7 : 224 : 14 : 34 : 16

Mr Aimes is still breathing, with no broken bones. Just a plain old concussion, nothing a bit of spiritual healing wouldn’t fix. I don’t actually know any healing magic and have no affinity for it, but if you pour enough mana into a person, it slightly accelerates their natural recovery rate. Just don't give them too much or they'll get sick instead. Balance is the key. In many cases, putting on a little magic show and saying, “I’ve fixed you,” is enough to fix a person. Mr Aimes should still become a functional member of society after a day’s rest.

Unfortunately, he's left feeling slightly lightheaded after Lieselot’s totally disproportionate, excessive use of force, so some way of compensation seems due. See, what unbelievable character growth, how I’ve become able to recognize such things? So, hoping to avoid a tussle with the town guard, I offer to go and pay Mr Aimes’s debt for him. Not from my own pockets, for Pete’s sake, but I’ll take the money for him.

The Aimeses are naive—I mean, broad-minded enough to agree, and everything ends in smiles.

Great. Now I have a letter that needs to be delivered, and a bagful of coins that needs to be delivered, I damn nearly killed an innocent civilian, my heart's still racing, and this day sure got off to a splendid beginning.

So we leave the bakery and stroll down the street looking for the house of Herman Gottfield, Mr Aimes's debtor.

“How was I supposed to know?” Liselot complains. “He looked like a bad guy!”

I may be new around here, but how come you didn’t recognize Mrs Aimes’s husband? Maybe we both ought to get out some more? I have to agree with the assessment, though.

“Well, he does look sort of sketchy.”

“We didn’t even get the tart!”

“You should be glad Mrs Aimes didn’t bake your face in, after what we did. Do you have any idea where this Monsieur Herman lives?”

“Nope.”

Of course not. Why did I even ask? If this girl doesn’t know what her favorite baker’s man looks like, how could she know where a random nobody has his house? I know my expectations for 13-year-olds are much too high.

“Guess we’ve no choice but to ask around. You know anybody around here who might know the way?”

“No,” Liselot denies again, barely listening.

“Seriously, you’ve lived all your life in this valley and you know practically nothing about the people a stone’s throw from your house?”

“Dad says I shouldn’t talk to strangers.”

“They’re not strangers. They’re your neighbors.”

“I don’t know who they are. That makes them strangers to me.”

“...”

Flawless logic. I concede defeat.

“Well,” I say, “thanks to your overprotective daddy, we’re going to have to waste this picture-perfect morning asking around like idiots, hoping one of these so-called strangers can help us.”

Lieselot pouts as I scold her, pursing her lips like a duck. She strides on with a highly unladylike posture and lack of refinement, arms up and hands behind the head. I’m starting to develop this weird understanding for what granny goes through, so we should stop this.

But it sure is a nice day.

Morelieu is one of those special places where you don’t mind getting lost.

The sunlit street in front of us curves along the natural shapes of the land, dressed in round little cobblestones through which fresh blades of grass poke up. A slanted poppy by the path throws its cool shadow across the drive lane as it lies framed by the orange-painted walls of the nearby apartment buildings. Little birds chirp spiritedly among the tree leaves. An old retiree sits in the open doorway of one house, reading a newspaper. Across the street in a second-floor window a housewife dusts a blanket, showering us with small stones, dust, and dried crumbs. A young guy passes us by, jogging with youthful vigor. Now this is life.

“Hey,” I say to my friend, suddenly feeling uncharacteristically generous. “After we deliver all this crap, I’ll get you that tart.”

Liselot’s face brightens up immediately, as if to rival the sun. “Really, you will, Zero?”

“Sure. I should have that much saved up…”

How expensive can one pastry be?

I reach for my bag, just to check how much of my allowance is left.

“...Huh?” My hands swings in empty air.

Here I thought I felt weirdly light.

I had my money purse in my side bag, but now I suddenly don’t have a side bag anymore, and no purse either. I’m pretty sure I still had it with me when we left the bakery. I couldn’t forget about my key accessory, after how much trouble the character designer had with it.

“What the hell...?” I stop and turn back, to see if I dropped it somewhere on the road, but there’s nothing resembling my favorite bag anywhere in view. I think I would’ve noticed if it fell.

“Zero!” Liselot taps my shoulder and I spin around.

