False Rumors

For some time after the New Harvest Festival, Spica's health remained unsteady.

Even after the holiday ended, she could not return to the academy, spending each day in a daze.

Perhaps her long-held burdens had finally taken their toll.

It seemed the balance she had maintained somewhere within herself had snapped at that incident, and her body could no longer keep pace with the weight in her heart.

The physician explained that her refusal to eat was delaying her recovery, both body and mind, and warned that, if left as is, her life itself would be in danger. He advised her father, the Count of Emmental, to take her to the church.

The church served not only as a sanctuary for noble children without sacred power, but also as a place of healing for the ill.

For those whose vitality had waned, the regular intake of holy water proved effective, and the quiet, isolated environment offered a haven from the outside world.

And so, the Count followed the physician’s counsel, entrusting Spica to the care of the church.

This decision, while saving Spica’s life, also became a catalyst that would drastically alter Spica’s existence—turning her into gossip, though no one at the time could have foreseen such a turn of events…

I have no memory of the past few days.

I recall vaguely that time passed. But how many days, I cannot say.

When I became aware, I found myself in a room surrounded by white walls. Through a large window, a green courtyard came into view, framed by white curtains and brown wooden sills, appearing as though painted on a single canvas. The interior felt empty, bare—suitable for one such as myself.

Inside, there was only the large window, a spacious bed, a chest for storing clothes, and a table with a chair for meals.

The washroom, located in an adjacent room with the structure of a guesthouse, has now become familiar to me.

I recall vomiting up the holy water, delivered five times a day, during the first days. But after a while, my body grew accustomed to it without issue. From there, I gradually began to consume nuts and grains, and by early spring, my body had recovered enough that I could drink the holy water twice daily without harm.

The clergy were kind, mindful in their words, and I found great comfort in visits from the children of the orphanage housed beside the church.

Having come by several times before, the children I knew by sight grew deeply concerned for me.

By this time, I had regained some strength and began, slowly, to move my body again.

Still, it was only walking slowly through the courtyard or climbing and descending the stairs of the church’s infirmary on rainy days. The short distance left me breathless, a clear reminder of how weak my body had truly become.

I learned later that no family visits had been permitted because the church, suspecting abuse, had withheld access until facts were confirmed.

Even though I was of age, a young woman brought to the church in such a weakened state would naturally raise concern. Given my circumstances—rumors circulating among the nobility that I was merely a replacement, a false daughter now rendered useless by the return of the true one—the church had clearly chosen to prioritize protection.

In truth, my parents and Elder Brother had visited the church on several occasions, but each time they were only informed of my condition before being sent away.

Instead, letters arrived weekly. Some bore blacked-out passages, inspected by my parents before delivery—likely contents unsuitable for my body and mind. From the context, I suspect they concerned reports of that incident, or entreaties to forgive my sister.

Though I was lonely during my illness, I also felt relief at not having to hear more unspoken accusations from my family. Even though I had been raised by them, I was now cast aside as unworthy. I was simply too exhausted to care.

The physician repeated, again and again, “You will only harm yourself if you blame yourself.”

Then, only last year, after my sister’s enrollment had occupied everyone’s attention, was I finally granted permission to return.

Save for my continued refusal to eat any meat, my strength returned as before.

In matters of study, I had already secured the qualifications for three disciplines by last year, so there was no significant delay. I have also continued my self-study at the church.

The day I returned from the church, Mother and Father came to meet me.

Seeing me after so long, they embraced me with tears in their eyes, and I felt, deeply and truly, the warmth of family.

“Having grown so thin… Should we proceed directly to the estate? The other nobles have been silent, citing your recovery—perhaps a quiet place for a time would be best?”

I shook my head at Father’s suggestion.

“I have burdened you with worry enough. I am well. That I have lain so long is true—I accept it without complaint. But I wish to savor the remainder of my student life.”

It is true, Mother, that I am glad Spica remains at the academy. But you must not push yourself too far… I do not wish to see you further harmed by Mother’s own failure.

Had I followed Father’s words and withdrawn to the estate, perhaps I would not have been wounded.

Within days, I would come to know the nature of Mother’s failure—though I could not have known it then.

Unaware of such things, I merely repeated, “I am fine,” with a brave front.

That evening’s dinner offered little for me to eat, and it became clear the situation had not been fully understood by my parents.

A golden broth, rich with the savory essence of chicken, infused with fine shreds of ham. The main course was a fish risotto. All my favorite dishes from before—my parents had clearly tried to accommodate me, but none of it could pass my lips now. I prodded at the edge of the salad, tore off pieces of bread for the sauce, nibbled at the fruit dessert, then returned to my room, weary and disheartened.

Looking back, perhaps it was around this time that I began to consider my own existence. The way in which I might be most truly myself…

A few days later, I passed through the academy gates once more, after far too long.

The last time I had entered was the day before the New Harvest Festival, when I returned home.

More than half a year had passed since then. A pang of sorrow stirred within me, yet I kept my gaze forward, walking beside my elder sister toward the classroom.

