Great Mother—had been constantly searching for devotees to serve her god, and one of the believers had noticed that Dahlia seemed strange. She’d approached her, and Dahlia had come to the Great Mother in search of a miracle, becoming a believer.
“A miracle?”
At Gilbert’s muttered words, the Great Mother laughed. “That’s right, that’s what she wanted! —Oh, shall I tell you? In one of the rooms of that mansion you visited lies—”
“Don’t! Please!” Dahlia screamed, as though the woman had found an emotional wound she didn’t want touched.
“—Lies her father’s corpse, even now! Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha!”
With an expression as if she was fighting back pain, Dahlia desperately averted her face from Gilbert.
“Is that true, Dahlia?”
Dahlia didn’t answer Gilbert’s question.
Her silence spoke volumes.
It was the truth.
“And she wants it brought back to life. What a warped, foolish wish!” The Great Mother went on, sounding thoroughly amused. “But our god is merciful. The wishes of greedy fools! The prayers of guilty sinners! No doubt he will accept them both equally!”
“—Stop.”
Gilbert’s voice was low. He hadn’t spoken roughly, but his voice stopped the Great Mother’s words cold.
After hearing the words “our god,” “sacrifice,” and “offering,” he didn’t even have to ask what the women were. They were fanatics who worshipped an evil god, rather than the globally prevalent angel religion.
Not that Gilbert had the slightest shred of belief in either one.
PandoraHearts ~Caucus Race~, Vol. 1 Page 9