My friend points ahead, at the young man running now a good distance ahead of us. He holds something tightly to his chest, as if to hide it, a small package, or...Under his arm I see the flicker of a cut, white shoulder strap. A strap that belongs to a very trendy bag. I think that white-dyed leather would go great with my cardigan, I should ask where he got it—

“——WAIT, THAT’S MY FUCKING BAG!”

The very bag with not only my own purse, but also the Aimes family’s quest money in it.

This time, it’s most definitely not a funny misunderstanding! I’ve been robbed!

I thought this place knew no true crime, but here I stand, betrayed by my baseless faith in humanity once again.

Half a beat later, Lieselot and I dash after the fleeing scoundrel.

“STOP RIGHT THERE! STOP! YES, YOU, YOU BASTARD! I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME! STOP!”

Do you have any idea how much that bag cost!? I had to save up four months’ allowance to buy it! Whatever our dumb creed says, it’s worth more to me than your sorry ass!

The soulless villain won't listen. He has a big lead on us, but if he thinks he can shake us so easily, he has another thing coming. Well, me, maybe, if I were by myself, but I happen to have the tart-powered teenage terminator with me today. I wave my thumb at Lieselot and we split up. I keep chasing directly after the criminal, while she goes around to cut off his escape route. She may not know the townspeople, but she does know the lay of the town, more or less. I want to believe.

But so does the thief, clearly enough.

There's determination in his gallop, no doubt. He doesn't pause for a second, but cuts through narrow, cluttered alleyways and people’s backyards, nimbly as a dog. I can barely keep him in sight, though I’m putting in my best effort. With random bystanders left and right, I don’t dare to snipe him with magic either.

Give me a break, I already ran my share on the way here! My legs are shot.

The thief glances back. He sees me slow down, huffing and puffing like a steam train, and knows he's won this. He relaxes his pace, turns around the next corner to join a larger road—and that's where the truck slams into him. I mean Lieselot. I already thought she got lost, but she found her way around, after all. A full-body tackle sends the poor bastard flying, and for a moment I’m genuinely worried he’s been sent into another world. But not quite. Following a brief spin, he drops rolling into the street and is left groaning and writhing, alive and mostly in one piece.

Exactly as planned!

I move to corner the dazed scumbag with my friend.

Now, where would be the best place to shank a wanker and hide the corpse? Oh, we wouldn’t go that far, no. We’re the good guys! We’ll just give him a little scare. Maybe break a thumb or two. For his own good, just so he’ll remember the lesson.

Looking at him closer, the guy doesn’t seem like the kind of rat who habitually assaults young women. He’s not even twenty himself, a total babyface. Hair cut short, clean clothes that cost more than mine do. But I guess there’s no judging the book by the cover. Justice must be equal to all.

“You’ve got real guts, sonny, to steal from a hero,” I tell the youth as I crack my knuckles. “But your luck’s run out, bad boy. Hand it over.”

Even now, the thief clutches my bag against his chest, like something precious. We have the advantage in numbers, but you can’t underestimate a whackjob like this. He should have a hidden knife, since he cut the bag strap. I nod to Liselot and we step forward with caution.

The punk has recovered enough to understand his situation.

He rolls quickly over and—bows his head down to the street.

“Please don’t kill me!” he shrieks. “I meant you no harm!”

He kowtows in front of us, looking convincingly scared of two teenage girls. My bloodthirst somewhat simmers down, seeing such a wholehearted display of remorse. Liselot seems to feel the same. Maybe we should hear him out before execution, after all, despite how he butchered my priced bag.

“I’m sorry!” the guy keeps repeating. “I’m really, really sorry! I simply had no other choice! Please believe me!”

“You had no choice?” I ask, incredulously twisting my face. “Look, even if you have a starving baby sister, or are neck-deep in debt, or whatever, you work out these things by talking, not taking. In hastier lands, they chop wrists first and ask questions later.”

“I know, I know, and I’m deeply ashamed of what I did,” the youth insists. “But I assure you, it’s not what you’re thinking! You don’t understand!”

“Whoa, are you a mind-reader too? You’re absolutely right—I don’t!”

“But if only you give me the chance to, I can explain everything! There's a good reason for this!”

