The Dog Needs a Master

Marchioness Avganis was exactly as she had been in the original story.

After her young son was abducted, she had never once set foot outside the residence.

More precisely, she had never left her own rooms: an enormous private wing called the Garden. She had never met outsiders, either.

When Erabelle had visited with the Count before, the Marchioness hadn’t shown her face, claiming to be unwell.

So why was Erabelle sitting at the same table as her now?

A chill ran down her spine. A bad feeling stabbed into her back like a dagger. Her instincts were right so often they were practically previews of what was to come.

Looking down at the elaborate place setting, Erabelle wondered whether she ought to make a living as a prophet.

Countless kinds of cutlery, the sort that might have belonged to an ancient dynasty, had been arranged according to rules every bit as complicated.

It was a meal that called for a guide.

The Marchioness watched her with a gentle expression as she cut a small piece of meat and brought it to her mouth in strict accordance with those rules.

At the Academy, Erabelle had taken ancient court protocol and rites for the old gods as an elective. The subject was impractical and difficult, so students often failed it. Which meant Erabelle had earned a good grade.

It helped her scholarship prospects, and she had been almost the only person at school to take it seriously.

In truth, she might have been the only person studying at all at that diploma mill of a school....

In any case, she couldn’t disappoint the expectant look in the Marchioness’s eyes. So she picked up one fork and one knife and swallowed the little trap the Marchioness had set for her. At least the food tasted good.

“You seem to be finding the meal difficult.”

The difficult part was figuring out what was going on. Why was the Marchioness behaving this way? Was she going through menopause too?

Whatever the reason, a commoner like Erabelle had no way to stand up to a noble of the highest rank who had been waiting for a chance to pick a fight.

“Well, given where you come from....”

“My lady!”

“Oh... forgive me.”

Drawing out the apology, the Marchioness smiled at the Marquis. It was a smile calculated to remind him of the apology he had made earlier.

Erabelle could tell because this time it was the Marquis whose face showed humiliation.

Perhaps this was some wonderfully entertaining game between the two of them.

“It’s been so long since I’ve met anyone. I keep saying things too bluntly. Do eat.”

Erabelle was eating.

Far too much, in fact....

After eating diligently for some time, she could bear no more and carefully put down her fork.

“Lady Vermilion, you mustn’t refuse food that’s been served to you. It isn’t polite.”

But the courses showed no sign of ending.

“I expect you to observe at least the basic courtesies. I’d hate to have to lodge a complaint with House Vermilion.”

Why did they have to keep dragging the Vermilions into this?

She was trapped either way.

Whether she stopped eating without permission or ate until her stomach burst, the Marchioness seemed determined to make trouble for House Vermilion.

The malice in her eyes made the outcome plain.

The Marquis appeared lost in thought. There was no one to intervene.

“......”

Left with no choice, Erabelle rearranged the cutlery in the intricate pattern that signified the god had finished taking all food and drink.

It was something nobles had done when they had first attained a status comparable to gods in the physical realm. An ancient relic of a custom, too embarrassing for anyone to practice now. For the sake of one meal, the Marchioness had been willing to endure the embarrassment.

“......”

Her expression turned fierce.

Erabelle had given herself away. She’d known what the cutlery meant all along and had pretended otherwise. If it weren’t for the Vermilions, I would have played along as much as you liked.

Being laughed at would have been far better than attracting the attention of a true noble, especially one from a ruling house.

The glass in the Marchioness’s hand shattered with a sharp crack. Her skin, however, bore no scratch. Her physical ability had to be at least level six. To leave so much as a scratch, they would need a grade-B sniper or better with an anti-materiel rifle, fully enhanced with spell disks at that.

“I believe people should know their place. Climbing higher than you belong doesn’t mean happiness is waiting for you there.”

At last, the Marquis emerged from his thoughts and looked at his wife. He could have done that a little sooner.

