Baccano! - Volume 15 - Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

“I’LL SHOW YOU THE GREATEST SMILE YOU’VE EVER SEEN.”

1710 In a certain place

Monica Campanella was dreaming.

Ever since the day Huey Laforet had accepted her, she’d dreamed every night.

As dreams went, it was trivial—just dim sensations of that moment, of being embraced.

How much time had passed since then?

Waking from her slumber, under the blankets, Monica suddenly wondered.

The long night when they’d affirmed their love together had broken—and the next day, Monica and Huey had reappeared at the library.

Surprised, the denizens of the library had peppered them with questions, but as Elmer casually deflected them, the rest of the group realized it might be boorish to ask, and peace had returned.

At that point, everyone around them was convinced the two of them were publicly courting, and they’d showered Monica with congratulations and teasing by turns.

As she thought back over those days, Monica smiled softly under the covers.

Oh… Oh… I was so happy.

All the things my schoolmates said… The teasing and the congratulations…made me so happy.

Until then, in her mind, everyone except Huey had been part of the same, faceless crowd. She may have interacted with them, but she felt nothing toward them.

Huey was all she needed. He was the only one who gave her peace of mind.

Or so she’d once believed, and yet all the comments from her classmates had given her true joy.

I really was…happy…, she thought.

As she reminisced about the past, she quietly poked her head out from under the blanket…

…and remembered where she was now.

She was looking at a rather low ceiling. In the center of her small room was a little table and the plain bed on which she was lying.

The place was very similar to the hidden room in the back of the storeroom at the Boroñal mansion.

However, there was one clear difference:

The rough, iron bars that were set into the wall, in place of a door.

Let’s turn back the clock a few months.

As they made their way down Lotto Valentino’s market street, Monica took the arm of the young man next to her.

“…Hey, that makes it hard to walk.”

“It’s fine, Huey! If you start to fall, I’ll hold you up!”

“That makes no sense whatsoever.”

Huey sounded tired, but he didn’t try to make her let go. Instead, his cheeks flushed very slightly, and he gazed toward the coast as if to hide his embarrassment.

It was a few months after their reunion in the abandoned house.

At this point, Monica and Huey’s relationship was famous even in town.

Although they’d never paid much attention to the gossip themselves, apparently they’d individually cultivated a reputation for their relatively attractive looks for quite some time already. Naturally, the fact that they were now romantically involved with each other spread through the town. Even among people who didn’t know them, many remembered the rather close couple who frequented the market.

That was probably about when it began. To Monica’s eyes, the atmosphere of the town was changing, little by little.

Huey had been using his false gold to control a portion of the town’s economy as a Mask Maker, and around that time, he had relaxed his restrictions on a few influential figures. It was no wonder Monica believed that was the cause of the newfound sense of life she was seeing around her, but—

—objectively, Lotto Valentino had hardly changed at all.

Monica had no idea that the change had occurred in herself as she reveled in young love.

For a little while, she kept her past chained in the depths of her heart.

“Say, Huey? Where do you want to go today?” Monica asked.

Huey answered with a wry smile.

“Elmer says he found a map to Captain Kidd’s treasure. He wouldn’t shut up about it. Want to go laugh at him?”

“Watch it be the real thing.”

“No, a sailor came through the other day with dozens of them, and he was selling them for a song. Even if it’s genuine, I doubt it’s worth anything.”

Elmer was currently living in a vacant house in a corner of the town. He’d lived in the Boroñal mansion when he’d first come to the area, but Esperanza had eventually thrown him out, saying, I can’t let a man take up one of the guest rooms forever! Ever since, Elmer had been moving around the city, living here and there.

As they made their way toward his house, Huey looked out to sea. “The salt wind’s harsh today,” he murmured, as if to himself.

His pace hadn’t changed, but he felt Monica’s hand suddenly stiffen on his arm.

“What is it? …Oh.”

When he looked, Monica’s expression had clouded over slightly, and her eyes were fixed on a point out on the ocean.

An enormous, black ship was headed toward them from the open sea. Its golden hourglass crest reflected the sunlight, declaring its own triumphant return.

“I thought it had been gone for a while… It’s back again, hmm?”

“I wonder if it’s brought more people…,” Monica said gloomily, like a child who was frightened of the dark.

Huey still didn’t know why she was afraid of the House of Dormentaire, but she had given no indication that she was ready to talk about it. She’d only said, Someday, when the time comes, I’ll tell you.

“…I wonder if there’s a way to run them out of town.”

Huey narrowed his eyes, and Monica shook her head hastily.

“It’s all right, Huey. I’m fine!”

“…If you say so.”

Around that time, Huey was using his position as a Mask Maker to gradually gather information in town.

He wasn’t using the Mask Maker name directly. However, he was a familiar figure to some of the town’s influential members—as a mysterious individual who gave instructions involving the distribution of the false gold, and who controlled the flow of some of the capital that ran between the town and the outside world. The young man in the wooden mask was apparently believed to be a messenger of the Mask Maker “organization.”

Huey was in fact one of its core members, but he used the misunderstanding to his advantage and was gathering information as a member of “the mysterious, vast organization of Mask Makers,” while keeping his true identity as Huey Laforet hidden.

Some of information he wanted had to do with the man known as Jean-Pierre Accardo.

Despite what he said, he no longer harbored the slightest doubt about Monica.

In that case, how had that scriptwriter known about his past? The similarities couldn’t be passed off as simple coincidence. The most sensible assumption was that someone had told him.

If there’s anyone besides me who knows about that incident…

…it’s either a survivor from the village, or…

…that group of inquisitors.

His child’s mind remembered the inquisitors, who had been dressed like knights. He’d only learned later that they hadn’t been official church personnel.

From that perspective, one could have called them the root of all evil—but Huey had viewed the entire world as his enemy, so he hadn’t held any special grudge against them in particular.

But things were different now.

If they’re here in town…

As ominous thoughts seethed inside him, he carefully kept on gathering information.

However, word had it Jean-Pierre had vanished a short while ago, and no one knew where he’d gone. Still, he did seem to be participating in discussions about his script and keeping in touch with his actors through several avenues.

When it really counted, though, the other man’s prudence reared its head, and Huey still hadn’t even managed to make contact with him.

Elmer said he’d met him once, but…I don’t think he learned anything important.

There was just one thing—if he trusted Elmer’s sensibilities—that bothered him.

He remembered hearing, I dunno everything he was thinking, but he was faking his smile. Jean was, I mean.

He might simply have been masking his annoyance at Elmer, but it was true that many things about the poet seemed odd.

Huey had chosen to consider Jean-Pierre a person of interest and continued to collect information on him.

He also wanted to know what he could about the House of Dormentaire.

Huey was working carefully so as not to expose Monica’s past, but he just couldn’t seem to get a complete picture of their objective.

It sounded as if they were looking for someone, yet without requesting help from the city police or the aristocrats. Did that mean this search of theirs was simply an excuse while they worked toward some other goal?

Until their objective was clear, it would be unwise to act carelessly, he concluded.

For a short while now, Huey had cut back his primary activities as a Mask Maker, and he had given Monica and Elmer strict orders not to make any moves without his input.

Huey’s instructions notwithstanding, Elmer still appeared to be contacting people who had no ties with the Mask Makers. He was also causing trouble for Maiza Avaro, one of the town’s nobles.

Come to think of it, what made the leader of the Rotten Eggs start spending all his time in the library all of a sudden?

Is old Dalton plotting something…?

Nothing in this town is ever straightforward.

There were more causes for concern than he’d thought.

Huey was growing tired of spending his days constantly on the alert—and for him, Monica was rapidly becoming an irreplaceable source of emotional stability.

Considering the kind of person he’d been when he first started refining the false gold, this was an unthinkable turn of events. Yielding part of his own heart to another had been a line he would never cross.

If his past self had seen him now, he would have burst out with rage and shouted, You degenerate!

Even as he remembered his past self, Huey loved Monica.

They’d been estranged for several months between their first embrace on the hilltop and the second when Elmer’s scheme had reunited them, but now that he thought about it, maybe it was all for the best.

It didn’t matter how they’d reached this point. Here and now, Huey could say Monica was part of his life.

He was strangely amused at the fact that someone like him, someone who had sworn vengeance on the world, had someone to love; he recalled just a little of his childhood self, and the happiness of his life with his mother, before the witch hunt had reached them.

