"Sorry!"
Faced with Minuet's interrogation, I blurted out an apology before anything else.
But, of course, that didn’t solve anything.
"For what?"
"Uh...?"
"Sure, there's plenty you could be sorry for. First, you went and got yourself accused of necromancy. Then, without a word, you vanished. Later, you showed up at the imperial ball unannounced, deceived the emperor, and proclaid your own innocence—without consulting anyone, I might add. And then, you disappeared again, only for to find out through the intelligence network that you were sleeping at the duke’s estate."
Her words piled onto my shoulders one by one, heavy and relentless.
By the ti she finished, I had instinctively shrunk my neck like a turtle and muttered a weak excuse.
"Well, I had my reasons for all that—"
"But what I want to hear isn’t an apology."
"Th-Then...?"
"Do you want to break off the engagent?"
I froze at Minuet’s abrupt question.
...Huh?
"I’m not joking. The more ti you spend with the duke, the more you seem to be falling apart. No matter what he does, I’ll handle it, so just go ahead—end it."
"Um..."
"What? You’re not even considering it?"
I was stunned.
I had heard sothing similar from Gavotte, but I thought it was just part of so grand emotional gesture—not that she was actually serious.
Honestly, I had no particular reason to insist on maintaining my engagent with Cruello, but at the sa ti, I had no pressing reason to end it, either.
With all the new problems I was dealing with, I didn’t exactly have the luxury to think about it.
"Wait... don’t tell you actually like the duke?"
"W-What?! No! What kind of ridiculous nonsense—!"
I shouted at the top of my lungs.
Liking Cruello would be borderline criminal.
When I first possessed Amy, my original self had just barely reached adulthood.
How could I possibly fall for soone I’d known since childhood? That would be beyond unethical.
Not to ntion, this isn’t even my real body, and I still have to return to the temple—so it’s absolutely out of the question.
...Then why do I feel like I’m making excuses the more I think about it?
Minuet narrowed her eyes at , clearly unconvinced.
"Then... you’re saying you have circumstances that force you to stay involved with the duke?"
"Sothing like that."
"And once all this is over, you won’t need to be around him anymore?"
"Probably."
"Good. Then, when the ti cos, call it off."
Her gaze was filled with unwavering resolve, demanding an answer.
"No matter how I look at it, the more ti you spend with the duke, the more °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° danger you seem to be in. Fine, I don’t know the full story. But the duke is completely fine."
"Well, actually, Cruello did get his shoulder pierced this ti."
"You were unconscious for a week."
I had no coback for that.
"You're the only one getting hurt. Even if you're not in a romantic relationship, is that the kind of person you can imagine spending your life with?"
"It’s not like I’m set on marrying him."
"Then that’s settled. Just let know when you're ready, and I’ll handle the procedures."
"Alright, alright. But Minuet."
"What?"
"Didn’t you originally want to marry Cruello? Even aside from replacing you in the engagent, wouldn’t it be beneficial to Bonetti?"
Gavotte had always been dead set against Cruello, but I didn’t understand why Minuet had changed her stance.
Sure, she owed a favor for certain things, but considering the risk of provoking White Desert, this response seed excessive.
She stared at in silence.
The longer the pause stretched, the more I regretted bringing it up.
And then—
"Siora Bonetti."
"...Yeah?"
"At this point, I know you’ll just laugh if I start talking about you being part of Bonetti."
She let out an exasperated sigh.
"But I have feelings too, you know. I have things I care about."
"Uh..."
"You go around spouting ‘family this, family that’ to Bati, but what about ?"
That...
I covered my mouth with my hand.
Before I could say anything, Minuet sighed again.
She pointed at the door, making it clear that the conversation was over.
"Enough. Get out."
I hesitated before slowly making my way toward the office door.
"You said you're eting the duke this afternoon. Take the Bonetti carriage when you go."
"Got it."
"..."
"..."
"...Why are you still standing there?"
"You know, what you just said—basically, you’re saying you’re worried sick about , right?"
"What?"
Minuet raised her head, looking utterly incredulous, but even as her sharp gaze bore into , I couldn’t suppress the grin creeping onto my face.
Her expression grew colder by the second.
I shouldn’t be laughing.
But honestly? I was happy.
I never expected to hear sothing like that from Minuet.
Aside from Cruello, it was rare for anyone to worry about .
And for the first ti... it felt like I actually had a real family.
Before Minuet could call Presto on , I threw open the office door.
"Don’t worry! I take ridiculously good care of myself. I’ll be fine—alive and in one piece!"
"Siora Bonetti."
"If you’re worried, just say it outright. Stop beating around the bush. I’m not the best at reading between the lines, you know. Next ti, just tell straight up—with love and kindness."
"Siora Bonetti!"
"Alright, alright, sis. Love you too!"
I bolted out of the office before she could kill .
Thankfully, she didn’t open the door and chase after .