“I’d really rather blast you to next week, but I don’t have a choice, do I? Since I happen to be the hero and listening to lame sob stories by worthless losers is every hero's favorite pastime. Just try to keep the mansplaining to the minimum, okay? I'll have you know I have an aggressive case of ADD and a twitchy trigger finger.”

“Okay.” The thief sits up on his knees and starts his explanation. “My name is Milton. Joseph Milton Jnr., Corporal. I work as a sentry at the Menneroix castle. We’ve met there before, if you remember? I have a helmet on when I’m on duty, but we’ve talked a few times, maybe you recognize my voice…?”

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Dude, I talk to lamp posts. That doesn’t mean I remember the name of every background character out there.” I turn to Liselot for confirmation. “You know this guy?”

Liselot also shakes her head. “No. Never seen him before.”

“It’s true!” he cries. “I can show you my badge, if you let me!”

The guy called Milton ruffles through his pocket, soon to produce a shiny, silvery...badge. He passes it to me. The metal’s shaped like a coat of arms, or some such chivalrous symbol, with crossed spears over a kite shield and a mysterious creature’s head on top. A ram or whatever it's supposed to be. Can’t claim I’m a specialist. I can't make heads or tails of it. Are you telling me they actually have a badge in the castle? Why don't I have one?

“And this is real?” I ask.

“Yes, yes, it is real,” Milton says.

“Yeah, sure. Where did you get it? From a cereal pack?”

The key to a successful interrogation is to keep the victim—I mean, the suspect—on his toes. I know, I learned from the best.

“I don’t know, it kinda looks real to me,” Liselot interjects and takes the badge from my hands. “This is Lady Irifan’s family emblem, you know?”

I give her a doubting glance. “It looks real to you? What do you know about guard badges? You’re thirteen.”

“My dad trains the guards, I’ve seen them all wear it.”

“Your dad trains the guards? Master Gunlau does?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you bragging to me now, young lady?”

“I’m just saying.”

“No, you’re bragging. I get your dad’s a celebrity in these parts, but can you not bring up his name every five minutes? It gets awkward, you damned dad-con!”

“I’m not bragging!” Lieselot gets upset. “And I don’t talk about dad that much!”

“Now you’re blushing too. Gods! Somebody get this sick papa’s girl outta here. Whoo, I’m gonna hurl!”

“Zero!”

Bashful like a maiden on her wedding night, Liselot punches me in the ribs to hide her shame, and I regret taking the joke too far.

“Uhhh...Let’s get back on track, shall we?” I grunt, once I’m able to breathe. “Who were you again?”

“Milton,” the guy called Milton repeats his name. “Well, Joseph works too. Friends call me Josh.”

“Whatever, Millie,” I say. “Why would somebody from Irifan’s guard try to steal my bag? They don’t pay you enough? How is that my fault? Or is it the bag itself? Take my word for it, it doesn’t go well with your shoes.”

“No! Like I told you, it’s not what you’re thinking! I didn’t take your bag because I wanted or needed it, and I would’ve returned it to you later! I apologize for cutting the strap too. I’ll fix it myself, I promise! That’s not the issue!”

“So if you’re not after my money, or my bag, what is the issue, exactly?”

I admit, I’ve lost the plot.

“I needed the letter you have,” the lad finally confesses.

“The letter?” I repeat.

Naturally, there’s only one letter he could be talking about.

The precious letter Irifan entrusted to me, the delivery of which has been delayed again and again. Why would he want that? The answer to the puzzle comes to me just as quickly as the question.

“Oh my god, so you’re a spy!?” I ask the guy, shocked out of my socks.

Damn, this escalated fast! An enemy agent has infiltrated Irifan’s inner circle, and tried to steal the Duchess’s top secret correspondence...It looks like I’ll have to blast off his head, after all.

I point the finger gun at the guy.

“What?” Milton shrieks, blinking. “A spy!? W-w-w-wait a minute, what are you talking about? I’m no spy!”

“What are you talking about?” I ask in exchange. “You tried to steal Irifan’s letter, didn’t you? You just said it yourself.”

“Lady Irifan’s—By the Divines, no! No!” Milton falls pale and vehemently denies the charge. “I wouldn’t even think to steal from her grace! Not at all! I’m talking about my own letter, of course!”

“Your letter?” If I tried to raise my eyebrows any higher, they’d fly right off the head. “Why the fuck would I have your letter?”

“Why wouldn’t you? Didn’t you come here to deliver the castle mail?”

