I Start with a Bad Hand!

“Hello, you remember me, right?”

“Uh… who?”

Like the painter who had informed me about Revetta, the wig shop’s elderly owner bore burn scars. She didn’t seem to recognize me, and I could feel the sharp gaze of the attendant beside me intensifying.

“My eyesight has gotten worse since the fire…”

I casually placed her hand on my head. Since she dealt in buying and selling hair, she might recognize me more by the feel of my hair than by my face.

“Do you remember now?”

“Oh, oh yes. Aren’t you the student who asked for 2 gold more? What brings you here this time? Looking to sell more hair?”

She felt the shorter strands of my hair and spoke. I bowed my head slightly to make it easier for her to pat, feeling somewhat like a puppy.

“I came by for a different reason but got worried when I heard about the big fire… Are you okay?”

“My body’s fine, but the shop is a mess. The investigators just keep poking around, making it impossible to do business…”

So, my attendant and I stood there for about 15 minutes, listening to the wig shop owner’s complaints. Each time the attendant tried to interrupt, I chimed in with a supportive comment, which always added another five minutes. The complaints, skillfully controlled like a push-and-pull game, ended only when Elius sent a signal, growing impatient.

Watching the attendant whisper something to Elius, I casually tapped my aching foot. Judging by Elius’s expression, the attendant had reported everything accurately.

“…You can go now.”

Elius, nodding dismissively, didn’t look at me as he spoke. I stared at him intently. There was something I needed to confirm since the moment Elius had restrained me and made that surprising remark.

“It’s Lady Roxanne, isn’t it? The one who received the portrait painted with Revetta blue.”

Elius turned to look at me. And from his expression, I knew I didn’t need to hear an answer.

The person who sent the portrait to Dietrich had also sent the same to Roxanne. Elius now faced me fully, with a mix of distrust and tension. I took the opportunity to ask him directly.

“I have a request.”

Elius didn’t say much, which I took as a sign to continue. I would have spoken regardless.

“I want to search the student council’s records and archives.”

“…For what purpose?”

I needed to access the archives of the student council, to which I no longer had access. This required the authority of the student council president, and I couldn’t just sneak in and hastily skim through; I needed to meticulously compare all the documents. I had the handwriting sample that Agnes had found as evidence.

“I told you before, finding the real culprit isn’t just your goal, Your Highness.”

And so, my temporary alliance with Elius began from that day.

***

‘Wow, I can’t even get out of bed.’

The accumulated exhaustion from constantly being on the move was catching up with me all at once. From the friendly match to the incident on Rymus Street, there hadn’t been a moment to rest. Though I couldn’t have done otherwise, I hadn’t realized how drained I was until now.

Lying in bed, I reflected on the past week since meeting Elius on Rymus Street.

The day after returning to the academy, Elius had summoned me to his student council room and shown me a thin, short, charred wooden stick.

“What does this look like to you?”

Whether it was the royal way of speaking or just his manner, Elius had an irritating way of talking. Instead of saying what he meant directly, he would ask questions, seemingly expecting you to guess his intentions.

“A wooden stick,” I answered, staring back at him. It was just a stick, after all. Why drag this out? I said nothing more. After about three minutes, Elius spoke again, slowly.

“It’s evidence from the fire scene.”

“I see.”

Neither of us spoke again. Staring at Elius made me feel like I was going to explode, so I focused on the stick on his desk. It seemed too straight and clean to be a natural wooden stick.

“…Is it an arrow?”

Elius finally nodded.

‘Why didn’t he just say that?’

The fletchless arrow the drunken painter had described was now in front of me. Half-burnt and poorly preserved, it was hard to tell it had once been an arrow. I glanced at Elius for permission to touch it, and surprisingly, he nodded.

‘It really has no fletching.’

It could have been burnt away, but there were no slots for fletching either. The arrow was shorter than usual, but the front part where the fire likely started was completely charred, making it hard to be certain. The fact that any of it remained was a miracle.

“…Have you found anything?”

Watching me turn the arrow over in my hands, Elius asked, his fingers interlaced.

“It’s too burnt… I can’t really tell. Just seems like an ordinary arrow.”

With a short sigh, Elius dismissed me. As I left the student council room, I pondered for a moment before heading to the archery range.

“An arrow without fletching?”

“Yes. Are there such arrows?”

Agatha answered my sudden question without missing a beat.

“Aren’t they for crossbows?”

…Crossbow?

“Was the arrow shorter than usual? Then it’s probably a crossbow bolt.”

I thought it was just because it had burnt away. But it could have been a shorter arrow from the start. Still, if someone really intended to start a fire, there were other methods. Why go to the trouble of using a crossbow?

‘Ha.’

The more I learned, the more confusing it got. I sighed deeply and headed back to the dormitory.

‘Elius still doesn’t fully trust me, does he?’

Even I could easily find someone to ask for advice, so it must have been even easier for Elius to find an expert on archery. Yet, he hadn’t mentioned that it was a crossbow bolt from the start….

‘Long way to go.’

With my head in a tangle, I entered my dorm room, only to find Agnes lying on my bed for some reason.

‘The door was locked.’

How did she get in? Come to think of it, Agnes often managed to be in my room when I wasn’t there. At first, I assumed I hadn’t locked the door. But today, I was sure I had locked it, yet there she was, lying on my bed as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

‘Not that there’s anything worth stealing in my room….’

Unless she left something weird outside my door like last time….

As I made a noise to announce my presence, Agnes sprang up from the bed.

“Why are you just getting here now?”

“Anyone would think this was your room. How did you get in? I locked the door.”

Agnes shifted her gaze evasively, avoiding my question.

“Hey, that’s not important right now. Did you submit your script?”

Script? A cold sweat ran down my back.

“Wait… when’s the deadline?”

“The day after tomorrow.”

“Wow, that was close. I haven’t written a thing yet.”

How do you know my deadlines better than I do? As I hurriedly sat down at my desk and pulled out my pen, Agnes reclined leisurely back on the bed and said,

“The theater club is putting on a play next semester using scripts from the drama club. It looks like everyone else’s scripts are done, but yours was missing.”

“Oh, so the scripts get shared with the theater club right away.”

“They read through them as soon as they get them. There’s one script that needs 15 actors.”

“Wow, what’s that? Who wrote it?”

“Beatrice, I think. She’s the one who shares the same name as Baroness Degoph.”

Ah, Beatrice, the drama club member who boasted about writing a masterpiece. And she actually wrote pretty well.

“Everyone in the theater club wants to be in her play as actors.”

“What? Do you guys choose based on reading the scripts? I thought actors were just assigned to scripts. Damn.”

“Hey, I’m here. I didn’t even look at the other scripts because I wanted to pick yours.”

“Damn.”

Now I’m really in trouble….

So I spent three nights frantically writing my comedy script. If my previous scripts were painstakingly brewed concoctions, this one lacked even that effort. As I read through the completed script, I wondered if its real purpose was kindling.

Physical fights.

Witty dance routines.

Clumsy falls.

It was a hastily written script that relied entirely on the actors’ skills and improvisation. Even the few lines of dialogue were pathetic compared to my masterpieces ‘Lambhit’ and ‘Romeyet and Julianno.’ But at the same time, I was relieved that this comedy wasn’t funny at all. Anyone who laughed at this play might end up hating themselves….

As I rushed through my hectic days, I felt like I was forgetting something important—something that had made me very anxious.

Lying in bed, unable to do anything, I tried to remember what it was. But I didn’t have to. The problem found me and knocked on my door.

“…We need to talk.”

The familiar scent of coffee on his large hand.