Yes, I was with my elder sister.

The apology for the incident was not truly an apology—more like, “I’m sorry I didn’t realize it would hurt you so deeply. I’ll properly craft Luna’s horn into my bridal trousseau, so rest easy.” It was not an apology, yet it was accepted as such. The matter was settled. By then, too much time had passed to reopen it, and I lacked the strength to do so.

I had, to some degree, anticipated this outcome. I was aware that showing emotion would only be used against me.

Incidentally, the horn of a unicorn possesses properties that dull pain and ease discomfort—thus it is an essential item among noble brides, traditionally carried as protection during the first night and childbirth. That my elder sister should take it with her was something I could not fully accept. Yet it had already been sent for processing, leaving me powerless to intervene. The thought that not even a fragment of her remained within my grasp now fills me with regret. Still, before my sister, who seems to search for the subtlest shifts in my heart, I can do nothing but appear indifferent. I must not allow her to diminish that child further.

As I walked through the academy grounds, lost in such thoughts, I was met with stares unlike anything I had known before—curious, probing, almost unbearable in their intensity.

Whispers passed between students, laced with mockery. Male students fixed upon me glances so lewd they made my blood run cold. Yet I walked forward with composure, as if nothing at all had happened.

The older girl beside me seemed to know the meaning of those leering glances, and her expression was bright with amusement.

Even after entering the classroom, it continued. No friend greeted me, though I was clearly visible.

I stood still, bewildered by the situation, when suddenly I heard hurried footsteps—loud and unseemly for a lady’s classroom—approaching me. Before I could turn, I was embraced, pulled close.

The familiar scent told me at once it was Shasha. She had been expected to have already graduated and returned home, but she had written me a letter saying she would stay at the academy until my return. Hearing her voice now, I felt deep relief.

“Welcome back, Pearl. And forgive me—I could not protect your place…”

I could only feel confusion as I stood in her embrace. “I’ll explain everything during the next break,” she said.

I turned toward my seat, and as the instructor reached the lectern, I straightened my posture, my mind still unsettled, and listened to the lecture.

At the break, as promised, I heard the account—something beyond anything I had imagined.

It was said that Spica, the second daughter of the Count of Emmental, had been assaulted by bandits during summer vacation, disgraced, and secretly forced to bear a child.

Such rumors were spreading throughout the academy.

I had indeed been attacked by bandits—but swiftly apprehended—and not a single finger had touched me.

“In truth, after the vacation, rumors began circulating that Pearl had been assaulted by bandits. Both I and Lord Colloid firmly denied it, yet the rumors would not cease…

Just as they seemed to settle, Pearl suddenly stopped eating and was taken to the church for treatment. And then… it spread as if it were already fact.”

I tried to do something before you returned… but I failed… I’m sorry… I couldn’t protect the honor of my dear friend…”

Shasha wept, great tears falling one after another, yet there was no anger in her heart toward the one who had denied the rumors and sought to set the truth right. Only gratitude remained.

“Shasha, thank you. I felt deeply the sincerity of your desire to protect me. So please, don’t cry. There is no truth in those lies—surely everyone will come to see that.”

The church served not only as a sanctuary for noble children and a place of healing, but also as a rehabilitation center.

When a minor noble child was accused of a scandalous act in the eyes of society, the church was often named as a place of penance. Such accusations could include being violated without consent—something that had occurred in the past. It was easy to imagine how such a precedent had sparked the current rumors.

It was rare, to begin with, for one so young and near death to enter the church.

That she had been attacked by brigands was already a matter reported to the nation.

That I fell ill precisely at the time when symptoms might have arisen had she been defiled and pregnant was also true.

That I had been convalescing within the church was true.

That my convalescence had lasted far too long was true as well.

And the tale of unicorns presented by the Emmental family during the New Harvest Festival only fueled the rumors further.

Some say, even if she had borne a child in secret or returned it to the heavens, she had the beloved steed destroyed to ease the pain—though no one has ever spoken of it aloud.

From this, I found myself astonished at how such a falsehood could be so readily spread.

The more I reflect on how such a falsehood could be so easily spread—born of adolescents who have not yet matured into proper adults—the more I am dismayed. Yet even if I were to deny it strongly myself, it would only serve to amplify the rumor.

I now understand the reason behind the scorn and mockery from the female students, and the lewd glances from the male students—those too could be interpreted as impertinence.

There are times when people see only what they wish to see. If I were to protest, I might be accused of confirming the very thing I deny.

This must be what Mother meant by a lapse in conduct.

With the rumor already so widespread, any defense would inevitably sound like an excuse. Even if I were to speak of it myself, the Church has already refused my audience—there was nothing I could do. Yet the sense of helplessness grows.

If I were to simply inquire with others, I should remain composed. That should be the proper course here… should have been…

Two days after returning to school, a letter arrived in my hands.

The sender was His Highness Prince Arthur.

The contents were an summons to the imperial capital.

Amid the discomfort of the needle-thatched dormitory, I endured each day, holding onto the thought of seeing him, and finally reached the day we had promised.