Cider lit a cigarette and fell into thought. Paoran smoke scattered through the window. Like campfire smoke lit in hunting grounds.
When hunting season ca, father would leave ho and hunt loads of deer and foxes. Mother, who was the epito of a lady, always recoiled, but he didn't care.
Cider, who had been conscripted since age thirteen for being the heir, had no interest in hunting itself and was always dragged along reluctantly. Mother, who pretended to stop it, locked herself in her room to save only herself.
That year was the third year Cider had been dragged to hunting. By then, he was a sixteen-year-old boy who had a height far exceeding the average adult male and the physique befitting a hunter's son, but didn't hide his indifference to hunting performance. Gray eyes rolled to look at father's profile.
"What should I catch to make your mother a fur coat? Sable?"
Unlike his attitude of muttering sable-like nonsense, his posture holding the gun had the discipline of a military man, and in his serious, shining profile, one could glimpse the beauty that had turned high society upside down just by appearing twenty years ago. But his only audience was just waiting indifferently for this boring trip to end.
"She won't wear whatever you make. Just let her buy and wear what she wants."
"Does your mother even buy her own clothes? She always buys doll clothes for those stick-like maids."
"Because that's mother's hobby."
"Everything's a hobby. Uselessly."
Cider thought father's hobby wasn't particularly productive either, but tactfully kept his mouth shut. It was consideration from the only family mber with a productive hobby.
"Mother thinks you're too short and fat for any clothes to suit you."
"What's wrong with your mother? She's much better than those stick-like maids. In that ti, she should take care of her own clothes and jewelry more."
Father's biggest problem was that he was saying this to his innocent son instead of the person concerned.
"Father, you also co out for a whole month to hunt, which mother hates."
'Dragging
along too.'
The boy said resentfully, stuffing his complaints inside. Father leaned back and burst into loud laughter.
"If I don't co out using hunting as an excuse, wouldn't your mother freely do those useless hobbies or etings with worthless people?"
Is that so? Father seed like a naive fool at tis, but could be sharp. However, even when he seed sharp, he was soone who ultimately missed what was important. This ti was the sa.
When father, successful in hunting, dismantled a deer with magnificent antlers, gave the head to a taxidermist, skinned it and returned, an epidemic had already swept through all of Riton. Avondale couldn't escape its influence either. Mother, who had originally been weak, beca even more frail and couldn't live more than another month.
It was a love story filled with nothing but failure from beginning to end. Father's love, which was only about giving space using hobbies as an excuse, never reached mother until the end. So much so that his reputation as high society's greatest heartthrob seed aningless.
It was understandable. Would mother have known that was love? If he wanted recognition, he should have shown it.
Father probably had the sa thought facing dying mother. He should have shown it more, if it was going to end like this anyway. He would have regretted it the entire month mother was ill. The problematic deer mount appeared on the very day mother died.
That dawn was arguably the worst day in Cider Claiborne's peaceful, smooth life.
Thunder and lightning struck. The old mansion's windows rattled endlessly, and the boy with a still young heart felt the aura of death filling the mansion.
Mother breathed her last before sunrise that day. And when morning dawned, the deer mount father had commissioned from the craftsman arrived. As if they had exchanged mother for the mount.
It was a coincidence. However, for soone with a wounded heart, even small coincidences are as absolute as fate. The voice of father crying to imdiately remove that ugly thing from his sight was vivid.
He tried Paoran for the first ti that day. Sitting looking at the dusky sky like now, he lit up alone. After finishing an entire cigarette, he went into the laboratory to prepare new research and emptied his mind. Perhaps because he had ntally prepared during the month mother was ill, he recovered faster than expected.
And perhaps because he had tried it once, four years later, father's death was cleanly overco with one cigarette. If father had known, he would have dragged him to hunting grounds asking if he was discriminating, but what would the departed know?
If he had rambled on about this story right there after seeing the deer mount, Esperanza would have watched his mood worrying he might be hurt and would have quickly offered her embrace if he acted weak. Though she doesn't seem to know it herself, Esperanza had also softened considerably compared to when they first t.
But his upbringing lacked nothing particularly. He was just soone slightly more goal-oriented than average, and that was entirely genetic. Though these days he was rarely enjoying the process.
It was just unfortunate that he didn't have destructive anecdotes that would entertain Esperanza.
Cider roughly stubbed out the Paoran cigarette he hadn't taken a single puff from. Sothing much better than this trifle could be heard passing through the corridor.
Footsteps outside the door. So quiet they couldn't be heard without intense concentration, yet with a unique rhythm audible if one listened carefully. Where was she going?
