Mastiff is someone who wants to be precious. It makes my hair stand on end, and my face feel all the color drain from it.
The cruel-sounding name resonated loudly in my ears. I closed my eyes tightly, recalling the sharp sensation of the knife blade gliding across the back of my hand.
This woman... has such a poor eye for people that she could be in serious trouble. Does she even feel romantic feelings for a man who seems like he'd kill her halfway and then let her live?
I hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to say. No, I had nothing to say, so what was the point of worrying? Instead, I asked a question.
“You know what kind of person he is, right?”
“Yes, I know.”
Perhaps sensing the negative connotation, Ayla fiddled with the pure white maid's hat on her head, looking embarrassed.
“How did you know that person?”
“I knew he was running errands for the Princess... He is a good person.”
It's absurd. No matter how much I think about it, how can someone who proudly declares that torture is their hobby and murder is their specialty be a good person?
“He’s related to the Princess, so you never suspected anything?”
“I did. But he said he would help me, and the Princess doesn’t beat me or treat me badly like before.”
I couldn't hide my uneasy expression, as if I were watching a horror movie protagonist doing something he was told not to do or entering a sinister, abandoned house. "Okay, you figure it out. I have to figure out my own life."
Mastiff may seem like the epitome of madness, but there might be a hint of sanity hidden within. Even that psychopath would be warm to his woman.
“Yes, do your best.”
I gave a very fake smile and even showed a show of support, then quickly tried to leave.
Could it be that Mastiff is the reason that the innocent woman can't quit her job as a maid? It felt like she was being happily exploited, and I felt uneasy, but interfering would only lead to more exhaustion.
Didn't I get kidnapped by Mastiff for interfering in something I never did before? Who knows what you're planning to do with this woman?
I'm not used to helping others, and I don't want to make the same mistake again, letting my emotions get the better of me and overlooking common sense. I'm a very busy person. I need to hurry and get to my bed.
“It’s a thank-you gift. Congratulations on your wedding.”
Ayla suddenly approached me and placed something in my hand. A hair tie, seemingly handmade, gleamed with pink beads.
The palm holding the hair tie felt strangely ticklish. She was the kind of woman who made people uncomfortable.
"Come on over for a meal."
I figured attending the wedding would be fine. I handed her one of the invitations I'd brought, quickly turned around, got into Molly's waiting car, and headed home.
“Get up.”
A sweet, low-pitched voice, pleasant to the ear, woke me up. Is it morning already? I slept late last night and can't open my eyes.
No matter how famous a song is, the moment it becomes a wake-up call, it becomes the most unpleasant noise in the world. But why does that man's voice still sound so pleasant, as if he's wandering in a dream?
Who would wake up beautifully to the warm morning sunlight in a room filled with the fragrant scent of morning coffee and pure white bedding like clouds?
“Ugh...”
I squinted my eyes, hypersensitive to the dazzling sunlight, to the point of looking ferocious. Noah, visible through my narrow field of vision, was still dazzling, but I decided to leave it for later.
I pretended not to hear and lowered my eyes again, about to fall back to sleep, when Noah spoke again.
“It’s 10 o’clock, wake up.”
“What did you say!”
It's already 10 o'clock, the time the artist who was supposed to paint our portraits is due to arrive. I jumped to my feet and paced around the room, blaming the innocent man.
“Why didn’t you wake me up? You said you’d wake me up at 8.”
Noah, who was sitting on the edge of the bed in a cotton shirt and watching me struggle, smiled happily.
Feeling cheated, I quickly turned my head and looked at the desk clock. The hands were accurately pointing to 7:30.
“It’s 7:30?”
When I looked at Noah with a bewildered look, he covered his mouth and let out a loud laugh.
“Yeah. I wanted to eat breakfast and get ready leisurely.”
"...Ha."
He stopped me from falling back down on the bed, picked me up, and threw me into the bathroom.
“Go wash up, Princess.”
Let me out! I still have 30 minutes left! Give me back my 30 minutes! I finally filled the bathtub, rubbing my cold eyes.
I don't even know how I washed it, but somehow I finished the shower, towel-dried my hair, and left the bathroom. Noah, who looked as fluffy as well-dried laundry in the sun, sat on the edge of the bed and looked at me.
“Are you done washing?”
"Yes."
“Come here.”
What else are you going to do? I sat down next to him, my eyes filled with disbelief. He smelled as fluffy as he looked. Noah raised a slender finger and pointed to his lips.