“Don’t worry. Even if it stops being fine…I’ll find a way to fix it.”

He wasn’t just saying that to set her mind at ease. He believed it from the bottom of his heart.

“…Thank you.”

As he looked at Monica’s smile, Huey gave another crooked smile of his own.

He didn’t notice the poison trickling through the town, sneering at the couple.

By this time, the vanity and good intentions of the poet Jean-Pierre had already paved the way to a small transformation.

Although no one had caught on to its effects yet—

—bit by bit, little by little…

…the venom of “the truth” had begun to eat away at Lotto Valentino.

Several weeks later The patisserie on the eastern avenue

Monica still lived inside the patisserie—and it was here, amid its sweet smells, that the poison first appeared before her.

“I’m home! Auntie, is there anything I can help you with?”

When Monica returned from the Third Library, she was smiling and in high spirits.

The shop’s plump mistress answered her cheerfully. “Welcome back, Monica. Oh, no need to help out here. Why not go somewhere with your Huey?”

“Oh, honestly, Auntie!”

“Don’t be so bashful. I don’t know what sort of job Huey will take after the alchemy lectures are over, but you’ll marry once he does, won’t you?”

“…! Muh…m-m-m-marry?!”

Monica was flustered and red-faced, and her landlady gave her a concerned smile.

“Goodness gracious, Monica. You may be a woman now, but you’re still a child on the inside, aren’t you? Still, if you’re going to get married, you should do it soon.”

“Huh…?”

“Well, I don’t have to say why, do I?”

“Um…well…no.” Monica looked down, embarrassed, and the mistress’s smile grew even wider.

“Well, never mind. Take your time and think it over.”

Nodding to her, Monica started up the stairs to her room, but—

“Oh yes, that’s right. Do you have a minute, Monica?”

As if she’d remembered something, the mistress’s smile vanished; she sounded rather worried.

“Yes?”

“You didn’t see anyone strange on your way home, did you?”

“Huh…? No, nobody…”

“I see. That’s all right, then. You see, I hear a group has been asking around after the children who attend the libraries nearby, particularly the girls. Came here, too, asking how long you’d been boarding with me, and how old Freya next door was when she started taking classes at the library. Finally, I threw flour at the nosy fellow and chased him off.”

Monica forced a smile at her mistress’s pluck—but internally, dread was building in her gut, enough to crush her.

It can’t be…

“Y-you don’t think they were from the House of Dormentaire?”

“Hmm? Nooo, I wouldn’t say so. I think they were local ne’er-do-wells. You know, many of those Dormentaire men are quite unsavory, but the young lady who’s in charge of them is polite. If someone like her was asking the questions, you can bet I wouldn’t be throwing flour.”

“Oh… I see.”

Sighing with relief, Monica slowly climbed the stairs.

But the slightest seed of unease had been planted in her heart.

One week later The Third Library

She still felt uneasy, but no particularly suspicious signs had manifested over the past week, and the days had simply drifted by.

She listened to the alchemists’ lectures, talked with Huey, and got teased by Elmer and her other friends from school. It was the same peaceful routine day after day.

To Monica, that routine was true happiness.

However, the root of anxiety in her heart had made her just a little bit sensitive.

Perhaps that was why she listened to that conversation.

“Hey, my landlord went to see Jean-Pierre’s new play.”

In the private collection room, one of the pupils had struck up a conversation with Elmer.

Apparently envious, Elmer leaned in toward the other student.

“Yeah, I hear it’s incredibly popular! I want to see it, too, but I can’t seem to get a ticket! I asked a friend last time, but I hear this one’s an even bigger hit than the one before, so I’ll have to sit tight a while longer!”

“You’re lucky you’ve got connections at all. It sounds like my landlord finally got one by begging somebody with ties to the theater, too. Until Jean-Pierre started putting on real plays, that theater basically only did commedia dell’arte. You know, masked improv. Most of us here have never seen plays like Jean-Pierre’s.”

“Huh. I like commedia dell’arte, too, though. Especially those fights by Pedrolino, the clown.”

“You would, wouldn’t you?”

It was a completely normal, everyday conversation.

When Jean-Pierre’s name had come up, her heart had skipped a beat, but that alone wouldn’t have affected her too much.

However, she was listening now, and the conversation continued—with a bit of Jean-Pierre’s poison.

“Y’know, I heard a bit from my landlord… He was talking to people who’d seen it before, and the script’s changed a little.”

“Huh. Well, I hear they do make adjustments to the script during a play’s run.”

“No… It sort of sounds like Jean-Pierre’s doing something really dangerous.”

“Dangerous? Like what?”

“Well, uh… It was more vague in the older script, but… In the one my landlord saw, apparently it was completely obvious. He says the last half of that play is based on our town and the people from that black ship.”

——!

Monica’s neck was so tense that the bones creaked, and her fingers began to tremble slightly.

The black…ship.

Based on…the House of Dormentaire?

It felt as if a ghost had clamped its fingers around her heart, and the anxiety inside her grew thicker and thicker. Taking a few deep breaths to keep it hidden, Monica tried to make sense of the information she’d just overheard—but that only made it worse.

The play’s…last half?

Then…what about its first half?

She knew.

She knew what it was that the people from the black ship were here to do.

Esperanza, her big brother, had told her.

And—if the last half of the play consisted of their arrival in town now, then did the first half show the incident that had brought them to this town?

It can’t be.

It can’t be.

She silently told herself, over and over.

However, she just couldn’t dispel the unease.

And so, a few days later, with the help of the same connection as before, she slipped into the theater.

And then Monica—

Night An office in the Boroñal mansion

“…Hmm? It’s you, is it?”

Sensing someone nearby, Esperanza lifted his head and saw his little sister dressed as the Mask Maker.

“It’s been quite a while since you appeared before me in that bizarre costume. If you’ve come to dress up and insult me again, your spirit must have recovered quite a bit… Should I be grateful to that fellow Elmer? To your sweetheart?”

Esperanza’s remark conveniently ignored his own appearance. For a little while, the Mask Maker stayed silent. Finally, with her face lowered slightly, she murmured, “I’ve come to bid you farewell.”

“…?”

That was sudden; Esperanza’s hands paused in the middle of his paperwork. His eyebrows furrowed, he watched his sister carefully.

The Mask Maker stood in front of the door, completely motionless, impassively continuing to speak in Monica’s voice.

“Count Esperanza Boroñal. I am truly grateful for all the kindness you’ve shown to me despite my sins.”

As the Mask Maker gave a respectful bow, Esperanza sensed something disquieting about her. Rising from his chair, he asked, “What are you saying? This isn’t like you.”

Something unusual was happening.

Esperanza could tell, and he tried to say something to her to keep her from leaving—

—but just before he managed it, she removed the mask from her face. Her smile was somehow desolate, and she interrupted Esperanza before he could finish.

“Really. Thank you, my brother.”

“Wait… What are you saying? Where is this coming from?”

“I’ve lived this long, and I was very happy. Thanks to you, I was able to meet all sorts of people… I know I don’t really have the right, but I will tell you, and only you.”

As she finished speaking, Esperanza thought he could see tears welling up in her eyes—but before he could be sure, she’d put the mask back on.

As she left the room, Monica’s own voice spoke from beneath the mask.

“I was happy.”

“Maribel… Wait! What are you going to do?!”

Hastily trying to stop her, Esperanza dashed out the office as well, but—the hallway was empty. One of the windows stood open, and the flames of the candlesticks flickered violently in the night wind.

That day, Monica Campanella vanished from the town once more.

This time, she didn’t even tell Elmer or her blood relative Esperanza where she had gone—

—and she didn’t say good-bye to Huey Laforet, the person she loved most of all.

A few days later Huey’s place

“Are you all right, Huey? You don’t look so great.”

“…”

Unusually, Elmer wasn’t smiling.

Huey didn’t respond. He was fiddling with a device of some sort that he’d set on the table. His expression was dark. It looked as if by moving his hands, he was trying to keep his heart tethered to reality by force.

“It’s been three days since Monica disappeared. She hasn’t contacted you at all?”

“…”

“I see.”

Guessing the answer from the other man’s silence, Elmer gave a small sigh.

The previous day, a messenger from the Boroñal mansion had delivered a letter from Esperanza: Monica’s gone. Do you know anything about it?

However, by that time, both Elmer and Huey had already realized something was wrong.