“No?” I glance at my friend. “Are you delivering something I should know about?”

“I have nothing?” Liselot shakes her head, looking none the wiser, and shows her empty hands. “My pockets are all empty too!”

“Ah!” Milton’s jaw drops. “I saw you holding a letter, on the way to town, and assumed—Oh Lords, I’ve made a terrible mistake!”

“Got that one right, buddy,” I tell him. “You’d better start making some sense right now, unless you want to meet a fate worse than Mr Aimes this morning. Wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”

He may not understand what I mean, but Milton recognizes this isn’t a laughing matter. So he does as requested and starts over his explanation from the very beginning.

“Okay, listen. The thing is, I wrote a love letter.”

“A love letter?” Liselot repeats. She’s at that age, I guess. I don’t personally care. Not one bit.

“Yes.” Milton nods and hangs his head in shame. “To Lady Irifan.”

“Whaaat!?” I cry out.

This guy’s dead meat!

“Last night,” Milton continues while I try to decide on a suitable execution method. “I got drunk with a friend of mine in the guard after our shift. I’ve admired her grace ever since I first started working here. My friend urged me to confess, but I wouldn’t have the courage to, not in person! So he said, 'hey, let's write a letter to her'. And I thought it was a brilliant idea. I strongly felt I had to somehow express these feelings I’ve kept bottled up inside me for so long, or I'd go insane. We got started right away, trading ideas over cups. But we kept drinking as the night drew on and our creative effort turned less and less civil. I wrote about how my heart tirelessly yearns for her touch, my hands the feel of her curves, and so on, and so forth—Oh, the shame burns me when I think about it! Worse yet, I signed the letter with my own name, sealed it in a tidy envelope, and put the letter among other outbound castle correspondence before retiring to the dorms. How could I get carried away like that!? I will never drink another drop again in my life!”

“Good luck with that,” I say. “And then what?”

“What do you mean, ‘then what?’” Milton cries. “Come this morning, I immediately recalled what I’d done and was overcome with crushing remorse! A mere guardsman, a lowly commoner such as myself, with prestigious Lady Irifan? Even I think that’s unforgivable! Impossible! Worse yet, I recalled using certain word choices influenced by base feelings of carnal lust, which no honorable employee should ever express to his employer! It's an absolute disgrace! If those lines should ever reach Lady Irifan’s eyes, I am certain to lose my job, if not worse! No, surely I deserve the worst for my wretchedness! Taking my own life wouldn’t be enough to redeem my honor! So my only option was to find the letter before it's delivered and dispose of it at once! I assumed it was the castle mail in your bag, so I tried to retrieve it, by whatever means necessary. I was hoping to take care of this quietly, without having to share my shame with you, but now I see I've made another horrible mistake! Please forgive me!”

What a pickle this turned into.

A part of me wants to see his letter delivered, just to find out what happens next, and a part of me wants to break his legs. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this conflicted before. But there’s something I’m compelled to point out first.

“To begin with, why did you put the letter with the outgoing mail, when the guard dorms are in the castle? Why didn’t you just slip it under her door, or whatever?”

“Huh?”

“….”

“...Well, as said, I was rather drunk that night. Still a bit woozy. It seemed, how should I say, more romantic if it came with the common mail, with a nice stamp and all…”

I don’t get it.

“I get it,” Liselot claims, nodding in understanding.

“What?” I ask her. “What do you know about love letters?”

“You’re just not romantic, Zero,” she fires back. “Like, at all. Even though you’re supposed to be a girl too.”

Why is my best friend stabbing me in the back now? I’m stunned!

“Not romantic?” I echo. “I can be plenty romantic! If I want to be.”

“And when’s that? You don’t even have anybody you love.”

Really, why is she siding with this loser? Do you actually think a random letter thief is more romantic than I am? Although, now that I said it, the words “letter thief” themselves do sound uncannily romantic...No, no, no. No way!

“Excuse me!” I tell my so-called friend. “I’ll have you know I have a lover for every day of the week. Only Saturday and Tuesday are still open.”

“Oh yeah?” she raises a brow, still not buying it. “Name two.”

Look at the cheek of this carrot-top!

“I—I’m not giving you any names! It wouldn’t be right, bragging to my friends with their names. They’re human beings, not some ‘conquests’! I’m better than that! I have great respect for all my partners!”