As I stare at him, a tenacity slowly takes over his blue eyes. I think it's a request for a kiss.
What do you want me to do? I can't follow this man's wishes, who's stolen 30 minutes of my sleep.
"Why?"
“Please do it first.”
"No, I do not want."
The corners of his eyes drooped sadly. He was deliberately trying to look as pitiful as possible.
“I woke you up early because I wanted to kiss you. Are you mad?”
“Why wake me up 30 minutes early when it would have only taken 5 minutes?”
“5 minutes?”
A faint smile formed at the corners of the man's lips, which were both pitiful and pitiful.
“It takes longer than that. In fact, I can do it all night.”
He's so blatant about making such a bold statement that it'll stain my face the same shade. Ah, it's because of that voice and that decadent look. That neat outfit is truly obscene.
A neat shirt button is a desirable visual device that evokes the urge to roughly grab it and rip it off.
“How can I stay up all night... kissing.”
I almost forgot the subject, so I quickly added it. He tilted his head to one side, scrutinizing me with his natural, innocent eyes. It made me feel pity, as if I were the only one who had fallen, as if I had aged and become rotten.
He smiled sweetly, grabbed my hand, pulled me closer, and kissed me on the corner of my eye.
"Let's go for breakfast. I asked for your favorite sandwich. Rye bread, two slices of ham, cheese, peppers, and onions. Right?"
I think a hamburger place opened in my kitchen. Apparently, they remembered the recipe I used to make and ordered it.
“Yes, I understand.”
“We kiss at night. I said I was wondering if it was possible to do it all night.”
I'm not curious. If that happens, your lips and the inside of your mouth might wear out, and you might lose the function of your mouth.
After breakfast, as I was finishing my dressing up, the maid came to inform me that the artist had just arrived. An elderly man wearing a beret and suspenders over a calico shirt was ushered into the drawing room.
A patch of gray hair stood out at his temples beneath his hat, and a thick beard of the same color grew on his square jaw.
He is said to be a long-time friend of Dr. Rugen, a fellow Frogen court painter, and currently resides in the capital of the Third Francian Republic, known as the flower of art and culture.
The doctor was also sitting in the armchair in the reception room. At first, he tilted his head and stared blankly at his old friend, but then he suddenly stood up as if he remembered something.
“Johannes Gunther, what’s going on here?”
“Didn’t you send me a letter of request? I guess you forgot.”
“Oh, right. I was going to commission a portrait of my grandchildren and their spouses.”
The painter looked at Noah and me with a hardened face, then smiled with wrinkled eyes.
“Yes, yes, I came from far away at your request.”
"Please take good care of my beloved grandson. The granddaughter-in-law I brought home is so smart. I heard she's an art major too."
Oops, that's actually a world-class major. Since there's no mention of universities here, I quickly corrected myself, thinking it was practically a lie.
"I didn't earn a degree in it; I'm just interested in it. I just draw on my own for practice."
"That's your major. Why should you have anything else? You can always go to college. One of my students is 40 years old."
The doctor replied with a scolding tone, shaking hands firmly with his old friend. The two friends, reunited after a long absence, sat across from each other on the sofa, exchanging pleasantries and chatting.
"Well, my grandson said he wanted to take care of this old man. Young people these days would probably be reluctant, wouldn't they?"
As the conversation continued, a mixture of puzzlement and sadness crossed the old painter's face. He slowly stood up, leaning on his knees.
“I guess I should go paint a portrait. Let’s have a drink, or rather tea, together later.”
“Yes.”
Dr. Rugen's wrinkled face seemed to be filled with joy for the first time in a long while. The painter, entering the separate room, sighed heavily and spoke.
“Since when has it been like that?”
“When I first found him, he was locked up in a concentration camp, and I think he’s been like that ever since. It must be because of the torture.”
The painter's eyes quickly turned red at Noah's indifferent reply. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his wrinkled hand and smiled sadly.
“I look forward to working with him in the future. He is my old friend.”
“Yeah. I saw you drawing it.”
Noah, who was always polite to everyone, nodded trustingly. Perhaps thinking it was a mischievous joke, the painter chuckled and took out his paintbrush and laid it out.
"Portraits of nobles emphasize dignity, so most prefer a static, upright pose. How about that?"
“I want to hold her hand.”
“Please do so.”
