TNDOBM 17

Chapter 17

“Archbishop, no, my disciple. It is the Saintess.”

It was a kind of warning not to overstep, as the other party was the Saintess. Now that she thought about it, Sir Miguel’s reason for accompanying him was probably to keep this man in check.

“I suppose I’ve messed things up again, haven’t I? Sir, if possible, could I borrow that sword at your waist?”

“I refuse. Archbishop, no, priest.”

*’Didn’t Sir Miguel just call him Archbishop?’*

The more she listened, the more it confirmed it. Really.

When he’d started to say “Arch—” and then faltered, she’d generously pretended not to hear, but wasn’t this too much?

The fact that Miguel, the vice-commander of the Holy Knights, treated this man with such deference, the absurd insistence on calling a rope a measuring tape, and above all, the fact that a male tailor had come to take the measurements of her, a woman—

There was only one answer that explained this ridiculous situation.

Just as she’d suspected, the man before her wasn’t just some tailor belonging to the temple, but an Archbishop.

Cecilia stared incredulously at the two men who weren’t even trying to hide their positions.

“If I heard correctly, you aren’t a tailor or an ordinary priest, but an Archbishop, Sir Kihar?”

Even though she already knew the answer, when she asked that, the man slowly raised his head and met her gaze.

With deeply sunken eyes, the man muttered darkly.

“Do you know the saying that those loved by God return to His bosom early? If one’s status were proportional to how much God loved them… Yes, I am a human who deserves to die.”

So this was how a person holding a high position in the temple could talk about it.

It was truly an astonishing ability.

While she was left speechless, Sir Miguel bowed his head first.

“I apologize for the deception. As you said, Sir Kihar is one of the Archbishops. He came to meet the Saintess who will be conducting the ceremony alongside His Holiness the Pope, overseeing this relief festival.”

“I see.”

Though Miguel hadn’t explained, she could guess why they’d kept his identity hidden.

They must have been displeased that someone who wasn’t even an official Saintess would be participating in a ceremony with His Holiness the Pope, and they’d wanted to see for themselves what kind of person she was.

His series of insane actions were probably also part of that test.

“So the vestments were really just an excuse, then. I suppose it would be too much for the Archbishop to pretend to be tailoring my—”

“It’s not an excuse.”

“Pardon?”

“I did actually come as a tailor. The vestments are important.”

“…Ah, yes.”

“The vestments are important.”

*What is this, scary.* He said it twice.

She didn’t particularly want to know why a man with eyes like rotten codfish was so fixated on vestments.

What was even more unsettling was the fact that his behavior up until now hadn’t been an act for the test.

*’I want to run away.’*

Even as she, now a hundred times more burdened than before, earnestly wished for escape, the vestment fitting proceeded quickly and smoothly.

She chose one among several drawings of equally white and frilly dresses, and had her height, arms, legs, hands, and feet measured.

*’I have no idea why they have to measure my head circumference too.’*

She hadn’t done anything particularly significant, yet she felt completely drained.

Cecilia, unfairly the only one exhausted, muttered weakly.

“Is this the end?”

*’Oh, no.’*

Cecilia hurriedly covered her mouth.

She’d just uttered a forbidden phrase similar to “Did I get away with it?”

There was an awful rule: if you muttered “Did I get away with it?” an enemy you hadn’t gotten away from would appear, and if you muttered “Is this the end?” it wouldn’t be the end at all.

As soon as she realized this, the Archbishop approached her ominously, like a final boss.

Then, from within his needlessly voluminous robes, he thumped something down onto the table.

“Archbishop…?”

“His Holiness the Pope asked me to deliver this.”

“What is it?”

“Some materials recording the temple’s ceremonies. You need to read them all by the relief festival.”

Cecilia gingerly lifted a corner of the book with her index finger, as if touching something dreadful.

The letters were smaller than ant antennae, and the book was handwritten in a difficult-to-read script.

“Don’t feel pressured. However, if you fail to read it all, His Holiness will be disappointed, will fall ill, you won’t be able to participate in the ceremony, the relief festival won’t be able to begin or finish, and I, the person responsible, will be held accountable and ultimately end up hanged.”

“……”

“Anyway, that’s how it is, so I’ll leave it to you.”