“Uh-huh? Because none of them is real.”

“I don’t need to prove anything to you.”

“Why don’t you just admit you have no real experience?”

“I do have experience. And, if you insist to know, e-even I think that…Irifan’s sort of lovely…”

Just saying Irifan’s name aloud gets me fidgety and my normally quick tongue refuses cooperation.

Liselot turns her ear at me. “Irifan’s what?”

“No! Nothing! Forget it! I said nothing! Didn’t happen! La, la, la!”

Oh boy it's getting hot in here, or is it just me?

“Can I go now?” Milton cautiously raises a hand and asks.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa sure.”

Why was I out for his blood again? I forgot.

We leave the back alley and return to the sunny main street, where Liselot and I part ways with young Sir Milton.

“I don’t know who’s responsible for delivering the castle mail,” I tell him, “but I can promise you, if I ever come across a letter that looks like yours, I’ll rip it to shreds on the spot.”

“If possible, I’d rather you didn’t treat all my mail as disposable,” Milton answers with a pained smile. “But, thank you. I appreciate the sentiment, Lady Zero. Perhaps the post sack has yet to leave the castle. If I hurry back now, I might still make it in time. It was so stupid of me to panic like that and chase after you without thinking! I ought to have checked the post office before anything else.”

“Well, you got that right. I hope we all learned a lesson today.”

I’m just glad there were no real thieves or spies involved and I didn't need to start hiding corpses.

Under this positive, hopeful mood, we bid farewell to the soldier and are about to head our separate ways. But before we're two steps away from that spot, we hear the voice of another person hailing us.

“——Ah, there you are, Milton! Hello!”

We turn to see a gallant woman stride uphill towards us, waving her hand, a friendly look on her pretty face. She’s dressed in an emerald green uniform coat that the castle guard typically wear while on duty, and her braided chestnut hair flutters elegantly in the cinematic breeze.

Well, well, who do we have here? Milton aside, there’s no way I wouldn’t recognize Audrey McKennay, the vice commander of the castle guard. By the way, the Thursday slot on my list of lovers is entirely reserved for her—though she doesn’t know it yet.

“Lieutenant!” Milton straightens his posture and hurries to salute.

“Good day to you,” McKennay greets me and Liselot with a pleasant smile, before turning back to Milton. “What do my eyes see? So you abandoned your post to chase skirts in town? How is that conduct fit for a soldier?”

“No, I, uh…” Milton stammers and turns blue.

“Relax!” The Lieutenant laughs it off. “I was merely jesting. Were you able to find what you were looking for?”

“Looking for…?”

“Indeed. I heard you left mumbling something about an emergency and a letter. That’s what you came to Morelieu for, isn’t it?”

“Ah, I’m terribly sorry!” Milton bows deep. “It was a misunderstanding! I shall return to my post at once!”

“Don’t worry about it.” McKennay gracefully waves her hand, a mysterious smile on her lips. “I figured that would be the case. Leaving your post without permission was wrong of you, but I shall let it slide just this once. Rather, I thought I’d lend you a hand.”

“Pardon me…?”

“This is about your love letter, is it not?”

All three of us tense at the mention of that cursed word.

“My...love letter?” Milton repeats, looking like his soul is about to exit his body. “H-how do you know about that, ma'am...?”

“How indeed!” McKennay says. “You see, Corporal Hemington was absent today, so I sorted and delivered the castle correspondence in her stead. While at it, I happened to notice a splendid little letter with a heart on it, addressed to her grace, the Duchess. Rest assured, surveying the envelope against light, I happened to spy your name in the corner, along with a few keywords, and left the letter unopened—even though it is our duty to go through all mail addressed to her grace. Moreover, since the recipient was in the same building, I saw no reason to pass the letter through Morelieu and thus delay it by another day, but took it personally to her grace’s office. Divines must have guided our meeting here. I can now tell you that your purpose is already fulfilled. Rejoice, Milton. I’m sure your feelings will get across.”

Lieutenant McKennay pats the young guard’s shoulder like a supportive older sister. But Milton doesn’t look too happy. Instead, he drops to his knees, his colorless face a stage where horror and despair do their dance. He clutches his head and looks up to the sky, pitifully howling,

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO—!”

And I’m secretly happy there’s someone in this world even more unlucky than I am.