Standing still for long periods of time requires considerable stamina. As my legs began to tremble from the effort of maintaining an upright posture, the artist poked his head out from the canvas on his easel and looked at us.
“Now that the sketch is finished, you may sit down.”
I plopped down on the wooden chair that had been prepared in advance, twisting my back and neck this way and that. It was so sore I could die. The painter, who had been silently concentrating on his painting, asked me a question.
“Do you know where Benedict is? My real grandson.”
Noah stared blankly at the back of the canvas. The artist's figure was hidden behind the canvas.
“I think he’s dead.”
It was a nonchalant reply. The sound of mixing oil and oil paints on the palette stopped.
“...Is that so?”
His voice, filled with grief, flowed out like a sigh. He returned to his work.
In the still atmosphere, the soft sound of a mink brush tip brushing against the paper and a mournful sigh echoed endlessly across the canvas. The artist, rising from his seat when his time was up, forced a smile.
“I’ll come back to finish it.”
“Mr. Gunther, thank you for your hard work.”
He smiled warmly at my greeting, then said he would have tea with Dr. Rugen separately and headed to his room. Watching the two old men ascend the stairs, I was overcome with an inexplicable emotion.
A treatment for Alzheimer's disease that slows its progression won't be available until at least the late 20th century. Even in the world I lived in, there was no perfect cure.
Dr. Rugen's memories will gradually regress, traveling back in time as if he were a successful father, a promising young man, a brave boy, and then a newborn.
In that process of forgetting, he will forget those around him, and eventually, even himself. Where in the past is Dr. Rugen stuck now?
Strangely, he went back and forth between reality and the object, but he remembered only the promise of escorting me on the wedding road. And the faint scar on my cheek.
While I was busy preparing for the wedding, the wedding date was fast approaching. Surprisingly, everything went smoothly, without any interference from Erita.
Before her death, Elsa's testimony had implicated her in the kidnapping case, and perhaps because she had been singled out by the Queen, she seemed to be keeping a low profile.
It seemed like they were trying the obvious methods and means of approaching a strange man or woman to create misunderstandings between the two, but it didn't work for us, who weren't interested in others.
Mastiff didn't show any signs of movement either. However, with about three days left until the wedding, something truly unexpected happened.
The cruel-sounding name resonated loudly in my ears. I closed my eyes tightly, recalling the sharp sensation of the knife blade gliding across the back of my hand.
This woman... has such a poor eye for people that she could be in serious trouble. Does she even feel romantic feelings for a man who seems like he'd kill her halfway and then let her live?
I hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to say. No, I had nothing to say, so what was the point of worrying? Instead, I asked a question.
“You know what kind of person he is, right?”
“Yes, I know.”
Perhaps sensing the negative connotation, Ayla fiddled with the pure white maid's hat on her head, looking embarrassed.
“How did you know that person?”
“I knew he was running errands for the Princess... He is a good person.”
It's absurd. No matter how much I think about it, how can someone who proudly declares that torture is their hobby and murder is their specialty be a good person?
“He’s related to the Princess, so you never suspected anything?”
“I did. But he said he would help me, and the Princess doesn’t beat me or treat me badly like before.”
I couldn't hide my uneasy expression, as if I were watching a horror movie protagonist doing something he was told not to do or entering a sinister, abandoned house. "Okay, you figure it out. I have to figure out my own life."
Mastiff may seem like the epitome of madness, but there might be a hint of sanity hidden within. Even that psychopath would be warm to his woman.
“Yes, do your best.”
I gave a very fake smile and even showed a show of support, then quickly tried to leave.
Could it be that Mastiff is the reason that the innocent woman can't quit her job as a maid? It felt like she was being happily exploited, and I felt uneasy, but interfering would only lead to more exhaustion.
Didn't I get kidnapped by Mastiff for interfering in something I never did before? Who knows what you're planning to do with this woman?
I'm not used to helping others, and I don't want to make the same mistake again, letting my emotions get the better of me and overlooking common sense. I'm a very busy person. I need to hurry and get to my bed.
“It’s a thank-you gift. Congratulations on your wedding.”
Ayla suddenly approached me and placed something in my hand. A hair tie, seemingly handmade, gleamed with pink beads.
The palm holding the hair tie felt strangely ticklish. She was the kind of woman who made people uncomfortable.
"Come on over for a meal."
