The sound of cracking ice

"Father, why have you agreed to receive him?"

Cain could not understand his father inviting an outsider during such an emergency.

Mascy looked back at Cain with a strained expression.

"He is Spica's true father. One cannot call him an outsider..."

There was nothing else to do but yield.

It was reasonable to explain, given that he was the benefactor who had saved the Emmental family, and the father of Spica.

Yet how unfortunate this timing was... it was hard not to wonder why, precisely now, with problems piling up in rapid succession.

Still, that was a matter for discussion later. The family moved from the hall to the reception room, waiting for the Baronet Fairek.

Baronet Fairek had retired early due to declining health.

I believe he had not shown his face at the manor for about five years.

Five years ago, when Spica's father left the estate, he had sent him a pension with a mark of distinction, as he was Spica's father.

He had even tried to refuse, saying he would not do such a thing at that moment, but they forced the money into his hand.

While recalling such things, she waited on the sofa. Soon after, the household steward arrived, bringing a man with him.

Though her spine remained straight, the thin, emaciated frame and lank, lusterless hair—so unlike her usual self—gave her an almost masculine appearance, as if for a moment one might mistake her for a man.

One might just as easily be called a vagabond among commoners as a noble.

Yet her attire, at least, was proper formal wear.

A resolve beyond mere madness and exhaustion, palpable in her bearing.

Upon entering the room, he performs a courteous bow with the bearing of a noble. In that gesture, one cannot help but feel that this man truly is of noble blood.

My lord, it has been long since I last appeared before you. I offer my apologies for my prolonged absence.

No, good. Are you safe?

As you can see for yourself.

It does not seem to be a life of comfort. And her health, I suspect, is not in good condition either.

“Now then, what brings you here today? My household is in dire straits… Yet I allowed you passage, for there is something I must tell you.”

Faker’s gaze wavered briefly, then steadied as he spoke.

“Today, I have come here to confess my sin.”

Hm… What sin could this man possibly bear?

He was competent in his duties. After his wife passed, I’ve heard he raised Spica alone, a widower.

Has his pension run out? Or something related to his work?

“Speak.”

“Yes. I have heard that Miss Spica has been named the new lord of Emmental.”

Mascy refuses to accept it. Yet he must. There is no denying it.

That is true. It is unbearable to have taken her from you… your daughter…

No, it is not so! My lord… the young mistress is not my child… the young mistress, Spica, is… she is your lordship’s child…

The faker drew a white cloth from within their robes.

It was an old cloth.

It was a small garment stitched with fine lace, of the highest quality.

When the garment was spread out, the lady slowly reached toward it with trembling hands.

It was something she had definitely sewn herself eighteen years ago.

The garment prepared for her newborn child was a swaddling robe, embroidered with her own initial.

That day, the only thing that vanished from this manor alongside my child.

It was I who took the young mistress from this manor that day… Today, I have come to confess that truth and to receive the Black Silver Chalice.

Saying this, the man knelt upon the floor.

The family could not believe the man’s words.

How could they accept that the man they had thought the father of their clan’s benefactor was, in truth, the architect of the Emmental family’s tragedy?

Yet the man had brought proof, insisting it was no deception.

There was no denying it, was there?

That the daughter they had cherished, loved, nurtured, and raised as their own—now the nation’s treasure, the adopted daughter of Emmental—was, in truth, their own flesh and blood…

“Then… is Spica truly our daughter?”

The man bowed his head so low it nearly touched the floor. “As Your Grace commands, it is so.”

Mascy thought.

So I am to believe that I locked away my own daughter in that room, broke her heart by placing her betrothed between us, and publicly cast her out in shame?

A searing headache grips her. Her heart screams in anguish so fierce she fears she will lose consciousness if she does not desperately suppress it.

The lady clutches a tiny infant’s garment to her chest, unable to form a sound, only a silent, shuddering cry escaping her.

How could I not have seen it, when she was so close…?

I gave her no maid, denied her a room of her own, refused even to allow new clothes, and only scolded her endlessly…

Now I remember my own words, spoken in haste, accusing her of being raised wrongly…

Cain stands frozen, unable to decide whether to accept this truth or not, his mind halting, his body rigid.

The lady trembles, her voice ragged as she asks the man:

“Why… why…? Why my child… you… you too… how could you…?”

And the man begins to speak. The truth from eighteen years ago…

~Eighteen Years Ago, the Day Before the Emmental Noble’s Daughter Abduction Incident~

Elizabeth does not yet stir.

I lean over my wife, sunk deep in sleep, and rock the cradle where our daughter rests, murmuring softly.

I do not know why I do it—she does not cry—but I find myself rocking her, idle and uncertain.

I have had no rest at all, caught between caring for my wife and tending to the child I am unaccustomed to.

Only a few days ago, we laughed together, speaking of the child yet to come, as if it were real—now it feels like a dream.

Each day, I press holy water to my wife’s pale lips, and for the daughter, I feed her milk offered by a kind nurse from the Emmental manor.

But the nurse’s kindness is only until the lady of the manor bears her own child. I cannot rely on her forever, nor afford to hire her beyond that.

I am weighing my options, troubled and uncertain, when the nurse speaks to me.

“Madam of the manor has begun her labor, so I shall go to the estate this afternoon.”

I shall leave the goat in my stead; if the young lady cries, squeeze it for her, if you please.

Ah… the moment has finally come.

She had thought so, but there was nothing to be done about it.

Understood. Thank you.

I saw the wet nurse off.

