Seiko’s voices knew Prince Jukazu lied about his brother’s ’abrupt leave.’ Lord Gin seemed to have suspicions, but Lady Keichiro dismissed it as Prince Teiki’s choice; especially with the death of his father being so recent, he would run if he came across trouble. They credited his uncharacteristic silence and avoidance to guilt, mourning, or shock; in that way, him leaving to search for his father’s murderers was the best way they could think of letting him cope.

Miss Shiharu, when Seiko saw her, looked more worried—a few times over the week, Seiko passed her while the older woman was going to Lord Gin’s study. She murmured a few concerns over meals, mentioned that Prince Dazuki got a little more fussy without his older half-brother.

Nine days after Prince Teiki left, his voice was added to their chorus. Of course… Why would he care if I died? “Don’t be stupid…” I didn’t have a choice, and he knew it. I’m sure he did.

The next three days were mostly spent in her room, the voices’ conversation—about death, about Prince Jukazu, about ‘control’ and ‘purpose’—drowning out everything else. A room full of people chattered on, but didn’t want her input. She couldn’t do anything but listen.

They quieted down long enough on the fourth day for her to help with Princess Maenomi’s morning routine and eat breakfast, then nearly made her collapse when they suddenly laughed once she made it back to her room.

Seiko laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, as Prince Teiki’s voice argued with the rest. Each syllable brought a sharp pain.

Everyone dies.

Even her?

Even her.

Why not kill her now, then?

She will be the last. The final one of us to die.

And if she isn’t?

Then the cycle will last, on and on, until sacrifice is made.

Someone knocked on the door and the coherent conversation ended, replaced by consistent murmurings that still hurt but she could ignore them more easily.

“Are you awake, Tsujihara?” Miss Shiharu. That made sense.

“Yes.” It sounded weaker than she preferred, but Miss Shiharu must have heard.

“May I come in?”

“Quietly, preferably.”

Miss Shiharu opened the door slowly. Seiko tilted her head to watch her; the woman sat next to Seiko’s bed and put a little bottle on the table next to it.

“Sit up for me, please. Lord Gin wanted me to give you some medicine now that you have some food in you; it should help dull the migraine’s symptoms.”

The pain and sensitivity were only parts of the issue, but she appreciated the concern; her voices, on the other hand, scoffed at it. Seiko pulled herself up so she leaned on the wall, albeit with a wince.

“Most employers would have found a replacement,” Seiko noted.

Miss Shiharu picked up the bottle again and uncapped it.

“The children have gone through enough loss as it is. Finding a new aide for Maenomi will be hard on its own, but the rest of the children need to be considered as well. Not many have the talent that you do to keep them entertained.”

Seiko knew the answer, but she asked a question anyway. “Did something happen to Prince Teiki?”

“…He won’t be coming back.”

I’m sorry, his voice murmured. Then, it grew violent. I would have returned if Jukazu let me.

Miss Shiharu gave Seiko the bottle before she could express any condolences. The liquid reminded her of Mikka’s medication; odorless, colorless. It lacked any taste when Seiko drank it.

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“Go ahead and rest,” Miss Shiharu said kindly. “And don’t worry—no one will send you home unless you’re ready to leave, so long as Lord Gin is here.”

Seiko murmured some kind of agreement and laid back down. Miss Shiharu took the empty bottle and left her to her voices. She managed to sleep now that they were muddled, still painful and troubling but in a way she could handle.

…

The voices were oddly quiet during Prince Teiki’s funeral. They burned and buried the body before the younger children could see it; judging by the way he appeared when Seiko dreamt of the voices, it wasn’t a pretty sight—something they couldn’t cover with bandages and clothes. They wanted to maintain whatever innocence they could.

The youngest few—Prince Chiki and the ones below him—couldn’t even fully grasp that their father was dead. And now they have two family members that they’ll never see again.

Yet Seiko stood there, with her head bowed in respect while the others murmured apologies or praised Prince Teiki’s actions, and she could hear them. The king’s voice wasn’t as clear anymore, distorted and broken like the rest, but Prince Teiki’s was still perfectly audible. She could understand every word as Prince Jukazu gave a grand speech in front of his brother’s portrait.

“He knew what he was getting into,” Prince Jukazu said.

At least he could feign some remorse, Prince Teiki’s voice scoffed. But he isn’t meeting Mother’s gaze, nor is he even looking near Shiharu.

“I tried to talk him out of it, but he was sure.”

Ha! I knew it. He wants to prey on their sympathies.

“...We fell out after Father’s death. I…regret, to say the least, that I had to part with him so soon. There was still a lot he couldn’t do—a lot I couldn’t help him with. If I could change the way or time he died, I would.”

All of the voices prepared to mock him, but they paused. Their whisper was more chilling than if they had screamed it: He’s genuine.

How? Prince Teiki’s voice asked, growing louder. He sent me off—practically gave me a death mission! He can’t be sorry, he’ll never be sorry!

It goes against our nature to regret, the other voices agreed.

Seiko shivered, stepping back to lean on the wall as her breath caught and she half-coughed at the sudden lack of air.

Your nature, perhaps, a voice—female, strong, echoing in her mind in a way no other voice did—said. But he is still human.

Barely, Prince Teiki’s voice retorted. He killed his own father. He asked me to leave, knowing I would die. Would you call that ‘human?’

His nature is exactly to be expected. Flawed, misguided, but usually trying their best. He’s doing what he sees is ‘right,’ even if it’s wrong. You, on the other hand, only want what’s worse—you’re a cruelty, to the dead and the living.

The voice faded and Seiko could breathe again, trying not to take in air quickly enough to draw attention. In the silence after Prince Jukazu’s speech, however, she failed; Miss Shiharu immediately noticed and frowned.

“I told you she wasn’t ready yet,” she hissed to Lord Gin.

“She deserves to be here,” Lord Gin replied. He gave a second’s glance at Seiko—he tried to hide some form of concern, himself.

“You’ll drive her away at this rate. She needs rest.”

Before Seiko could speak up in her own defense, Prince Kyuru sniffed and looked up at his father.

“Is Miss Tsujihara gonna leave, too?”

No one answered him for a second; Princess Maenomi spared a worried look in Seiko’s direction, while the other adults avoided looking at the boy. Lord Gin turned towards Seiko, his frown deepening as he observed her, then looked back at Prince Kyuru.

“I would like to hope she’ll be here for a long time,” Lord Gin ultimately said. “And even if she leaves one day, I hope she’ll come back to visit you.”

“Because she’s such a good governess?” Prince Kyuru guessed.

Because you’re special, the voices wanted him to say.

Lord Gin sighed, ignoring Seiko again. “...Because I know her mother will be heartbroken if Miss Tsujihara never came back to see how much you’ve grown.”

Prince Kyuru seemed to take it at face value—that Seiko’s mother would want her daughter to spent time with the royal children, even if she had to move back home for her own safety—but Seiko understood the finer meaning even without the voices telling her.

Seiko made herself a friend of sorts of Princess Maenomi, made herself a part of the children’s schedules; if she went home, they would still beg for her to see them. Naturally, she would oblige, if only for the half-siblings and cousins she just now started to bond with. But if Seiko left and never returned, then she would be dead.

Honestly, with the way the voices were treating her now, it was scarily easy to imagine the possibility.

Consider it this way, her voices murmured. She spoke to us. That means it’s almost over—one way or another, you’ll be free of us soon.