I felt great.
Still grinning, I lifted my head—only to lock eyes with Gavotte.
Judging by his expression, he had overheard at least part of the conversation.
"You... don’t tell ..."
"If you’re about to ask if I’ve lost my mind, save that for Cruello."
"No, I was going to ask if you slept with the duke."
This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.
"Stop making up new words."
Ugh, and I was in such a good mood.
Grumbling under my breath, I walked past Gavotte.
Then, suddenly struck by a thought, I whirled around and called out.
"Wait—Gavotte! What's today's snack?"
***
How long had it been since I last set foot in my own room?
I was actually a little emotional.
Of course, what I missed the most was my bedroom, but that would have to wait until nightfall.
I settled onto the sofa and placed the tray Betty had given onto the table in front of .
On the ornate plate, lemon-colored macarons glowed like tiny golden treasures.
It would’ve been delightful to just pop one into my mouth and bask in bliss—but unfortunately, they weren’t mine.
They were an offering to Pebula.
"Sigh."
Pressing my hands together, I closed my eyes.
How long had it been since my last prayer?
Trying to count back the years made my head spin, so I gave up entirely.
It had been long enough that I figured Pebula deserved at least a macaron.
Besides, the temple elders had already emptied my account, so surely, this much should be forgiven.
I was a poor, penniless follower, after all.
"Pebula, you may not be my only god... but you are, at the very least, the one whose follower has managed to survive the longest. So, to you, the great and mighty one, I offer my prayer."
I am currently facing a great trial and have begun to doubt you.
As pure and innocent as freshly fallen snow, I once believed in your na, but I now wonder—was I rely deceived by the brainwashing of my predecessors?
Could it be that beneath your divine presence, there lies the sa wickedness that would accept soone like Nigellia as a disciple?
I beg of you, answer the doubts of this lost lamb, O Pebula.
I have recently learned that your closest servant was the founding leader of a necromancer cult.
Why did you grant such imnse power to a man like that?
Or—did you, perhaps, strip him of that power in the end, punishing him for his corruption?
If so, would it not be reasonable to provide with so clarification?
Surely, you do not ignore simply because I am not your only follower? Do others pray to you daily and offer extravagant tributes?
You remain silent.
If sweets are not to your taste, then the proper thing to do would be to send down a sign and make your preferences known. Otherwise, one might worry that you demand expensive offerings despite knowing my circumstances.
And if—by chance—your preference leans toward human sacrifices, then perhaps it is ti you relinquish your divine status—
"Hm."
Maybe it’s because I haven’t prayed in so long, but the longer I go on, the more it starts sounding like blasphemy.
Feeling slightly guilty, I opened my eyes.
Since I had my eyes shut for a while, my vision was a little hazy as it gradually ca into focus.
Once it did, I saw the plate.
And the macarons.
"Nom."
I reached out and tossed one into my mouth.
There’s no such thing as a one-sided favor in this world. No answer, no offering.
"Forget it! I’m done."
I flopped onto the couch, lying face-down.
Honestly, wasn’t this sothing Pebula needed to explain to ?
They had no problem sending revelations when they wanted to tornt , but when I needed answers, they suddenly decided to go silent?
"Oh, right, you want to save the world! Then shouldn’t I get so benefits?! If you won’t answer, at least give sothing! You haven’t faded into oblivion already, have you?"
Then again, thinking back, this was the sa cold-hearted deity who shoved into a child’s body without so much as a single revelation.
Yet, for things that didn’t matter, they still made sure to send divine ssages just to bother .
"If this keeps up, I’m converting to magic worship. I will do it."
I whined at the empty air.
Obviously, I didn’t expect a response.
Even back when I lived at the temple, I’d tried this countless tis, and not once had I received an answer.
It was just a petty tantrum.
But then—
"Hgh!"
For a brief mont, my entire field of vision shifted into a different color.
I shot up from the couch, but the strange sight lasted only a fraction of a second.
Even so, the image burned into my mind with striking clarity.
"Julian... Minerva?"
There was no mistake.
The soft pink hair. The gentle expression.
The problem was—I had no idea what this ant.
There were no divine words. Was this supposed to count as a revelation? What?
"Excuse ? So what exactly am I supposed to do with this?"
I cautiously tested the waters, but there was no reply.
"Am I supposed to kill him? Save him? Or—wait, are you saying that he’s the fallen saint?"
I slipped off the couch and knelt down properly, folding my hands.
This ti, I made sure to adjust my tone into sothing more reverent.
"Pebula? Would you like a macaron? Which color? Lemon? Purple?"
Still nothing.
...You’re not playing tricks on , are you?
Surely a god isn’t that bored?
Just as unease crept up my spine, I heard it.
A stifled laugh.
I turned my head.
The window was wide open.
And perched on the windowsill, covering his mouth, was Cruello.
...I swear to god, I really am converting.
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