Monica hadn’t come to school, so Huey and Elmer had visited the patisserie where she lived, worried she’d caught a cold.

“She hasn’t been home since yesterday, actually. I just assumed she was with you, Huey.”

After they’d said good-bye to the shop’s worried-looking mistress, Elmer had spoken to Huey on the way home.

“Have you heard anything?”

“…No, nothing.”

Monica hadn’t told Huey anything at all. He was fairly sure everything had been fine a day ago.

They’d talked as usual, parted ways as usual.

She’d been happy. He was sure she was. Happy with him, anyway.

Could he have upset Monica without being aware of it?

Huey wondered, but he really couldn’t think of what that transgression might have been.

One day went by, then two. They had nothing to go on as time moved ever forward.

They checked with Esperanza and the patisserie’s mistress again, but both said nothing about Monica had seemed strange until that day. Nothing except what she’d said the previous day, similar to what she’d told Esperanza: Thank you for all the care you’ve shown me. I’m very grateful.

The proprietress had assumed the oddly formal remark simply meant Monica had decided to marry Huey and move out—but Huey himself had been left without a clue.

There was only one potential connection to her disappearance.

“…It isn’t just our school. Did you know there’s a group that’s been snooping around, asking about the women in the alchemists’ workshops?”

“Yeah, Maestro Archangelo said something about being careful, didn’t he? …You don’t think they snatched Moni-Moni, do you?”

“I’d rather not think it, but…”

Huey’s chair creaked as he shifted, and his face clouded visibly.

Before, he probably wouldn’t have shown such human emotion. Even if Monica had disappeared, any darkness on his face would have been because he’d have one fewer pawn at his disposal, but now he was genuinely worried about her.

Elmer wanted to be happy about this change in his friend, but he pushed it down to focus on Monica.

In that sense, he was far less sentimental than Huey.

To the smile junkie, losing Monica meant less that he’d lost a loved one and more that there would be fewer smiles in the world. As if he’d lost a tool he could have used to engineer his own happiness. If anything happened to Monica, he wouldn’t just lose her smiles. He’d lose Huey’s, and Esperanza’s, and the woman from the patisserie’s. To Elmer, this was the heaviest of blows.

Contrary to appearances, Huey was very human deep down, while Elmer had a strangely unemotional side, even though he was outwardly kinder than anyone. It was possible they got along so well because the warped parts of their personalities meshed neatly together, and each made up for what the other lacked.

Monica had belonged to this complementary relationship as well.

Huey and Elmer said nothing to each other.

But maybe they didn’t need to say it aloud—they would find Monica, no matter what.

After that night, the two began hurrying through Lotto Valentino: Huey as a Mask Maker, and Elmer as a pupil at the private school.

Little by little, they began to detect the poison circulating through its streets.

A few days later Night

Not even starlight could reach this back alley, but a flash of brilliant flames illuminated it for just a moment.

The orange gleam blasted the cheek of a man who was slumped against the wall. It was hot enough to made him want to turn away.

“Yee-yeeeagh?!”

The fire instantly vanished back into thin air, but the man’s terror showed no sign of abating.

He didn’t even understand what had happened—and the masked man whose right hand had spat out the flames spoke to him quietly.

“…Why are you spying on the alchemists?”

“O-oh, come on! So the Mask Maker really was in league with them?! B-buh—buh…but I didn’t— Nuh…n-n-n-nobody told me you could use magic!”

As the man screamed, his lungs, throat, tongue, and jaw were all trembling.

The masked youth went on quietly. “I’ll ask you one more time. Why are you spying on the alchemists?”

Slowly, he brought his right hand—and the device on it—closer to the man’s face.

“W-w-w-wait! This is all a big misunderstanding! It’s got nothing to do with you! We don’t care about the men! We’re looking for a woman! A woman!”

“Why are you looking for a female alchemist?”

“W-well, because that play’s real, they said…”

“…The play?”

“Y-yeah! The new one from Jean-Pierre! I haven’t seen it, but some of the guys who have were spreading rumors about it! They said it ain’t a made-up story! It can’t be! Anybody could see it’s based on the Dormentaires…”

A play…?

The heart of the Mask Maker—Huey—shuddered violently.

That earlier play had finished its run, and a new one had begun a short while ago.

Why is Jean-Pierre’s name coming up again now?

Suspicious, Huey had stopped moving while the man spilled his secrets. He had to be sure the poet man really and truly had nothing to do with this.

“They said they’re looking for a girl who murdered an aristocrat, and anybody who finds her will get a fat reward from the House of Dormentaire…! Once the rumor reached the ports, all the sailors who aren’t working right now jumped into the search for her—she’s an alchemist!”

Meanwhile The drawing room of the Avaro mansion

“Monica may be involved with the House of Dormentaire…?”

Even though Elmer had stopped by late at night, Maiza didn’t look cross as he listened to him.

“I couldn’t really tell before, not even when I sneaked onto the ship, but I was thinking they might have made some sort of big move recently.”

“Hmm… Aside from the fact that the ship returned from Spain a short while ago, I haven’t heard of any large disturbances…” Suddenly, Maiza put a hand to his mouth and thought for a long while in silence.

This struck Elmer as suspicious, and he started to say something, but Maiza quietly interrupted. “It can’t be…” Then he explained what had occurred to him. “…Do you know about the play that’s being staged at the theater in Lotto Valentino?”

“Yeah, Jean-Pierre’s.”

“I received an invitation soon after it opened, and I went to see it. Even at the time, it did remind me of the Dormentaires and us here. The story revolved around an eloping couple fleeing from aristocrats who seemed to be modeled on the House of Dormentaire.”

With a heavy sigh, Maiza went on.

“However, when I spoke with an aristocrat friend who’d gone to see it more recently, I realized something. During its run, the play’s script seems to have been rewritten several times.”

“The script?”

“Yes. At first, it was subtle enough that only those who were very familiar with the House of Dormentaire would have thought they could have served as inspiration. Although, in the most recent draft, anyone who lives here or knows anything about the House of Dormentaire at all can tell it’s them.” Maiza sighed deeply, as if he didn’t understand what his friend Jean was trying to do.

Elmer drained the last of the tea that had been set out on the table for him. “I wonder if the play’s something special for the townspeople. If it is, I’d say tangling with the House of Dormentaire is too much of a risk… Oh, but if he really is trying to make the townspeople smile, I suppose I can relate.”

“I hope that’s all it is, but… It seems as though the play’s actual plot is changing, little by little. I have a terrible feeling about all this… I’m concerned about Jean.”

“What if you explained the situation to the actors? He’s discussing the script with them, right?”

“The problem with that is, nobody’s seen him. The other day, he sent in a script with a message saying it was the complete version, and there’s been absolutely no word from him ever since.” Maiza’s expression grew chagrined. “I noticed nothing strange about him. While I was charmed by alchemy—or whatever Maestro Dalton’s magic is—I lost the ability to even see my friend clearly.”

“Maestro Dalton’s magic? What’s that?”

“Oh… No, I’m only talking to myself.”

“Well, it’s all right. Forget about it and smile, Maiza. Just think of it this way: Your friend grew while you weren’t looking. That’s kinda interesting, you know? People change. Maybe they turned into somebody different when you weren’t paying attention, but that doesn’t mean you have to be sad. He might be planning something that will help the town. Don’t be so pessimistic about everything.”

As always, Elmer failed to understand how to respond.

Maiza exhaled slightly, then smiled, as if Elmer’s comments had helped anyway.

“You, though. You really don’t change.”

Meanwhile On the private ship of the House of Dormentaire

While the House of Dormentaire’s private vessel had the exterior of a battleship, there were special living quarters for nobles inside. For a residential area, it wasn’t very spacious. It was as if an ordinary bedroom had been removed from a manor, then condensed until it was as small as possible.

In addition to a bed, it held a chair, a table, and a cupboard. All of them were high-class articles that wouldn’t be found in an ordinary house, and it was difficult to believe this space was on a battleship armed with several dozen cannons.

However, the room had no windows, and there was only one door.

One could have called it a fortress for aristocrats, a safehouse enemy attacks couldn’t reach—but it could also be an inescapable prison.

And indeed, the woman inside was a captive.

A criminal who could never be forgiven, named Monica Campanella.

“…Mealtime,” a woman called.

Monica slowly lifted her head.

She had been slumped over the table, but her hair and clothes weren’t obviously disheveled.