“And if you insist on climbing, you should at least know what you’re holding on to. Grab a rotten rope, and you’ll fall in an instant. Whatever it is you think you can rely on—”

“My lady!”

“Don’t even think of bringing your filthy feet into my home.”

I was summoned here, though.... His Lordship called me.

“This is my home! My son’s home! How dare filthy things like you—!”

“Nomas!”

Something like static rippled over the Marchioness’s body, and she vanished from where she stood.

Nomas must be this planet’s deity.

The Marquis clenched his jaw so tightly the muscles stood out. He took several deep breaths before turning to Erabelle, his face expressionless.

“I’m sorry you had to see that.”

He took a moment to steady his voice.

“I’ll compensate you properly for what you’ve endured. I hope you’ll forget it. She’s very... unwell.”

“I’ll forget it.”

The Marquis gave a small nod.

“Let’s go upstairs. I summoned you because I have something to give you.”

The Marquis’s study was extravagantly furnished. So was every other part of the residence, but even here Erabelle felt as though she ought to pay for the privilege of standing and breathing.

In that magnificent study, he handed her a document.

“It concerns your dowry.”

“My dowry...?”

There was no way she could bring a dowry worthy of House Avganis. Not unless she cut the Vermilion domain in half.

“We’ve arranged it on our end. You’re to use what we’ve provided. There are appearances to consider, so apparently the formality can’t be skipped.”

The Marquis spoke as though it were someone else’s business.

“......”

She’d been uneasy because she sensed something was going on. So this was it.

Erabelle lowered her gaze to the document. Dezeb had already signed it. The Marquis was merely delivering it.

He really had... prepared everything, right down to the smallest detail, and then erased her memory.

When she stood there in silence, the Marquis nudged the document closer to her with his fingertips, urging her on.

“Is there any chance I could... cancel it?”

“I don’t think so.”

The Marquis gave a dry laugh and tapped the document. He wanted her to sign.

“It can’t be canceled or suspended. He made certain of that.”

Erabelle listened to the Marquis’s rather strange explanation.

“He made absolutely certain. Even if you were to sleep with another man and become pregnant, the engagement could not be canceled. That was the agreement. Didn’t you read it before consenting to the prenuptial agreement?”

She hadn’t.

Doing what Dezeb told her had become a habit.

“Whether you have three children or four, even if they all have different fathers, you will still marry him.”

I wasn’t planning to live quite that dramatically....

“Of course, in that case, the damages would be so enormous that both you and House Vermilion would be ruined.”

House Vermilion again.

What had the Vermilions done to deserve being entangled with her?

“It’s all written into the prenuptial agreement. If you incur that debt, you won’t even be able to petition for divorce until you’ve paid it off.”

What the....

By now, she was simply dumbfounded.

“My handing you this document in person is part of the agreement as well. It bears the Marquis’s guarantee, so if you violate its terms, you’ll face lawsuits from both sides: the Division Commander personally and House Avganis.”

“...Could it be postponed, at least?”

The Marquis said it could.

Erabelle arranged for an indefinite postponement, conditional on Dezeb choosing to resume the process. Then she signed beneath his elegant signature.

Every time her writing unavoidably touched his, her damned depression flared up again. Her eyes grew hot, too. She finished signing in a hurry and handed the document and pen back to the Marquis.

“I’ll compensate you separately for the distress you suffered today.”

Accepting the compensation seemed to be the final step in agreeing to forget.

“Since you’ve come all this way, you might consider staying a few days and looking over the gifts you’ve received.”

The Marquis made the offer with little enthusiasm. Erabelle felt much the same.

“My leave is short, so I don’t think I can. I’m sorry.”

Relieved to see his expression ease at her answer, Erabelle returned directly to the conflict zone.

She needed work.

A great deal of it, enough to keep her too busy to think.

As soon as she returned, she drove herself so hard that she had no time to think at all. Before long, she had forgotten about the enormous dowry whose transfer she had, for the moment, postponed.