And she collapsed face-down onto the desk. With the person gone, the tension melted away, and drowsiness took hold. The strain of these past few days, the lack of sleep—now it all overcame her.

When she became aware, the world around her had grown dark.

It feels as though I’ve finally managed to secure a proper stretch of rest.

Stretching, she glanced around, sensing an unusual stillness.

An unnamed unease overtakes her.

She is there, within the cradle, as he peers inside without hesitation.

She exhaled in relief, yet a sudden chill seized her as she realized the sound of her daughter’s breathing was absent.

The daughter had grown cold...

The lips had turned a bluish purple, and drool mixed with milk trickled from the corners.

And then, as if in jest, his wife gasped and her eyes fluttered open.

“Our child… so sweet…”

I rushed to her side, shielding the daughter from view.

“Ah, truly the most beautiful thing. She’s still asleep—rest a little longer, my love.”

As I stroked her head, she slipped once more into the haze of sleep.

If she were to awaken now and realize the daughter was already dead…

The thought alone was unbearable.

I had to do something—could not let her discover the truth of my daughter’s death.

I feared that if she learned the truth after barely returning from death’s edge, she might cross the River of the Underworld once more.

To conceal the fact that I had ended the life I had fought so desperately to save, I yielded to a terrible whisper from some dark demon…

Why not simply take the child away, hiding the truth of her death?

But there were no newborns lying about in every household. Yet I knew.

The house where a child would soon be born…

And I thought.

That I alone could do it.

And so, before dawn, I slipped into the manor and took the young lady.

I met servants along the way, but I said, “I’ve come back for something I forgot. I couldn’t leave the girl alone, so I brought her with me,” and they accepted it.

My heart pounded like a drum, but I never expected that training in noble composure would serve me so well in such a moment.

Cold now, the girl was buried beneath the silver osmanthus tree in the garden—my child, who ascended to heaven without ever being held by her mother.

By midday, my wife awoke.

When she spoke of how she had not regained consciousness for days, they were shocked. She begged insistently to hold the infant as soon as possible.

And so I let her hold the child of the master of the house—pretending it was her own.

She laughed softly. “She resembles our young mistress… more than she did when she was a child. How strange.”

“We once spoke of naming our child after her, if she had been born before us. We said we would pick names from gems or flowers, but stars too—how lovely that would be.”

“So this child is Spica. The brightest star in Virgo. The first ray of the maiden of the stars. Our treasure.”

She said this, and named the infant Spica.

Immediately, she sent word to the mistress, who had been in an uproar over her daughter’s disappearance, saying the nurse need not return.

Of course, she knew it was wrong.

She knew it, yet the fear of losing everything drove her down a foolish path…

From that day forward, she walked a road of regret from which there was no return.

Every night, she tormented herself with the thought: if only she had acknowledged her dead daughter, if only she had told her wife the truth as it was.

Since that day, I have not slept a proper sleep…

Even after her consciousness returned, my wife could not rise from her bed.

Taking advantage of her weakness, I spoke kindly—“Let us all perform our daughter’s baptism together. So please, recover quickly”—while secretly delaying it, desperately concealing the lie.

I prayed for her recovery, yet surely the gods were watching. As if to declare that the peace I had built by stealing another’s child and deceiving my wife was nothing but falsehood, the gods drew her close to me once more…

I dug up the remains of my daughter from beneath the silver osmanthus tree, unseen by any, and placed them within my wife’s coffin. This was the first and final time she held her child in her arms…

Left behind was only me—full of deceit—and a child, pitifully torn from her family.

And within me, the demon whispered once more: If you return this child to her true family, all will be made whole.

If I were to say I seek a proper home for the girl, surely the Lady of the Manor and Her Ladyship would take her without hesitation.

And as I had planned, the child returned to her true parents.

Everything would be restored. I was certain she would grow, feeling once more the love of her parents, the affection of her siblings, as if nothing had ever happened.

And so it was. In the Lady of the Manor’s care, she grew.

I left the estate after seeing her through her debut.

Regret still does not release me. It shows me nightmares, relentless as a hunter who will not let its prey escape.

Sleepless days continue.

Then, rumors began to spread: the true daughter had returned to the Emmental family.

That could not be possible…

Yet the world itself tells me it is true.

She is called the Miracle Heiress, a tale now sung by bards and whispered through the streets.

I wanted to shout aloud, “The true daughter has already returned—she is not the real heiress.”

I lacked the courage, the resolve, to speak such things to the world…

Now, even more bewildering, I cannot understand why I had the audacity to do such a thing…

I did not grasp the moment to confess, to repent. I simply lived on, restless and sleepless.

By the time I realized it, the rumors carried on the wind had turned: the true heiress was praised, while the false one was called a wicked woman.

I felt unease in the shifting wind, yet had no strength to move…

By the time I noticed, two years had passed.

I heard the tale only a few days ago.

“Truly, I am disappointed in the head of the Emmental family. They doted on the adopted princess as a child, yet when the real daughter returned, they sent her to the church—cast her there, they say, and forced her into her duties without ceremony.”

I know, I know! But they say the adopted princess is enduring her duties with quiet strength—some even whisper she’s a reincarnation of the First Lady herself.”

“It’s astonishing, even after only a few days since her appointment.”

Ah… perhaps it’s all too late… Yet I must at least inform her before it’s all over…

━━━━━━

“I abducted the young lady for such selfish reasons…”

The others could not speak.

They could not form a sound.

As if trying to accept that truth, a faint, thin haze of ice within the heart cracked with a sharp, brittle sound.

It was the sound of a lock breaking—of guilt toward the girl who had been taken…