The Maid of the Cursed Princess

Immediately after the perpetrators behind the Princess’s abduction surfaced, the nobles who had commissioned her assassination were swiftly apprehended all at once before they could attempt fleeing or resistance.

These masterminds, including Baron Clermont, hailed from the central aristocracy’s ranks – more specifically, the central faction who had consistently opposed the Crown Prince at every turn.

Naturally, the central faction took a heavy blow. With a considerable portion of their parliamentarians who held Trimuvirate assembly seats now eliminated, their legitimacy had been irreparably undermined alongside a substantive depletion of their actual influence.

Had the nobility ever confronted such a existential crisis on this scale before?

In past eras, the Trimuvirate’s authority paled into utter irrelevance compared to the monarch’s absolute personal sovereignty. The current King’s reign had even fostered relatively amicable relations with the aristocracy after the initial turmoil and purges left the royal bloodline nearly extinct, necessitating the nobles to fill those vacant positions.

Yet the nobility clung tenaciously to that power the current King had bestowed, while the Crown Prince endeavored to reclaim those previously surrendered reins of governance. That’s why political strife occurred, and this situation broke out.

“This madness never ends…”

Having already endured one such monumental political convulsion during his youth, the chamberlain sighed heavily while gripping his brow in exasperation. Because it was crystal clear what would happen next.

No war could ever conclude through mere words. Factional strife is also a kind of war, and in the end, one side will eventually draw their sword.

Whether catalyzed by the Crown Prince’s faction striking preclusively to decapitate these newly apprehended co-conspirators alongside any remnant sympathizers, or these cornered nobles desperately unsheathing their blades toward the throne itself, bloodshed appeared imminently inevitable from any of the rapidly narrowing trajectories. Perhaps both sides would end up bloodied.

“Haah…”

His worries only deepened. The climax of this play called political strife, reeking of blood, was too burdensome for the old Chamberlain.

However, there was a separate reason that worried him and deepened his concerns more than anything else.

“..I shouldn’t just be sighing like this.”

Lighting his cigarette, the chamberlain’s ruminations inevitably gravitated toward the Princess’s present welfare.

Had she emerged unscathed amid this sequence of tumultuous events?

The culprits who caused this series of disturbances, the nobles who instigated the Princess’s assassination, were captivated, but Princess Sibylla hadn’t returned to the royal palace.

Or was it more accurate to say she couldn’t return, the chamberlain cautiously entertained that most abhorrent possibility he dared not envision too vividly. For if that worst-case scenario among all imaginable contingencies had indeed transpired…

“No, anything but that…”

Anything except that under no circumstances could be tolerated.

Steeling his resolve, the chamberlain rose from his seat. Instead of idling while sitting, shouldn’t he lend even a little strength to finding the Princess?

“Ch-Chamberlain? May I enter? A letter has arrived addressed to you…”

“Hmm?”

As the chamberlain prepared to depart, a maid inquired through the door:

“Enter, Miss Perche. Who is the sender?”

“Unknown. I heard a commotion and upon investigating, discovered only this letter bearing your name without any visible bearer…”

“…I see…”

Scrutinizing the unassuming envelope extended by the maid, the chamberlain discerned nothing overtly suspicious at first glance.

“Did you read the contents?”

“Oh, heavens no! I thought it would be impolite to read someone else’s letter… Did I do something unnecessary? Maybe I should have just burned it instead of bringing it…”

“Not at all, Miss Perche has simply fulfilled her duties admirably. You may take your leave.”

“Y-Yes, sir…”

Only once the timid maid had departed did the chamberlain unseal that envelope and unfurl the enclosed letter’s contents.

“…!”

And a moment later, the sight that greeted a servant who came to report recent trends to the chamberlain’s office was an empty office with its owner gone.

* * *

In the southeastern district of Hyperion, a gently sloping verdant hillock rested amid the urban landscape.

Long ago, it was used as a sacrificial ground, but now it has become a park, enriching the leisure life of Orléans citizens.

The chamberlain occupied a bench beside that knoll’s central bell tower, indulging in a pensive smoke. For this was the meeting place written in the letter.

Was that letter really true? Could it be a lie from some juvenile prankster?

Rife with trepidations yet unable to disregard its tantalizing implications regarding Princess Sibylla’s fate, the chamberlain felt compelled to honor the directives. Because there was no more tempting bait for him now than Princess Sibylla’s survival and whereabouts.

Please, may this not be a mere child’s prank. Or if that proved the case, at least may the Princess still remain unharmed…

Closing his eyes, the chamberlain’s tremulous fingers ignited a cigarette. And at that precise moment:

“Might you spare one for me as well?”

Beside him materialized a strikingly beautiful brunette woman and sat down at that very same bench.