When that sound beca too distant to hear, he turned the doorknob without hesitation.
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At midnight, Esperanza quietly left with only a lamp. The spare key she had received from Mrs. Denver in advance jingled in her hand.
'He said he resembled his father.'
The hall connected to the ceremonial room open to the public displayed not only portraits but also paintings and sculptures by various masters. The portraits of successive counts and countesses hung along one wall of the hall. Only thirteen counts and four more countesses. There were no portraits of children who weren't heirs.
Yellow light fell on the naplate reading "1st Count Avondale" then rcilessly disappeared. Passing ten portraits from there, she encountered two more Cider Claibornes. Then she stood before the portrait of the 12th Count Avondale, Maurice Claiborne.
Up close the painting wasn't clearly visible due to size, from far away due to brightness. The mont Esperanza raised the lamp high to see the painting that only showed a vague outline more clearly, suddenly the entire hall beca bright.
Lights ca on in every chandelier. In the middle of the hall bright as midday, Esperanza lowered her hand holding the lamp awkwardly. Under the bright lighting, the portrait's appearance finally ca completely into view.
"...Wow, really handso."
"What did you say?"
Cider, who had approached with large steps, stood blocking Esperanza's front and asked. Esperanza lightly stepped back and raised her head again.
"Really handso."
"That person is our father."
"That's what I'm saying. He resembles you, really looks exactly the sa..."
But really handso. She felt like she might be entranced.
"He was already forty then. You definitely said you didn't want to be involved with a man over forty."
"Who said anything about being involved? But really handso."
She was repeating the sa words for the third ti. Cider irritably covered Esperanza's eyes. His large hand completely covered her face.
"Don't look."
"Ah, why? I ca all the way here at this hour to see the portrait."
"It's annoying."
"Move aside."
Esperanza pulled Cider's hands down, then held both his hands together in case he tried to cover her eyes again, before giving her attention to the painting.
"Really..."
"Try saying 'handso' one more ti."
Though he was said to be over forty, he looked at most mid-thirties. With the sa face, Cider Claiborne seed like an elegant yet mysteriously wicked gentleman, while his father looked like—if not rude to say—a blonde pretty boy with innocent beauty.
Judging by the props, his height seed close to 2 ters, and his limbs were packed tight with muscle. To the extent that one might think Cider's physique being maintained despite practically living in the laboratory was entirely genetic. A dieval knight's body with bright blue eyes without a shadow of darkness. A confident smile.
"The smile resembles you."
The laugh that seed to not doubt in the slightest that his own thoughts were wrong was identical.
"What kind of person was he?"
"Why, interested it seems?"
A sulky counter-question ca back. Esperanza clicked her tongue. She was interested. Of course not that kind of interest. It was interest in Cider Claiborne's father.
Speaking strictly according to general theory, geniuses are originally difficult to raise. This would be even more so in this era when knowledge about cognitive developnt was virtually nonexistent.
'If you thought of sothing like the unfortunate childhood of a genius no one understands, you're wrong.'
Seeing that he had said such things, Cider seed to have been on the lucky side. ...Or not? As the image of Cider covering the mount ca to mind, her certainty weakened slightly. She hesitantly opened her mouth.
"It seems I've hardly heard father stories."
Mother stories were also only passing remarks while handing over wardrobes and jewelry.
"Ordinary. When young he was apparently sowhat famous in high society, after marriage he lived as a gentle husband. He was more enthusiastic about estate and parliant work than I was, and was a hunting fanatic."
"And dragged you hunting?"
"It was father's way of expressing affection. Though what use is affection expressed in ways the other party doesn't welco."
Cider said this thinking of the deer mount, but Esperanza's eyes narrowed, filled with criticism of the heartless son. Cider laughed lightly, saying it wasn't what she was thinking.
Esperanza pretended not to know and turned her gaze. Next to the dazzling portrait of the previous count, a modest woman's portrait belatedly caught her eye. Emilia Florence Claiborne. It would be Cider's mother.
She didn't resemble Cider at all. Neither in her small, plump figure nor her clear, kind but unremarkable face could any trace of the flawlessly beautiful Cider Claiborne be found. However, her vivid gray eyes caught attention. Eyes that sparkled with mischief even in the portrait.
Betting poker, strange hobbies, the comnt that his personality resembled his mother.
Esperanza took her eyes off the portrait and looked up at the gray eyes of the man standing right beside her. Those who looked at his mother's portrait together with an indifferent face, then reflexively smiled warmly when their eyes t—that pair of gray eyes.
His eyes were the spitting image of his mother's.
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