Chapter 27

There wasn't a soul in the capital who hadn't heard that Lecashe was in the city and that the grand duchess had collapsed.

Of course, ordinary people couldn't begin to guess why Lecashe had come to the capital, so the baseless rumors just kept ballooning.

Naturally, the emperor knew too, and from that point on he'd been demanding Lyssel present himself at the palace every single day.

Lyssel kept turning him down, saying he'd come once Iberin's condition improved.

Lyssel wasn't an idiot.

Anyone could see Iberin had been the one driving this trial, so while she was down, the emperor was clearly planning to talk Lyssel around.

"Ha."

And now a threatening letter had arrived.

The wording was the soul of politeness, but the contents were that Lecashe couldn't expect to harass the priests of the Grand Temple and walk away clean.

Lyssel crumpled the paper before he realized he'd done it.

"Your Highness?"

"I didn't think His Majesty would stoop this low."

"Pardon? What did he say?"

"…He's promising to make us pay for what we did to the Grand Temple."

Of course, the priests, already tangled up with the emperor politically, must've gone whining to him.

"Pay how?"

The butler's face hardened too—he clearly couldn't believe it.

Iberin was still ill. This was the situation right now.

And in this situation, the emperor sent a threatening letter?

Even for an emperor, was that not appallingly cruel?

"He didn't specify, but I'll have to go and see."

"What are you planning?"

"He's doing this because of the trial, isn't he."

"…He probably is."

Honestly, Lyssel wasn't afraid of whatever the cost turned out to be—but if the emperor brought Iberin into it, that was a different story.

If Iberin had been by his side, she'd have asked him if he was out of his mind for going—but the reality was that she still couldn't leave her bed.

"This is my fault."

Lyssel blamed himself.

He should have held his temper a little longer at the temple.

He'd thought he'd learned a lot from watching Iberin, who never put up with unfair treatment—but apparently he still had a long way to go.

He should have thought about what would come after.

"It's not your fault, Your Highness. If anything, the mistress would've cursed you out worse for holding back back then."

"……That may be true, but it's come to this regardless."

"She'll praise you for it, I'm certain. So please don't blame yourself."

"…Right."

"Ah, more importantly, Your Highness."

The butler hesitated, then forced himself to speak.

"What is it?"

Lyssel shot up from his seat, thinking something had happened to Iberin.

"It's not about the mistress! It's the young master—he's struggling badly…!"

"Ah."

Lyssel sank back down like a doll with the air let out of it and looked at the butler.

His eyes said and what about it.

Faced with that look, the butler pressed his lips together.

Ether had been crying himself to sleep over and over until he'd run a fever and was now ill, and he wasn't eating properly either, so the weight was dropping off him fast.

If things kept going like this, Ether's health was going to be in real trouble too.

No matter how the butler or the staff coaxed him, Ether only ever asked for Iberin.

The butler had thought maybe, since Lyssel was Ether's father, the man would at least make a show of it if pushed—but one look at Lyssel's face made it clear that wasn't going to get anywhere.

"You handle it as you see fit."

"…Yes."

The butler bowed his head.

---

And just like that, the trial was quietly canceled.

Nais was effectively out of a job, but Lyssel had given a firm promise to handle the back-alley thugs once and for all.

Provided Iberin recovered.

Iberin remained unconscious through everything that played out.

Ether refused all food and drink and grew sicker by the hour.

The butler was at his wit's end about it when Iberin finally came to.

"…Hng."

"L-Lady Iberin?!"

"Hng…"

Her body felt heavy and she couldn't quite get her bearings, but her eyes were open.

"The mistress is awake!"

"Your Highness, young master!"

The estate broke into pandemonium.

---

"Waaa…ter…"

A burning thirst clawed at Iberin.

Her whole body ached as if someone had beaten her with their fists.

"Ngh."

A small groan slipped out of her.

When she managed to blink her eyes, the butler hurried over crying and held water to her lips.

"Slowly, slowly, please."

She was sipping at the trickle of water when the door burst open and Lyssel came running in.

Then his eyes met hers, and he froze right where he was like a stone.

"…Your Highness?"

Iberin blinked at him, baffled.

"Why are you just standing there?"

She'd had some water, but her voice still came out rough, and Lyssel couldn't bring himself to come closer—he just stood there stiffly, staring.

That was enough to make the butler laugh.

"His Highness has been terribly worried."

"His Highness has? Then why is he doing that?"

"Mm, good question."

He really did look like a broken-down robot.

Anyway, the worry must have been real, because his face had no color in it.

"Your Highness, come here."

Iberin stretched out a hand.

But Lyssel still didn't move.

"You're not coming?"

She called once more and only then did he start inching over. Then the door flew open again and something tiny shot out and threw itself into Iberin's arms.

