12 O'Clock Marionette

Chapter 35

"I need to talk to you, Minuet."

As soon as the banquet ended, I opened Minuet’s door.

This could very well get me thrown out of the Bonetti household—but maybe that was for the best.

I had already accomplished what I set out to do. There was no reason to get entangled in anything else.

And there was no guarantee that the Count would be the only one to die from getting caught up in this mess.

"Talk to me later."

Minuet didn’t even bother looking at me.

I was about to call her again when she suddenly snapped her head up.

"No, if I don’t listen now, I won’t have time later. Make it quick."

I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.

Then, without a single breath of hesitation, I spoke.

"It’s my fault the Count is dead."

At my blunt confession, Minuet’s face twisted without pretense.

She strode toward me in an instant.

"The assassin was after me. I should be the one to take responsibility—"

Minuet seized my collar, gripping it tightly.

It was unlike her to act so aggressively, but her anger was understandable.

However, what she said next caught me completely off guard.

"Do you really not know? Why my father went to your waiting room that day?"

"......"

"My father was going to kill you."

Minuet was just as blunt as I was.

I blinked slowly before answering.

"I had a feeling."

What other reason could he have had to sneak into my waiting room?

Especially when I had already thoroughly provoked him by exposing his corruption.

I had suspected it back when Minuet hesitated to hand me the congratulatory drink.

The Count had been planning something.

And Minuet had stopped him.

"And knowing that, you still want to say he died because of you?"

"The Count didn’t succeed. That’s a separate incident."

"Stop talking nonsense!"

Minuet’s voice rose, sharp and irritable.

"What is it you’re trying to say? Are you feeling guilty? Do you want me to blame you, Siora?"

"......"

"Do you think a fool who was killed by an assassin with the same objective as him deserves that kind of sympathy?"

"Minuet—"

"He got what he deserved! I know that! It’s just unfortunate that such a wretched man happened to be my father."

She ran a trembling hand through her hair.

"Don’t insult me by making me out to be some fool who can’t do the math. His end was inevitable. And it was my burden to bear."

Was she saying that to me—or to herself?

Minuet wasn’t even trying to hide her shaken emotions. They were spilling out freely.

"I’ve always thought there was something wrong with your head, Siora."

"......"

"What you should be feeling isn’t guilt—it’s anger. And if you still have room for anything else, it should be pity."

"You want me to pity you?"

"...Yes."

She swallowed dryly, forcing out her words.

Her eyes locked onto mine, burning with fierce, barely contained rage.

"Pity me. Look down on me. Then tell me who killed my father. That’s all I want."

It was sorrowful fury.

And it was tragic that I couldn’t give her an answer.

***

Eleven Years Ago, on a Day When the Sky Seemed to Be Ripped Open by Rain

On that day, Cruello’s beloved cat died.

A normally docile hunting dog had broken loose and bitten it to death.

“Oh my, at least it didn’t bite you, young master. Don’t worry about the dog—I’ll take care of it.”

Qudil, one of the Nine Elders, chuckled as he led the dog away.

Amy’s eyes widened when his strike landed on her wrist. Then, without a word, she collapsed.

No, she sprawled out on the ground.

“Amy! I—I’m sorry! Did it hurt a lot?”

Amy shook her head and panted,

“My... stamina... is just... awful.”

She gasped for breath, trying to recover.

She was so skilled with a sword—why was her stamina so terrible?

For a moment, the thought crossed Cruello’s mind again: Maybe Amy really is a ghost.

But he quickly shook his head.

A Ghost Couldn’t Be This Kind.

Amy, having finally pulled herself together, sluggishly got to her feet.

“Amy, are you alri—”

“Ah.”

“Ah?”

Before Cruello could react, something was pushed into his mouth—a grape-flavored candy.

It was sweet.

A little melted, but warm.

Cruello had never been particularly fond of sweets, yet that candy felt special.

Slowly, he chewed, letting the sugary happiness dissolve on his tongue.

“Feeling a little better now?”

A gentle, warm voice.

It should have been a moment of comfort, a moment of happiness—so why was there an inexplicable sadness rising inside him?

The misery he thought had vanished pressed down on him once more.

Tears welled up in his eyes, and he buried his face in his knees.

As Amy panicked and fumbled over her words, he mumbled against his legs.

“Amy... why are you so nice to me?”

Like a broken dam, the tears spilled over again.

Cruello couldn’t stop crying.

And yet, instead of just weeping in silence, his mouth moved on its own.

“Even my parents weren’t this kind to me. Even Eden wasn’t like this.”

“Oh, uh... Roy? Are you crying because of me? Did I do something wrong?”

“It’s weird. That’s why I’m scared. Amy being so kind to me—it feels like a dream. Why? Why are you like this?”

“T-That’s... um...”

Amy flailed, eyes darting around in a desperate attempt to find an answer.

“Because you’re pretty, rich, and you’re going to be a powerful duke one day!”

For a moment, Cruello’s tears stopped.

Startled by the sheer materialism of her words, he blinked up at her in shock.

But he wasn’t disappointed.

If that was the case...

“If I stay pretty, rich, and become a duke, will you keep being nice to me?”

“What are you even saying, Roy?! You’re supposed to get mad at me! How do you have even less common sense than I do?!”

Amy scrunched up her face and yelled.

“I’m supposed to get mad? But...”

“Repeat after me! ‘Darling, you only meet me for my looks?’”

“Dar... Darling... I can’t! That’s way too embarrassing!”

Roy’s face twisted in horror as he tried to repeat her words.

And then, as if on cue, both children burst into laughter.

They laughed until their stomachs ached, for no particular reason at all.

And as they laughed, the rain slowly ceased.

Through a break in the clouds, a single beam of light cast a long streak across Amy’s face.

Cruello stared at her, mesmerized.

“The reason I’m nice to you isn’t all that impressive. You’d probably be mad if you knew.”

“...What is it? Can’t you tell me?”

“Hmm... I was told not to.”

By who?

Cruello wanted to ask, but something about Amy’s expression stopped him.

Instead, he carefully changed the subject.

“Amy, earlier you said you’d grant me a wish, right?”