Her eyes were strong, with no sadness or doubt.

The individual facing her was—

—a brown-skinned woman in a military-style uniform emblazoned with the crest of the House of Dormentaire.

“Thank you very much…um…Carla.”

“No need to thank me,” Carla said shortly before Monica could say anything else. She looked at the girl, her gaze sharp. “…You really don’t regret this?”

“Of course not.”

Monica nodded, smiling gracefully.

Carla narrowed her eyes slightly. She took a seat across the table from Monica, who was nibbling on some bread, and watched her unobtrusively.

No matter how hard she looked, Monica was a local girl, and she didn’t seem to have anything particularly aristocratic on her person.

This wasn’t confinement, and it wasn’t transportation.

This girl looked like someone chosen from the town at random.

However, she had sent a severe shock through Carla and the rest of the House of Dormentaire.

“…I’m still not convinced.” Carla looked straight into Monica’s eyes. “Are you really the criminal we’re looking for?”

Monica nodded once, smiling gently. “I…killed the House of Dormentaire’s eldest son…Gardi Dormentaire.”

“…”

This didn’t sit right with Carla. She couldn’t simply nod and agree with the self-proclaimed “culprit” in front of her.

First, she wasn’t a heinous criminal chased down and apprehended after a manhunt. To Carla, she had been a bolt from the blue.

Her group had been investigating the town under the pretext of searching for a criminal, as usual. When they’d returned to the ship, Monica had unexpectedly presented herself and said:

“I’m the criminal you’re looking for.”

To be honest—Carla had already known about her.

A few of the people in town—the nobles and top members of the city police—knew she was Esperanza Boroñal’s half sister.

“Publicly, you’re a student living at a local shop, but I’m told you’re actually Lord Boroñal’s little sister. Even if that isn’t widespread knowledge, this won’t be taken lightly. It’s not a joke.”

“A joke… You’re right. I still remember my crime; the sensation of stabbing someone and taking his life lingers in my hands— If only it were all someone’s idea of a great big joke,” Monica replied.

Carla watched her eyes and sighed deeply.

She’d known.

Carla had known this whole time.

According to reports from her spy, this girl was the most likely suspect behind the murder of a member of the House of Dormentaire.

However, that knowledge was the very reason she’d been able to avoid catching her. She’d been intentionally ignoring her.

After all, the mission she’d been given was not to apprehend her, but to carry off the town itself.

She was to search both the surface and the underbelly of the town with the manhunt as her excuse.

They would make the best possible use of their position, find the town’s Achilles’ heel, punch a hole in the alchemists’ miniature garden, and deliver it all into the hands of the House of Dormentaire. That was the reason she’d been sent here.

But this was a completely unforeseen development.

Their hunt for the criminal had been no more than an excuse. Carla had never dreamed the criminal would turn herself in.

“Let me introduce myself properly. My name is Monica Campanella. However, that name was given to me ten years ago.”

“…”

“My true name…is Maribel Boroñal. The living ghost said to have died a decade ago, of the House of Boroñal. And—I am the one who stabbed a member of the House of Dormentaire, your masters, and killed him with my own hands.”

Carla accepted this announcement with a sour expression.

Maribel Boroñal. So it was true.

Monica Campanella wasn’t Esperanza’s half sister, a child of his father’s mistress. She was a member of the nobility, truly a blood relative born of the same parents.

However, according to records in Carla’s home country—Maribel Boroñal was dead. Ten years ago, she and her parents had been unfortunate enough to witness Gardi Dormentaire being stabbed to death by a robber, and the villain had killed them as well. That was the official story.

In truth—she had changed her name, discarded her noble rank, and had begun another life in this town as an apprentice alchemist.

Monica watched for Carla’s reaction, without starting on the meal she’d been brought.

Carla murmured, half to herself. “…Why?”

“Hmm?”

“Why did you turn yourself in now?”

It was a perfectly natural question.

Several months had passed since the ship from the House of Dormentaire had first arrived in port.

If she’d turned herself in because of a guilty conscience, the timing made very little sense.

Even Carla had doubted the spy’s report.

The girl in front of her didn’t appear to be twenty yet. At the time of the murders, she had to have been less than ten. Carla simply couldn’t believe a little girl would have been responsible for an incident that resulted in the deaths of three people.

“In fact…what on earth happened that night? You said you killed Master Gardi Dormentaire, but what about your parents, the count and countess? The records say they were stabbed as well. Was that your doing, too?” Carla asked out of personal curiosity, and Monica tilted her head, perplexed.

“Wasn’t it done on your instructions?”

“What do you mean?”

“The play at the theater now…”

Although Monica had been confident a moment ago, faint confusion began to show in her expression. However, she soon pulled herself together, gave a small sigh, and went on calmly.

“Jean-Pierre Accardo. Isn’t he involved with you?”

“?”

“The script of the play here in Lotto Valentino recreates that abominable night… Weren’t you the ones who provided it?”

“…? Wait just a minute. You mean the play that’s running now? It’s a tragedy about the elopement of two aristocrats, isn’t it? I personally checked the script on the day it premiered, but there was nothing about that incident in it…”

“That was the original script. The play being performed in that theater now is completely different from the one you described, I think. Only its name is the same.”

“Wha—…?”

Carla was speechless, and Monica began to lay out the facts.

The expression she wore wasn’t the girlish one she showed Huey, or her face as the Mask Maker.

It was the face of a hapless noble who’d been forced to flee from her own crime.

“I’ll tell you…everything.

“Everything in that play—everything about the crime I committed.”

Red.

She could see nothing but that color.

To be accurate, red covered only part of the scene—but it was all she could see.

From time to time, a flash of silver darted out of the color, then plunged back in.

She wasn’t yet ten years old; before her eyes, the red color danced and danced and danced to a distorted rhythm.

Until her parents were the same color, too.

Why had this happened?

She was too young to understand.

Gardi Dormentaire was the Dormentaire family’s oldest son.

He had a certain, unique proclivity, one which was a frequent problem for the members of the House of Dormentaire.

However, the family’s enormous power hushed up every issue until it was lost in obscurity. No one except the members of the House of Dormentaire knew about his tendencies.

Even if it had been explained to the young girl, she wouldn’t have understood.

She was the daughter of a certain aristocrat, accompanying her parents to a soiree at the House of Dormentaire.

There, someone had spoken to her. He seemed kind.

It was the first time the girl had ever had a proper conversation with a man of the nobility besides her father or her older brother. She wasn’t wary of him at all.

Neither her father nor her mother cautioned her about him, either. In fact, they smiled and bowed to him.

Neither she nor her parents knew about his true nature.

If an unjust god said ignorance was a sin, then everyone was guilty—

—and so they were all punished unjustly.

The nobleman led the girl to a room deeper in the mansion.

The route through this vast home was very complicated; the room seemed almost like a dead end in the heart of a labyrinth.

Why had the girl gone with him? Even she didn’t know. She only knew he must be a fine person, if he seemed so kind and respected.

She had no way of knowing how wrong she was.

When she was ushered into the dark room, she saw someone on the floor. Another girl, about her own age. She wasn’t even wearing clothes. Isn’t she cold? the girl wondered.

“Damn. I forgot to clean up.”

The man pushed the girl on the floor under the bed, as carelessly as he would a doll.

Finally, the girl then began to detect something eerie about the man. And about the girl, who was her own age and who hadn’t so much as twitched at the rough treatment.

“No need to worry. All you need to do is be you. You can be proud. I’ve met you today; that means I’m saved. My sins have vanished.”

The girl didn’t understand what the man was saying, and she took an involuntary step backward.

“I mean, surely they must have? If God, if the world hadn’t forgiven me—then surely, I wouldn’t be here! I’d never have met such a magnificent creature as yourself! And yet here you are. Yes, my sins have been forgiven!”

He’s scary.

I’m scared, I’m scared, I’m scared, I’m scared!

At last, the girl realized something.

She should never have come here. She was with someone she should not be with.

Hastily turning away from the man, she tried to hurry to the door—but it was too late.

The man moved his big hand to cover her mouth, stifling her scream.

Lifting the struggling girl easily, the depraved noble pushed her down onto the bed, intending to turn this innocent child into his plaything—

“Maribel!”

Having realized something was wrong, her parents rushed into the pervert’s room.

They’d made it just in time.

And because they had, everything she saw was covered in red.