I figured attending the wedding would be fine. I handed her one of the invitations I'd brought, quickly turned around, got into Molly's waiting car, and headed home.
***
“Get up.”
A sweet, low-pitched voice, pleasant to the ear, woke me up. Is it morning already? I slept late last night and can't open my eyes.
No matter how famous a song is, the moment it becomes a wake-up call, it becomes the most unpleasant noise in the world. But why does that man's voice still sound so pleasant, as if he's wandering in a dream?
Who would wake up beautifully to the warm morning sunlight in a room filled with the fragrant scent of morning coffee and pure white bedding like clouds?
“Ugh...”
I squinted my eyes, hypersensitive to the dazzling sunlight, to the point of looking ferocious. Noah, visible through my narrow field of vision, was still dazzling, but I decided to leave it for later.
I pretended not to hear and lowered my eyes again, about to fall back to sleep, when Noah spoke again.
“It’s 10 o’clock, wake up.”
“What did you say!”
It's already 10 o'clock, the time the artist who was supposed to paint our portraits is due to arrive. I jumped to my feet and paced around the room, blaming the innocent man.
“Why didn’t you wake me up? You said you’d wake me up at 8.”
Noah, who was sitting on the edge of the bed in a cotton shirt and watching me struggle, smiled happily.
Feeling cheated, I quickly turned my head and looked at the desk clock. The hands were accurately pointing to 7:30.
“It’s 7:30?”
When I looked at Noah with a bewildered look, he covered his mouth and let out a loud laugh.
“Yeah. I wanted to eat breakfast and get ready leisurely.”
"...Ha."
He stopped me from falling back down on the bed, picked me up, and threw me into the bathroom.
“Go wash up, Princess.”
Let me out! I still have 30 minutes left! Give me back my 30 minutes! I finally filled the bathtub, rubbing my cold eyes.
I don't even know how I washed it, but somehow I finished the shower, towel-dried my hair, and left the bathroom. Noah, who looked as fluffy as well-dried laundry in the sun, sat on the edge of the bed and looked at me.
“Are you done washing?”
"Yes."
“Come here.”
What else are you going to do? I sat down next to him, my eyes filled with disbelief. He smelled as fluffy as he looked. Noah raised a slender finger and pointed to his lips.
As I stare at him, a tenacity slowly takes over his blue eyes. I think it's a request for a kiss.
What do you want me to do? I can't follow this man's wishes, who's stolen 30 minutes of my sleep.
"Why?"
“Please do it first.”
"No, I do not want."
The corners of his eyes drooped sadly. He was deliberately trying to look as pitiful as possible.
“I woke you up early because I wanted to kiss you. Are you mad?”
“Why wake me up 30 minutes early when it would have only taken 5 minutes?”
“5 minutes?”
A faint smile formed at the corners of the man's lips, which were both pitiful and pitiful.
“It takes longer than that. In fact, I can do it all night.”
He's so blatant about making such a bold statement that it'll stain my face the same shade. Ah, it's because of that voice and that decadent look. That neat outfit is truly obscene.
A neat shirt button is a desirable visual device that evokes the urge to roughly grab it and rip it off.
“How can I stay up all night... kissing.”
I almost forgot the subject, so I quickly added it. He tilted his head to one side, scrutinizing me with his natural, innocent eyes. It made me feel pity, as if I were the only one who had fallen, as if I had aged and become rotten.
He smiled sweetly, grabbed my hand, pulled me closer, and kissed me on the corner of my eye.
"Let's go for breakfast. I asked for your favorite sandwich. Rye bread, two slices of ham, cheese, peppers, and onions. Right?"
I think a hamburger place opened in my kitchen. Apparently, they remembered the recipe I used to make and ordered it.
“Yes, I understand.”
“We kiss at night. I said I was wondering if it was possible to do it all night.”
I'm not curious. If that happens, your lips and the inside of your mouth might wear out, and you might lose the function of your mouth.
***
After breakfast, as I was finishing my dressing up, the maid came to inform me that the artist had just arrived. An elderly man wearing a beret and suspenders over a calico shirt was ushered into the drawing room.
A patch of gray hair stood out at his temples beneath his hat, and a thick beard of the same color grew on his square jaw.
He is said to be a long-time friend of Dr. Rugen, a fellow Frogen court painter, and currently resides in the capital of the Third Francian Republic, known as the flower of art and culture.