*’I really wish the temple, the Pope, and everything else would just go away.’*

Cecilia stared blankly at the teacup, which hadn’t decreased at all.

Now, truly, in a different sense, she felt like bashing her head against the wall.

Cecilia Weberdin didn’t want to live diligently.

Not after grinding her body and soul through graduate school before the possession, and certainly not after doing insane things to try and return somehow after the possession.

But these past few days, her daily life had been filled with the word ‘diligent.’

Though unintentional, she was spending every day reading the dung the Archbishop had left her, teaching herself how to handle holy power, and attending etiquette lessons—it was barely enough time.

Even as her stamina and patience gradually wore down, what kept her going were ‘adorable presences.’

Like Charles, who would knead her stiff muscles when she returned to her bedroom exhausted, or Lien, who, though he should be getting used to it by now, couldn’t hide his tension during every dance lesson.

“I’m sorry! I stepped on your foot again.”

“It’s fine. You’ve improved a lot.”

Inside the deepest room of Lien’s mansion.

As she continued dancing to the music, just like in the first lesson, Cecilia glanced at him.

Even though she’d already made the mistake of stepping on his foot for the fifth time, Lien didn’t even frown, only smiling kindly.

*’Pull yourself together.’*

She resolved internally, but once broken, concentration was hard to regain.

Following his lead, Cecilia spun around once and finally completely lost her balance.

“Ah!”

“Are you alright!”

His hand, which had been lightly resting on her waist, suddenly tightened, and her small body was pulled snugly into his embrace.

It wasn’t entirely intentional, but it was a fairly effective move.

“I’m sorry. I guess I’ve been pushing myself lately; I don’t have any strength.”

Instead of pulling away, Cecilia acted tired and enjoyed a little moment of healing.

The warm body heat transmitted through him was nice, and the steady yet comforting feeling, like being wrapped in a blanket, was also nice.

And best of all was his face, visible when she craned her neck up.

Features that were always a joy to look at.

As her time admiring him grew longer, Lien asked in a rather serious voice.

“Did you perhaps injure your ankle…?”

“No, my body just seems a little startled.”

“Still…”

He was clearly so worried that his gaze wouldn’t leave her ankles.

Watching that blatant tenderness, Cecilia suddenly reached out to him and lightly lifted the edge of his hood.

Whether it was because he’d been moving around indoors wearing a robe and was hot, or for some other reason, the exposed skin was as red as a flower petal.

“You don’t look so good yourself, you know? You seem very warm.”

“I can endure this much.”

It didn’t look like it, though.

Using her subjective judgment as an excuse, she casually pressed her weight against his solid body.

Then, in a suggestive voice, she asked.

“If I take it off… would you dislike it?”

As intended, a reaction quickly came.

The flush that had been coloring his cheeks quickly spread to his neck.

“…I wouldn’t dislike it.”

Lien slowly shook his head.

Cecilia, for her own selfish reasons—or rather, for Lien who seemed hot—cheerfully pushed the robe off his shoulders.

He must have really been hot, as his hair was slightly damp with sweat.

“Thank you.”

Lien smiled shyly, brushing back his disheveled hair.

*’This is what welfare is, this is the country.’*

It was such a magnificent sight that she felt she might have been instantly smitten even if Lien truly was the trash the rumors said.

“…Um, Cecilia?”

She had only been standing there, mouth agape, as one might before a great piece of nature or art.

But Lien seemed to have found a different reason for her long silence and lack of response.

“Are you tired after all? Shall we end today’s lesson here?”

“Hmm, I am a little tired.”

Unable to confess she’d been too busy admiring his face, Cecilia vaguely nodded.

It was also true that she was tired due to her poor basic stamina.

When she readily agreed, Lien gently removed his hands from her.

He then immediately fumbled inside his robe, pulled out a handkerchief, and carefully wiped the faint beads of sweat from her skin.

“Thank you. Give me the handkerchief; I’ll wash it and return it.”

“It’s fine.”

“Pardon? But it got dirty…”

“It’s not dirty.”

Lien, who had answered uncharacteristically firmly, added in a very small voice.

“…Rather, it’s better if it retains your scent…”

“Pardon?”