“He’d been strangling me, so I had to cough for a little while before I could see again. But when my eyes adjusted, I saw him…stabbing Father and Mother to death with a candlestick.”

“…”

Monica was speaking impassively, but Carla felt her throat beginning to go dry.

For God’s sake.

Am I allowed…to hear this story?

The noblewoman who was her mistress hadn’t informed her of the particulars of Gardi Dormentaire’s death. On the contrary, his very name seemed to be considered taboo at the House of Dormentaire.

For that very reason, when the spy had told her the “criminal” was a girl this young, she’d had her doubts—but she felt a terrible heaviness behind Monica’s matter-of-fact words, and Carla could hardly imagine she was lying.

“It never crossed my mind that they were dead. I know you can’t save someone after they’ve been stabbed in the throat, but…”

“…”

“I had no idea. I didn’t know people died so easily.”

Monica lowered her eyes—and quietly shook her head.

“I managed to pick up a nearby candlestick, and I tried to rescue my parents… The candle was still burning, and it fell to the floor. Its red color was so bright. Then the bedclothes caught fire…!”

The red of the flames, and the red of the blood spraying out.

Two different shades stained the girl’s heart.

Startled by the spreading flames, the nobleman hastily turned to look behind him—

—and the spear-length candlestick sank into his throat.

She had thrust it out in desperation; the sensation as it pierced his flesh was stamped on her hands, her memories, her heart, as the wrong kind of softness.

There was a nasty splutch of a recoil, warm blood spattered the girl’s face—

—and more of that red color stung her eyes, fading her vision to black.

The heat of the blood on her face and the heat of the spreading flames were trying to burn her to ashes, body and soul.

She screamed her parents’ names, but there was no answer—

—and by the time she screamed her brother’s name, the blaze had spread to the corpses of her parents, and to the clothes of the dying nobleman.

“Just after that, I was rescued by Dormentaire servants who had noticed the fire. I told them everything I’d seen, and that I’d stabbed the man. I didn’t hide anything. I didn’t learn until much later that he was Gardi, the Dormentaire’s oldest son.”

“… And yet, you weren’t tried as a criminal.”

“From what I understand, they didn’t want their son’s crimes to become public knowledge. The House of Boroñal was a rather distinguished family, so if there had been an official trial, they would have had to state that Gardi had killed my parents. Besides…the Boroñals had many influential relations, and it wouldn’t have been easy to pin all of it on me.”

“So they said everyone in the room had been killed by a mysterious robber. Is that it?” Carla murmured, supplementing the explanation for her own satisfaction.

Monica gave a small nod. “I ended up discarding my rank as a noble. The girl I’d seen…the dead girl was a child Gardi had bought somewhere. She had been burned beyond recognition, so she was declared to be Maribel Boroñal. I heard that was how they handled it.”

“They let you go, but it would have been troublesome for them if, as an adult, you’d had the power of an aristocrat, so they took steps to prevent that.”

If in the future, she had said, I am a noble after all, the House of Dormentaire would have charged her with her crime in the full knowledge of their relative’s disgrace. For that reason, they wanted her to stay dead.

From the particulars, the girl didn’t appear to be to blame in any way—but the power the House of Dormentaire held was so enormous that her innocence was irrelevant.

If they had merely wanted to suppress the affair, no doubt they would have done away with her—but the idea that a girl under the age of ten had killed four people was preposterous, and it probably would have been rather difficult to hush it up. The House of Dormentaire had chosen to mask her crime and use it for leverage.

“As a result, the House of Dormentaire stole the greater part of the source of the House of Boroñal’s power. My brother…agreed to the deal, in order to protect me.”

Clenching her hands on the fabric that covered her knees, Monica bit her lip in frustration.

“That’s why he was exiled all the way out here. We’d always had a second residence up on that hill, but… The circumstances in this region are complicated, and not many nobles wanted to come here at all.”

“I see. I understand the situation… Although, I mustn’t simply believe everything you’ve said.” Inwardly, Carla sympathized with the girl, but she kept the emotion out of her expression and voice. “I do have a question: If what you say is true, why did you turn yourself in to us?”

“…? You came here in search of me, didn’t you?”

Only on paper.

That information nearly left Carla’s throat, but she hastily shoved it back down.

“Given that I wasn’t apprehended for several months, I assume my brother must have protected me again… At one point a few months ago, I despaired. Back then, I didn’t care whether I was captured or not, and so I went to him, but…”

“…”

What is this?

I don’t understand what she’s getting at.

It was true that Carla had gone to speak with Esperanza in advance.

However, Esperanza had already seemed aware of everything.

As soon as she told him she had come to apprehend the criminal who killed Maribel, her parents, and Gardi Dormentaire, he’d responded, Meaning you’re going to be staying in town for an extended period, and you want me to overlook what you do while you’re here, correct?

After that, he’d continued: I, too, have a duty to protect this town. There is a point at which a man must choose between protecting those he cares about and those he governs. Provided you do not cross that line, please do as you like.

Carla hadn’t yet obtained a solid grasp of the situation; to her, the remark had been incomprehensible—but now she understood completely.

Even then, she still struggled to make sense of all this.

How did she know we were looking for her? And if an “arrangement” had already been made, there’s no need to be so fearful, is there?

When she asked, it was Monica’s turn to look perplexed.

“Wasn’t it you who had Jean-Pierre write that play?”

“…?”

“I did want to run away…if I could. I wanted to forget. But even a man like that noble mattered to someone, didn’t he? If there’s someone who wants me to face judgment, then I’ll submit to it. So…”

At that point, Monica drew a breath, and for the first time, her emotions came pouring out in front of Carla.

“So please end that play immediately! I’m the only one in the wrong! Huey isn’t— Huey has nothing to do with it! He doesn’t even know about my past! So… So…”

Her feelings seemed to have jammed in her throat, and the rest of what she was trying to say wouldn’t come out.

The emotion she’d shown was a little different from either anger or sadness. The best word for it might have been pleading.

Carla could see behind it how deeply she cared for her love.

A young girl had killed an important nobleman and faked her own death by putting her noble title onto a girl she didn’t know.

She had then assumed the cover of a pupil studying under alchemists and lived in a certain town. Uneventfully, peacefully, as if that tragedy had been a dream.

Be that as it may, a ship belonging to that noble family appeared, and the mood in the town changed drastically.

The nobleman she had killed was a despicable villain who had attempted to assault a young girl, even killed her parents, and yet someone was unhappy with his death—the dead man’s younger sister.

The woman made no attempt to believe in her brother’s misdeeds. She had to find the culprit, no matter what it took.

However, the culprit was already dead, officially. The girl’s family seemed very unlikely to talk. In that case—she had to locate the criminal in secret and do away with her in private.

Meanwhile, the girl was afraid of the nobleman’s ship, but she couldn’t afford to lose the happiness she’d worked so hard to obtain now.

That was when someone extended a helping hand to her.

The boy who had lost his mother in a witch hunt, who had been betrayed by all the villagers—and who had made a pact with a demon. The two joined forces, making a new contract with the demon, and burned the nobleman’s ship to ashes. However, the flames spread to the town. In the end, the girl’s happiness was lost, and both she and the boy vanished from the earth.

Onstage, skilled actors were playing out this tale.

In the audience, Huey glared wordlessly at the stage from beginning to end, while Elmer watched the play unfold with sadness in his eyes.

The performance finally ended, but even after most of the audience had left the theater, Huey stayed in his seat, looking down silently.

A soft creaking noise came from his right hand, which was hidden in his sleeve.

“Don’t do it, Huey. Burning the theater down won’t make anybody smile, and it won’t save anybody, either.” In the seat next to Huey, Elmer looked up at the ceiling. “Not you or Monica… Actually, I didn’t realize you even brought that thing here.”

“…Yes, I know. I know that,” Huey replied, but the creaking from his hand didn’t stop.

After seeing the play, he understood everything even without proof.

That play, particularly the first half, was probably based on Monica’s past.

And like the previous play that had shown his own past, it was no doubt close to the truth.

“Jean-Pierre Accardo…

“If I set him on fire and watch him die…I think that might make me smile a bit.”

“What…is this…?”

Carla had issued orders to a subordinate and acquired the script for the play that was currently being performed.

The story written on the pages was completely different from the one she’d seen.

It was likely that the script had gone through a series of gradual revisions while it was being performed.