The doctor was also sitting in the armchair in the reception room. At first, he tilted his head and stared blankly at his old friend, but then he suddenly stood up as if he remembered something.
“Johannes Gunther, what’s going on here?”
“Didn’t you send me a letter of request? I guess you forgot.”
“Oh, right. I was going to commission a portrait of my grandchildren and their spouses.”
The painter looked at Noah and me with a hardened face, then smiled with wrinkled eyes.
“Yes, yes, I came from far away at your request.”
"Please take good care of my beloved grandson. The granddaughter-in-law I brought home is so smart. I heard she's an art major too."
Oops, that's actually a world-class major. Since there's no mention of universities here, I quickly corrected myself, thinking it was practically a lie.
"I didn't earn a degree in it; I'm just interested in it. I just draw on my own for practice."
"That's your major. Why should you have anything else? You can always go to college. One of my students is 40 years old."
The doctor replied with a scolding tone, shaking hands firmly with his old friend. The two friends, reunited after a long absence, sat across from each other on the sofa, exchanging pleasantries and chatting.
"Well, my grandson said he wanted to take care of this old man. Young people these days would probably be reluctant, wouldn't they?"
As the conversation continued, a mixture of puzzlement and sadness crossed the old painter's face. He slowly stood up, leaning on his knees.
“I guess I should go paint a portrait. Let’s have a drink, or rather tea, together later.”
“Yes.”
Dr. Rugen's wrinkled face seemed to be filled with joy for the first time in a long while. The painter, entering the separate room, sighed heavily and spoke.
“Since when has it been like that?”
“When I first found him, he was locked up in a concentration camp, and I think he’s been like that ever since. It must be because of the torture.”
The painter's eyes quickly turned red at Noah's indifferent reply. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his wrinkled hand and smiled sadly.
“I look forward to working with him in the future. He is my old friend.”
“Yeah. I saw you drawing it.”
Noah, who was always polite to everyone, nodded trustingly. Perhaps thinking it was a mischievous joke, the painter chuckled and took out his paintbrush and laid it out.
"Portraits of nobles emphasize dignity, so most prefer a static, upright pose. How about that?"
“I want to hold her hand.”
“Please do so.”
Standing still for long periods of time requires considerable stamina. As my legs began to tremble from the effort of maintaining an upright posture, the artist poked his head out from the canvas on his easel and looked at us.
“Now that the sketch is finished, you may sit down.”
I plopped down on the wooden chair that had been prepared in advance, twisting my back and neck this way and that. It was so sore I could die. The painter, who had been silently concentrating on his painting, asked me a question.
“Do you know where Benedict is? My real grandson.”
Noah stared blankly at the back of the canvas. The artist's figure was hidden behind the canvas.
“I think he’s dead.”
It was a nonchalant reply. The sound of mixing oil and oil paints on the palette stopped.
“...Is that so?”
His voice, filled with grief, flowed out like a sigh. He returned to his work.
In the still atmosphere, the soft sound of a mink brush tip brushing against the paper and a mournful sigh echoed endlessly across the canvas. The artist, rising from his seat when his time was up, forced a smile.
“I’ll come back to finish it.”
“Mr. Gunther, thank you for your hard work.”
He smiled warmly at my greeting, then said he would have tea with Dr. Rugen separately and headed to his room. Watching the two old men ascend the stairs, I was overcome with an inexplicable emotion.
A treatment for Alzheimer's disease that slows its progression won't be available until at least the late 20th century. Even in the world I lived in, there was no perfect cure.
Dr. Rugen's memories will gradually regress, traveling back in time as if he were a successful father, a promising young man, a brave boy, and then a newborn.
In that process of forgetting, he will forget those around him, and eventually, even himself. Where in the past is Dr. Rugen stuck now?
Strangely, he went back and forth between reality and the object, but he remembered only the promise of escorting me on the wedding road. And the faint scar on my cheek.
***
While I was busy preparing for the wedding, the wedding date was fast approaching. Surprisingly, everything went smoothly, without any interference from Erita.
Before her death, Elsa's testimony had implicated her in the kidnapping case, and perhaps because she had been singled out by the Queen, she seemed to be keeping a low profile.
It seemed like they were trying the obvious methods and means of approaching a strange man or woman to create misunderstandings between the two, but it didn't work for us, who weren't interested in others.
Mastiff didn't show any signs of movement either. However, with about three days left until the wedding, something truly unexpected happened.
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