“…Miss Gale…?”

While an undeniably familiar visage to the chamberlain, it had also been conspicuously absent since the incident involving Princess Sibylla’s kidnapping ordeal.

“You had presumed me deceased, hadn’t you? Or at the very least, you might have thought I ran away.”

“Your clothes have become quite tidy…”

“I’m thinking of taking a leave of absence soon.”

Dorothy’s appearance, calmly putting a cigarette in her mouth only to drop it, just crossing her legs and looking at the sky, felt quite unfamiliar to the chamberlain who had only seen her relatively stiff appearance.

But that wasn’t the important thing at present:

“Is the Princess… unharmed?”

“Yes, she is safe and sound.”

“…Whew…”

Only then could the chamberlain finally exhale that sigh of utter relief he had unknowingly suppressed until this moment.

In truth, Dorothy’s mere presence alone had indirectly intimated Sibylla’s continued survival the moment the chamberlain had seen her. If the Princess’s shield still persisted, then Sibylla must necessarily remain intact as well.

Of course, he couldn’t be absolutely certain, yet the chamberlain at least believed so. Wanted to believe so.

“Where, then, is Her Highness cur-“

“Before that,  there’s something I’d like to ask.”

Without directly facing one another, the two carried on their discourse from opposing ends of that very same wooden bench:

“Is the royal palace… secure?”

“…”

At Dorothy’s inquiry, the chamberlain pondered. Is the palace safe, for Sibylla to reside within comfortably?

“No. It can’t be considered secure.”

If the political situation hadn’t been chaotic, he could have confidently said it was safe to rest assured, but not now, the chamberlain judged.

Many of the palace’s servants and Imperial Guards hailed from central aristocratic lineages themselves. With the tinderbox seemingly poised to ignite into all-out armed conflict any day now, how could they send Sibylla into a vipers’ nest?

“A great upheaval may soon break out in the royal family. At least until the situation is resolved, I believe it would be far more advisable for the Princess to remain elsewhere secure for now.”

It might be a bit cruel to Sibylla herself, but this method was the best for her safety.

“‘Secure’, you say…”

Trailing off contemplatively following the chamberlain’s counsel, Dorothy fell into a momentary silence before resuming:

“In that case, will you help me, Chamberlain?”

She explained the plan to the chamberlain. A plan for the Princess’s safety.

“….Is it alright to tell me all of this plan? For by background alone, I too hail from central aristocratic lineages…”

After listening to the entire plan, the chamberlain suddenly asked her. He was curious about why she trusted him so much.

The Fontaine family had served as the closest vassals attending to Orléans’s sovereigns for generations. Yet simultaneously, they embodied one of the paramount central noble houses whose cumulative influence couldn’t be so readily discounted or disregarded.

What was the basis for treating him, the head of the Fontaine family, so kindly?

“….That’s.”

* * *

“Because you are the only one I can rely upon.”

“…Hmm…”

Pondering Dorothy’s response, Clopân Trouillefou tilted her head.

“It’s quite embarrassing for me to say this myself, but am I really a trustworthy person to you? As you know, I turned a blind eye to the Princess and the Slave Prince staying at the Court of Miracles.”

Strictly speaking, Dorothy had no reason to trust Clopân. They hadn’t been particularly close before, and just recently, they were essentially in opposition even if they hadn’t directly clashed.

“Still, I trust you.”

Yet Dorothy’s conviction remained unwavering.

“I trust you just like I trust the chamberlain.”

If the chamberlain represented the sole trustworthy individual among the royal household, then Clopân was the only trustworthy person in the slums.

Dorothy had always thought so. On one side, a person who sincerely worries about Sibylla and can sacrifice for her. On the other side, a person who willingly extends a hand to the weak with a pure heart.

“So to make my shallow and sloppy plan succeed, I need the full cooperation of you both.”

They constituted the only two individuals Dorothy could realistically entrust with such an endeavor.

The Witch undoubtedly wouldn’t want to get involved in such matters without being asked, and Dorothy wanted to avoid putting her adoptive mother in danger if possible – leaving Clopân and the chamberlain as her sole remaining prospective collaborators.

“To you, I may be the very bastard responsible for Robin’s death, but…”

“…”

Reiterating their fraught history bordered on sheer understatement, to the extent Dorothy even hesitated whether to involve Clopân before making the plan.

Yet she had ultimately chosen to place her faith in those same intuitions that had never once led her astray before.

“…May I slap you once?”

“…You’re not going to use your right hand, are you? I think my molars might break if you hit me with that side.”

Slap-!

Accompanied by that crisp sound resonating against her right cheek.

“Alright, I’ll cooperate.”

Dorothy had successfully secured Clopân Trouillefou’s cooperation.