She was furious, but she managed to keep her voice calm, and she gave her men one single order:

“Seize Jean-Pierre Accardo by the scruff of his neck and drag him here. Now.”

However, although more than a hundred members of the Dormentaire envoy were on the search—they weren’t able to secure Jean-Pierre’s person.

Not after days and days…

A certain day in 1710 Somewhere in Lotto Valentino

Right after Huey and Elmer saw the play, its run was ended and replaced by another at the theater. It was one of the masked, commedia dell’arte plays that had previously been popular, and Jean-Pierre had nothing to do with its content.

It wasn’t clear why a play had been canceled at the height of its popularity, but the townspeople had a good guess. The gossip soon began.

“So that really was a true story about the secrets of the House of Dormentaire.”

“Yes, and the Dormentaire lot in town started applying pressure on the theater.”

They had no proof, but they were certain. The disappearance of Jean-Pierre Accardo lent an air of truth to the rumors.

However, with over a hundred Dormentaire men staying in town long-term, such things couldn’t be said openly—and the rumors slowly spread through the town, traveling between close friends, relatives, lovers, and drinkers who’d shed their inhibitions.

Just like a poison that accumulated gradually over time.

“Did you find any clues?” Elmer asked.

“…It sounds as if Monica really is being held captive by the Dormentaires,” Huey answered in one of the Mask Maker hideouts. His eyes were red and bloodshot, and his complexion wasn’t good at all. “I hear someone from the Dormentaires bought several articles of women’s clothing from the fabric shop on the market street. They were nothing like what that Carla person wears, so it’s safe to assume they were purchased as spare outfits for someone else.”

“That’s fantastic! Now there’s hope! It means they’re at least letting her change clothes, and if they bought her several outfits, there’s no need to worry about her life being in immediate danger!”

“Sometimes, I appreciate how quick you are to see the bright side.”

Of course, he knew that was no more than a hope.

In the worst-case scenario, she’d been sent to the “nobleman’s relative” mentioned in the play and had already been tortured and put to death.

However, the ship hadn’t left port once, and it didn’t seem to be preparing to set sail.

“Still… If Monica said good-bye to Speran and the patisserie’s mistress, then she probably turned herself in voluntarily, didn’t she?” Elmer had folded his arms and was brooding.

Huey looked down and murmured, “…So why didn’t she say anything to me? Why would she need to turn herself over to them in the first place?”

“You already know, don’t you? Even an oblivious bunny should be able to figure that one out.”

“Just because I understand doesn’t meant I’ve accepted it.”

Yes, I understand. Monica saw that play, after all.

The play had featured a character who was clearly modeled on Huey. To the audience, he had been the protagonist of the previous play, one of the reasons that play had attracted so much attention despite its mixed reviews.

Monica must have seen the second play and assumed the townspeople would identify her right away. And once they took the play as truth, their deductions would take them not just to Monica—but to Huey Laforet.

The man depicted as a devil, who burned down the town at the end of the play, actually lived here. After the rumors started spreading, it wouldn’t just be her. Huey might also be apprehended by the House of Dormentaire as her “accomplice.”

The fact that it was understandable made it all the more mortifying.

The more sense it made, the less convinced he felt of her reason, and the more maddening it was.

He wanted to scream at Monica: What kind of fool do you take me for?! Did you think that would even worry me?!

But she wasn’t here anymore.

Silence fell between Elmer and Huey, and the stillness in the hideout weighed heavy on Huey’s heart.

How many seconds—minutes, hours—did they spend that way?

Elmer, who would ordinarily have been bantering, said nothing.

It was as if he was waiting for Huey to suggest something.

Then, just as one of the candles in the candelabra was about to burn out, Huey broke the silence. He had a resolution in mind.

“The truth is, for several days now…I’ve been thinking about sneaking onto that ship.”

“…”

“But over the past few days, they’ve tightened their guard. It would have been one thing before, but I can’t find any openings to exploit now. I also don’t have any political influence.”

“Speran said something like that, too. I think he knows Monica may be on that ship, but he’s the acting lord of this area, and the House of Dormentaire might as well be holding the townspeople hostage. He can’t make any careless moves.”

“Yes… It’s been several months since they kept coming and coming with more people wearing those eerie crests, but the locals don’t fear them as outsiders anymore. They probably seem like slightly unsettling neighbors, at most… And if worse comes to worst, making an enemy of the House of Dormentaire may mean the end of this town. I’ve done some checking around, and that family does seem to have the power to do it.”

He broke off for a moment—

—then he turned to face Elmer squarely, an intense resolution blazing in his eyes as he made a firm statement:

“But I’ll make an enemy of them anyway.”

“…”

Elmer was silent, and Huey continued. The light in his eyes resembled insanity.

“I will. I’m willing to sacrifice the whole town to fight them and save Monica. Jean-Pierre Accardo was right about me—for Monica’s sake, I could burn the whole city down!”

Then a trace of sadness crept into his expression, and he looked at Elmer.

“But…I could never do it alone. Which is why I’m planning to drag you into this. I’ll use everything at my disposal, for my selfish, prideful desire to save Monica! I’ll beg without shame. Please—”

Just then, Elmer stuck out a hand, interrupting Huey.

“…?”

“Hmm…”

Elmer had been listening seriously to what Huey said, and he smiled warmly, genuinely.

He asked Huey a question.

“Would saving Monica make you happy?”

“…Of course it would.”

“If you get to see Monica again, will you smile?”

“I’ll show you the greatest smile you’ve ever seen.”

Huey answered with no hesitation whatsoever.

The response seemed to satisfy Elmer, and he cackled.

“That was all you ever had to say, you know. That’s enough for me.”

Carla was also worried, for reasons of her own.

What should I do?

She’d managed to get the play canceled, but thanks to the rumors, most of the townspeople were familiar with the story now. They didn’t know about the true objectives of the House of Dormentaire—immortality, the false gold, and the drug—but as a result, her group now had to accomplish their superficial goal. Which they had done when they apprehended Monica, which in turn meant they had no official reason to stay in the town.

However, they had made almost no headway with regard to the town’s secrets.

They could have claimed the girl had been delusional and released her, but it was already too late to settle the matter purely in private. If they tried, townspeople would locate Monica someday, motivated by the idea of a reward from the House of Dormentaire or by simple curiosity.

When that happened, people would wonder why the House of Dormentaire wasn’t taking action when they knew she was the criminal, and that would plant unnecessary suspicion in the minds of the town’s alchemists and nobles.

The most rational method would be to get rid of Monica in secret, then say the suspect had vanished—but at present, she didn’t have that much authority. And if the stories from the play and Monica’s account were true—frankly, Carla even felt sympathy for her.

Still… How was Jean-Pierre able to write a play like that?

Choosing to make an enemy of the House of Dormentaire is already inexplicable, but how did he know so much about Monica…about Maribel Boroñal’s past?

Don’t tell me… Could it be the people from the spy’s alchemy workshop? I do hear someone from there is in touch with Jean-Pierre.

But it’s hard to believe they would know about Master Gardi’s proclivities when even I was never told.

The more she thought, the more confused she felt.

In the play, the House of Dormentaire had been searching for Monica because Gardi’s little sister bore a grudge against the criminal, but nothing could be further from the truth.

After all, that very sister had told Carla the following.

The evildoer is no more than an excuse, so you mustn’t search for them seriously. In fact, even if you do find them, you must leave them alone.

…And she’d smiled as she said it. If Carla’s mistress meant her words, she felt nothing about her brother’s death. Something about that had provoked a vague fear in Carla, and she remembered sweat breaking out on her back.

Why was that part of the play different from the truth?

The more she thought about it, the less she understood. Carla thumped the ship’s hull lightly with her fist in frustration.

Dammit. I knew it. There’s something wrong with this town.

Well, I have another priority now: apprehending Jean-Pierre.

Quietly calming herself, Carla decided to write a letter informing her mistress of the situation.

The end of this mission was nowhere in sight, and she wondered whether she’d end up being buried here.

Why haven’t they killed me? Monica thought.

She shook her head; she didn’t even care whether she lived or died at this point. Thinking about it was useless. Lying on the bed in her narrow cell of a room, she softly closed her eyes.

She was remembering her times with Huey.

Come to think of it… I wonder what it was that made me like him so much.

When she’d first arrived in this town after discarding her noble rank—she had given up on the world. And then, at a private alchemy school, she’d met a boy.