"Ether?"

Realizing the small bundle she'd caught was Ether, Iberin patted his back.

"Hhhk…"

Ether was crying.

Her heart felt like it was tearing. She spoke to him softly.

"Ether, you were so worried, weren't you? Mommy's okay."

"No, you're not—Mommy, you hurt so much…"

"I'm okay now. Let Mommy see your face, hm?"

"Khhk."

Ether kept his face buried hard against her chest and wouldn't lift it.

But she could feel the heat rolling off the body pressed against her.

"Ether, do you have a fever?"

Iberin sat up sharply in alarm.

Ether clinging to her like a koala was startling enough, but sitting up too fast sent a jolt of pain through her, and a small ugh slipped out before she could stop it.

"Are you hurtin'?!"

The sound startled Ether into snapping his head up.

His whole face was a mess of tears.

"E…Ether?"

His face was flushed red, blotchy.

He was panting in short, raspy breaths—anyone could see he wasn't well.

She couldn't believe he'd run all the way here in this state.

That was when the butler added,

"The young master has been crying all day and refusing to eat, and he's running a high fever."

"What?"

Iberin's brow knit hard.

"Ether, you did that?"

"…But… you got sick because of me…"

Spooked by the angry look, Ether flinched and answered in a small, mumbling voice that trailed into nothing.

He had no idea that was going to make her angrier.

"What are you talking about. How is Mommy sick because of you?"

"…You were, though. You said Ether made you sick…"

He had to mean before she'd transmigrated into Iberin's body.

Iberin let out a long sigh.

No matter how many times she said otherwise, Ether was probably going to blame himself every time she collapsed.

"It's not because of you. But, Ether."

"Mm."

"You cried and wouldn't eat—why did you do that? Mommy's upset."

She gently stroked his hollowed cheek, her mouth turning down at the corners.

"That's… I'm sorry… Ether did wrong."

"You did, didn't you?"

"Yes…"

"Then let's eat something quickly and take your medicine, okay?"

"Yes! Will Mommy eat with me?"

"Yeah, I will."

The butler shot a quick look, and a maid hurried off to fetch the food.

Lyssel was still standing there in his stiff, awkward posture.

"Oh? Your Highness, have you eaten?"

"…No."

Her attention, which had been entirely on Ether, swung back to Lyssel.

"Eat with us."

Lyssel answered slowly.

"…All right."

The two of them—father and son, looking identically glum as they answered—made Iberin let out a small laugh.

---

She wasn't recovered enough to sit at the table.

So Iberin had to manage her meal propped up in bed with the staff helping her stay upright.

In case her stomach couldn't handle anything after days without food, all they brought was a plain soup with no solids in it.

Ether got the same.

He didn't want to be apart from her, so he ended up pressed right up against her on the bed too.

"…So even Lyssel skipped meals?"

Iberin asked, looking at the food set in front of him.

"I had no appetite."

"You really were worried about me, weren't you?"

She broke into small laughter.

It was funny somehow—the three of them sitting down to a meal together for the first time in a while, and all they were eating was soup.

But honestly, she felt lucky it had ended here.

When she'd first collapsed, she'd thought here it comes, but it had played out gentler than she'd expected.

She'd been unconscious for most of it, so it hadn't been as awful as it might've been.

Rotte's warnings had her so worked up she'd been seriously worried.

"You two should eat too."

Neither of them had even picked up a spoon—they were both just staring at her—so she lifted her own first.

Only then did the two of them follow.

Ether was Ether, but Lyssel—when had he turned into this?

He'd already been odd before she collapsed, but now he was strange in some new and remarkable way.

"Phoo, phoo."

She blew on a spoonful of soup and slipped it into her mouth.

The savory warmth spread on her tongue and she felt something unwind in her—and in that moment,

"Khh!"

Iberin coughed.

The instant after came a searing burn in her throat, and she spat out vivid red blood.

"Ugh. Hck, hck!"

She slapped a hand over her mouth, but the cough kept tearing through, and her hand went red.

The dark cast of her skin drained to bone-white. The staff, who'd been watching the three of them eat with quiet contentment, all went chalky too.

"Mommy!"

"Iberin!"

"My lady!"

"Hck, khhh…"

The pain was vicious.

Iberin couldn't even swallow her own saliva, head snapping back as she fought for breath.

She wanted to tell them she was fine, but no words came.

"Waaaaaah!"

A wail tore out of Ether again.

Iberin watched him through a vision that was rapidly going dim, and then she dropped under.

Even in the middle of all that, she had a thought.

I'm hungry… I didn't even get to swallow that soup… can your stomach actually growl while you're passing out…? Khh….

It looked like, just as Rotte had warned, she was going to be stuck in this sickbed for a long, long while.