He was an isolated young man who smiled disingenuously, even as he built clear walls between himself and the people around him.

But she could see behind it; she knew his isolation was based in his hatred of the world. The look in his eyes reminded her of herself.

She might have grown curious about the boy fairly early on. She didn’t know when that had turned to love, though, or when she had begun trying to strike up conversations with him.

I wonder if I thought I could change.

She had grown disillusioned with the world, acquired the face of the Mask Maker, and begun to peek into the dark side of the town.

One thing led to another, and in her own way, she had kept up her fight against this unjust world… Although, opinions on whether or not her methods had been correct would have been divided.

Maybe I simply thought, There’s someone else like me. I’m not alone.

The recoil from her actions as the Mask Maker had begun to appear in her private life, in her feelings for Huey. Her longing for an ordinary love and an ordinary life may have spilled out from behind her mask.

In the end, maybe I only wanted to use Huey…to save myself.

When she’d thought that far, Monica clenched her hands on the bedsheets.

That doesn’t matter anymore!

I want to see him.

I want to see you…Huey…

Realizing she was crying, Monica buried her face in the pillow.

The Memoirs of Jean-Pierre Accardo

Time spares no emotion for us.

Whatever mortals may think, the sun ever rises in the morning and sets in the evening. The sun is not bound to any promise that it will rise again, and yet we live our lives with the certainty that it will.

In the same way, the sun will inevitably rise on the morrows we wish to never see. We humans are powerless to stop it. So all the characters in this story were swept along to its conclusion by an irresistible current.

Monica Campanella—or perhaps I should say, Maribel Boroñal—was allowed to live on.

She had no freedom, unable to even see her town or let her beloved hear her voice. She was allowed her life and nothing more; it is a wonder she kept hold of her sanity.

If memory serves me right, she spent roughly half a year in confinement. The black ship did not set sail once; it remained as a great leviathan looming over the port town.

I am equally surprised that Huey Laforet managed to withstand his lot for that length of time. He did not fear that ship, but he was torn between his desire to see his love that very minute and the terror that she might be executed at any moment.

He was biding his time, waiting until all the pieces were in place and he could achieve his ambition.

He had a foolproof plan for retaking his beloved.

In that sense, it was a stroke of luck for both of them that Monica was not promptly executed. Although I did not know this at the time, Huey was particularly knowledgeable about gunpowder and the like, even for an alchemist, and had the men of the House of Dormentaire attempted anything rash, he might easily have set the whole town ablaze and gone to join Monica in death.

By sheer coincidence, he would have played out the invented portion at the end of my script.

But no one can truly know their secret thoughts during that period. Time continued its merciless advance.

Earlier, I said time is impartial…but perhaps not so for Lotto Valentino. No doubt this is my mind playing tricks on me, and yet I am not convinced.

Within the walls of our garden, everyone seemed to move faster—and it was as if time itself was accelerated as well.

And so the fateful day arrived.

The moment when my sin would manifest in the town of Lotto Valentino.

Fate comes regardless of our wishes. Just as the morning sun rises.

Some are taken by surprise, while others are braced to accept whatever may come to them.

A certain month in 1710    On the House of Dormentaire’s private ship

“…There’s a strong wind today,” Carla murmured darkly, looking at the high, heaving waves.

While it wasn’t actually raining, the ship still rolled over the rough waves in the harbor.

She was on the ship to do some work, as it was one of the envoy’s bases.

As she read through reports from her men, she gazed at a bundle of letters that sat on the desk—and thought of Monica.

She’s still in confinement, but…

A few months ago, a letter had arrived from the noblewoman she served, answering her question regarding how to deal with Monica, or Maribel Boroñal.

However, that answer was not what she had hoped for.

If she had issued the callous order to kill Maribel, Carla would have reminded herself that serving such a mistress was her own choice and killed the girl. An order to release Maribel and return home for a spell would have felt like salvation for her and her prisoner.

Her mistress’s response had been neither: Remember what I told you? It really doesn’t matter, Carla dear, so you may do with her as you see fit. Do continue on your mission. There’s a good girl. From the tone of the letter, she really couldn’t have cared less about her brother’s murderer.

I don’t think that girl can take much more of this.

But if I let her go home… Will she be able to live as she did before?

If not, wouldn’t it be better to…?

The thought was there, but Carla couldn’t bring herself to venture into that particular territory.

She had been trained to serve as a guard. She had developed not the resolution to kill, but the readiness to stand in the line of fire and take an assassin’s blade to protect her masters. From what she’d heard, Gardi had been a despicable human being despite his status as a Dormentaire.

If the individual in question had come to kill her mistress, Carla would have easily plunged her blade into the assassin’s neck, no matter who they were—but not so with Monica.

…I’m weak.

I can’t kill her, and I can’t save her.

After a long period of hesitation, she had chosen to keep Monica in confinement. She reasoned that if they could at least complete their mission, there might be a way to save her.

Carla had told her men quite plainly that the girl was being kept locked up at her own discretion, and then she had issued a gag order.

Her subordinates obeyed her instructions without question. As always, she found that unsettling, but she decided to assume this was probably just what the Dormentaire private army was like.

Whenever she looked at the sheaf of letters, she felt her chest constrict. Today was no exception.

I must expose the hidden side of this town, no matter what it takes. It sounds as if this strange organization known as the Mask Makers is involved with the false gold, but…

As she read through the reports, searching for a way to start demolishing the walls of this miniature garden, one of her subordinates rushed in.

“Madam Carla, there’s a problem.”

“? What is it?”

She frowned, but there was an uncharacteristic urgency in his demeanor. She quickly assumed a demeanor befitting a leader and interrogated him.

Possibly because he didn’t have a full grasp of the situation, either, her subordinate gave a rather incoherent response.

“The town… It’s under attack!”

“What?!”

An attack?

When she hastily ran out onto the deck, she was met by an unbelievable sight.

Smoke was rising from various points all across the town, and flames were leaping from some of the buildings.

She saw people fleeing through the market in confusion, while the actual assailants were nowhere to be seen.

What is this?! A surprise attack by the Austrian army?!

Had the horrors of war spread here so quickly that she hadn’t even seen them coming? No, this wasn’t quite the same as the battlefields she knew.

“Can you return to town immediately and get a report from the men stationed at our facilities there?”

“Well, uh…our buildings are the ones that are on fire!”

“What?! Who the hell…?”

“We don’t know! There have been no reported deaths yet, but they say the fires were set by a man wearing a strange mask…”

A mask…?

Carla had just been reading about the Mask Makers. A possible connection surfaced in her mind, but she quickly dismissed it and shouted at her subordinate.

“Don’t be ridiculous! No one could do a thing like this alone!”

After that outburst, one possibility occurred to her.

“Or…was he not alone?”

Remembering the Mask Makers might be an organization, she was convinced that it was the House of Dormentaire, and not the town, that was being targeted.

She turned, preparing to return to her office on the ship and take command—

—just as her subordinate toppled over beside her.

“?!”

Archers?! Guns?!

Stunned by the man’s abrupt collapse, Carla dropped into a crouch. He must have been sniped.

But I didn’t hear any……? Wha…?

There were no wounds on the man’s body, she noticed, just as she also became aware that something was wrong with her own. Her arms and legs had gone weak and watery, and she found herself unable to stand up again.

When she looked around, it wasn’t just her subordinate. Every crew member on deck had collapsed in the same way.

What…the hell…is…?

Her thoughts grew muddled, and Carla blacked out.

Just before that happened—

—she saw a large, masked man emerge from the shadows on the deck, upwind from the rest of her group.

“Hmm… So it takes longer to affect some individuals than others. Gender may be a factor there.” As the masked man closed the lid on the paralysis potion, he looked at Carla and the crew members lying on the deck. “Well, it should be about an hour before they’re awake again. That does it for my role.”

Glancing at Carla, the masked man sighed and shook his head.

“I believe I warned you not to disrupt my students’ studies, lovely young lady. Don’t worry; there won’t be any aftereffects,” he said, though no one would hear him.

The man—Dalton—removed his mask and left the deck.

“For goodness’ sake, Elmer. You finally stop telling me to wear a hook—

“—only to make me wear a mask. Unbelievable. The boy’s as demanding as ever.”

Meanwhile The port, warehouse district

On the roof of a certain storehouse, two figures were watching the ship and the pandemonium breaking out across town.

“Hey, it looks like Maestro Dalton pulled it off.”

Peering through a telescope—an article that was still expensive in the 1700s—Elmer spoke cheerfully from behind his mask.

Huey was standing beside him, also wearing a mask.

“We really only needed to borrow the paralysis potion from him, you know,” he said impassively.

“Well, he insisted he couldn’t let it be recreated and used for nefarious purposes, so he’d do it himself. We had to let him, you know? The effects are amazing; it’s more like a sleeping drug than a paralysis potion. And I only let him do it on the condition that he would wear a mask, so we should be all right.” Nodding decisively, he looked at the town. “They really went all out on this, didn’t they? I hope we don’t end up hurting people any more than we have to.”

“…Mm-hmm.”

“So how many Mask Makers are there right now anyway?” Elmer asked, somewhat absently.

Huey’s answer was deadly serious.

“Three hundred and seventy-two.”

The Memoirs of Jean-Pierre Accardo

Yes.

Huey Laforet had done it.

In a mere six months, he had built the foundation for a criminal organization consisting of more than three hundred people.

You may find it incredible, and yet it is the truth. I myself was unable to believe it at first.

Lotto Valentino had relatively few criminal groups to begin with for a town of its size. The closest equivalent had been Maiza’s Rotten Eggs. It occurs to me now that this was another anomaly of that place.

But he had managed it all the same.

There were more than a hundred Dormentaire men in town, not to mention their hidden informers, and yet he had worked by feel to build an organization.

This from the young man who had once trusted no one and hated the world!

By distributing the capital he had raised with his counterfeit production, he had swiftly, yet with the greatest of care, increased the number of trustworthy Mask Makers. That was not his only method; his others could be very dubious, such as creating a new, legal substance to provide to nobles who still hungered after the drug…

But all of it was for the sake of his single, self-centered desire.

He wanted to see Monica Campanella again. Fueled by that obsession, he had brought his plan to fruition.

It was possible she did not want to be rescued. Huey may have understood that as well, but no doubt, he did not care.

After all, this was his own selfish wish.

From under her blankets, Monica was gazing absently at the iron bars that took the place of a door. Something wasn’t quite right, she realized, and she began listening carefully to the sounds filtering in from outside.

“…?”

At first, she’d assumed the noise was due to the strong wind.

Over the past few months, she’d grown accustomed to the rolling of the ship, and the sounds that reached her from outside were the only way she could know what was happening beyond her cell.

But she had realized this wasn’t just the wind. Monica slipped out from under the blankets and got up from the bed.

At that exact moment—she heard footsteps approaching from the other side of the iron grate.

It didn’t seem to be mealtime or any other routine visit.

Even though she didn’t hold her own life dear anymore, she peered warily through the bars, wondering what in the world was happening.

When she saw the owner of the footsteps, her whole body stiffened.

Not from fear, but out of genuine astonishment and confusion.

The figure wore a black cloak and a white mask, just as she formerly had as the Mask Maker.

But this person wasn’t the right height to be Huey or Elmer. A raw, bloody smell emanated from the large sack in their hands.

“It can’t be… Why? Who are you…?”

“Hello there,” the masked man said with relief. “We finally meet. I’m glad you’re all right.”

“Huh…?”

She didn’t recognize his voice. As Monica watched dubiously, the man removed his mask to reveal an unfamiliar face.

“I suppose I should say it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Jean-Pierre Accardo.”

“…? …?! You’re the—?”

A storm of emotions instantly welled up within Monica.

If this had happened before she’d turned herself in, she might have left holes in both his hands and feet with her stiletto.

At this point, however, the questions flooding through her mind won out over her emotions.

“Why…why are you here?! No, I don’t care. What were you trying to achieve by writing a thing like that?!”

As Monica questioned him angrily, Jean-Pierre scratched his head and murmured:

“The truth is, I didn’t know the whole truth of what happened myself… I really am sorry. I doubt anything I can do would ever fully atone for what I’ve done to either of you, but for now, please listen to me.”

“…?”

Monica couldn’t tell what the man was after, and she scowled, still wary. As if to reassure her, the man unlocked the iron grate with a key he’d taken from inside his cloak.

“Huey Laforet. He told me to come to save you.”

“…?! Huey did…?!”

As Monica widened her eyes in astonishment, Jean opened the sack and spoke apologetically.

“But if I’m going to, you need to die one more time.”

The Memoirs of Jean-Pierre Accardo

Embarrassing as it is to admit, I had taken refuge at Lebreau’s house in order to conceal myself from the House of Dormentaire.

I do not deny I valued my own life. Nor do I deny my excuse resembled that of a newssheet scribe: If I die here, there will be no one left to expose the truth.

However, I had not anticipated an acquaintance of Huey and Elmer would be employed there, a girl by the name of Niki. She located me easily, and the very next day, I was abducted by Huey Laforet and Elmer C. Albatross. What happened after that…I shall refrain from setting down here. For the sake of their reputations, and my own unwillingness to relive the memory.

In exchange for my life, I was compelled to cooperate in Monica’s rescue as a member of the Mask Makers.

What they wished to do was create the illusion that Monica had died again.

They would set the Dormentaire vessel on fire and throw a skeletal specimen composed of real human bones, the flesh of pigs, and women’s clothing into the cell. A careful investigation of the remains would be unlikely. Of course, their intent in burning the ship was to sink it completely, so I was skeptical as to whether this was even necessary. Still, I obeyed their orders.

I became a member of the Mask Makers—a group that would eventually become a vile criminal organization.

“You are going to use the small boat that’s waiting for you—a different one from ours—and make your escape. Huey should reach the ship soon. When he does, don’t return to the town; run somewhere far away together. May you be truly reborn this time, so that no one will ever find you again.”

“No… But I…”

“The last half of that play was my own invention. You aren’t what the House of Dormentaire is after.”

“What…?”

Monica was confused, and Jean-Pierre shook his head.

“There’s only one part of it that did come true.

“The boy actually set the town on fire.”

“All right, let’s hurry up and get on that ship. Once Moni-Moni’s outside, we’ll have to carry all the unconscious crew members out before we torch it…,” Elmer said.

Wearing his mask, Huey gave a small nod. Frankly, he couldn’t have cared less about any lives besides Monica’s, but he didn’t want her to feel any more guilt toward the House of Dormentaire.

In the town, countless Mask Makers were still creating diversions or restraining the Dormentaire men. They were doing their best not to cause any injuries or deaths, but Huey had accepted both sides would suffer some losses.

Looking at Huey, Elmer thought, He’s definitely not a good person.

There was no telling how the Mask Makers organization would evolve from this point on, but as far as Elmer was concerned, that was trivial.

The information that the Dormentaire group had purchased more women’s clothing meant Monica was still being kept in confinement.

That knowledge had acted as the trigger, and Huey had put the power of his Mask Maker organization to work. If Monica had already been dead, he might have used that power to slaughter every last member of the House of Dormentaire.

But again, to Elmer, that was trivial.

“What are you going to say when you see Moni-Moni again?”

“I won’t say anything.”

Huey answered Elmer’s tactless question matter-of-factly.

“I’ll just hold her close.”

When he heard that answer, Elmer visualized what Huey and Monica’s faces would look like once they’d truly achieved their objective—

—and behind his mask, the smile junkie gave a grin that was completely inappropriate to the circumstances, as he always did.

She could see the sky.

Monica was taking in the first real view she’d seen in several months. On the stairs that led up to the deck, she drew a deep breath. She wanted to be sure she was truly standing here, in reality.

With each step she climbed, all sorts of emotions welled up inside her.

What should she say to Huey when she saw him next?

She was going to be erased again, her crime covered up. Should she reject the opportunity, or should she rejoice at being able to live on? She didn’t know.

But even if she didn’t know what to say—she knew what to do.

I’ll smile. I’ll give Huey the very best smile I’ve got.

With that resolution in mind, she climbed the stairs and tried desperately to remember how to make the expression.

Ah-ha-ha… I remembered Elmer’s face. Oh no, Huey will be jealous.

As she imagined both her good friend and her lover, she was sure of it:

She was most definitely happy.

When she peeked out through the door to the deck, she saw someone standing there.

A Mask Maker, wearing that wonderfully familiar wooden mask.

Tears welled in her eyes. Turning her face to the world and the blue sky, she smiled radiantly as the sun.