A Butterfly Through the Mist - Side Story 11

After returning from the Ministry of Land, Tilia made no effort to let him know that she had discovered the truth.

But that was only what she believed—surely, Ilex must have sensed that something was off through her decision not to resign.

Even so, Ilex simply lingered around her without ever asking why.

Perhaps he was waiting.

Waiting for Tilia to say something. Or to get angry and confront him.

Despite behaving patiently and acting as usual, he was now clearly reading her expression.

Gazing at him with a hint of puzzlement, Tilia belatedly recalled the fact that he had once played a part in the downfall of House Ambrose.

Ah, that’s right. That did happen. That was in the past.

Casually reminiscing, Tilia met Ilex’s gaze.

“There’s no need to make it as grand as the late duke’s. Just enough to maintain appearances.”

Toward Ilex, still staring at her with a stiff face, she smiled sweetly.

“At least he’s getting a funeral, not a secret burial.”

***

Leaving behind Ilex, who still seemed slightly stiff, Tilia exited the bedroom. She asked a maid where her old belongings were stored and headed in that direction.

As in many kingdoms, Arkansis had a peculiar funeral custom. When a family member died, one would place an old personal item into their coffin.

To honor the loved one, some would place their wedding rings inside, while others would include their most cherished clothes.

The important thing was to place in the coffin an item that could prove one’s love. To express their grief and sorrow, many poured expensive items into the coffin.

And at this moment, the item Tilia was looking for to place in her brother’s coffin was…

‘Maybe there’s a pair of worn-out stockings or some hole-ridden socks.’

The most pitiful and insignificant disposable goods.

Ilex’s attempt to read her reaction after hearing the news about George Ambrose was entirely unnecessary.

Regarding his death—and the future death of her father—Tilia felt nothing. Only the vague sense that what was bound to happen had happened.

She didn’t know exactly how Ilex had driven her family to ruin, but if he hadn’t done it, she probably would have.

The men of House Ambrose and she were fated never to exist under the same sky.

So Ilex had no need to feel guilty about their deaths. And if someone were to ask, “But he was still your brother, wasn’t he? He was the father who gave you life, wasn’t he?”—well.

Then I’d whisper that I hope you’re born as me in your next life and become a twelve-year-old beaten until your ribs break.

Some people, even after enduring that, might still mourn the deaths of their family—but unfortunately, I’m not that kind of saint.

And so, Tilia—now a monster who felt only relief at her brother’s death—stepped lively into the storage room on the second floor.

True to a mansion where not even the storeroom escaped the touch of the servants, it was spotless despite housing neglected belongings.

Surveying the modestly sized space, Tilia began her search from the shelves on the right.

‘Hmm. Nothing…?’

But finding trash she deemed suitably symbolic was not easy.

Even the old bag she had brought when she first arrived at this house had been washed clean and neatly stored, so it didn’t seem like anything had been thrown away.

With a slightly troubled expression, she scanned the boxes until she spotted a row of books tucked into a corner.

Ah, the household ledger. I’ll just stick a used one in there.

At last finding a solution, Tilia walked over with a relieved expression. But what she found wasn’t an old ledger, as she had expected—it was an unexpected memory.

‘…So it was here.’

After a brief pause, Tilia glanced around at the empty room before cautiously reaching out to pull out the worn book.

What she held, now worn with her fingerprints, was the rhetoric textbook she had used during her university days.

To this day, she didn’t know why she had grabbed it during her frantic escape back then—or why, through countless moves, she had always taken it with her.

Even when she abandoned all the clutter, insisting that everything else was just baggage, she could never let go of that book. As though, eventually, she might need it again.

Tilia ran her hand over the title, Classical Literary Criticism, before carefully opening the book.

Traces of those intense days were engraved across every page.

Not a single note was made carelessly. Not a single underline drawn sloppily.

As Tilia quietly gazed at the evidence of such desperate effort, she let out a wry smile.

Could one say these efforts were rewarded? Could she say that the self who had worked so fiercely had truly arrived at the ending she desired?

She didn’t know. But one thing was clear—she didn’t want to say it had all been meaningless.

Her heart stirring for no reason, Tilia decided it was time to go down and just find something suitable.

But just then, as she was about to return the textbook to its original spot, her eyes caught sight of another book with the same title.

There was no way she, who’d been so poor at the time, had bought two copies of the same book—so this must have belonged to her fellow academy student living in the mansion.

Tilia stared at it briefly, then reached for her former rival’s book with no real expectations.

Rustle. Guided by her hand, the old textbook slipped from the shelf. Flutter. The pages long sealed were revealed by her slim fingers.

Surprise flashed across Tilia’s eyes as she examined the contents. What she had assumed would be as pristine as a blank page was unexpectedly messy.

Flipping to the next page in mild confusion, she found even denser writing than before.

Turning page after page in a daze, Tilia soon realized that he had left behind traces of effort—just like she had, and in some sections, even more than she had.

Of course, if one asked whose notes were neater, the answer was obviously hers. But despite the occasional sloppy scrawl, the amount of work he had poured into his studies seemed equal to hers.

Staring at it in silence, Tilia impulsively reached for something else. What she picked up this time was a thick notebook beside Ilex’s book—it looked like one of his personal study journals.

Her guess that it was a literary analysis notebook turned out to be correct. Tilia gazed at the practice notebook, where traces of misread passages had been corrected multiple times, and let out a small chuckle without realizing it.

He said he hated rhetoric. And yet he worked so hard.

The one who always seemed so elegant, like a swan—turns out he had been paddling furiously beneath the surface, just to stay afloat. Why did that truth bring her so much joy?

Perhaps it was the lingering inferiority complex of the former second-ranker within her, Tilia thought, as she reached for another potential amusement.

But this time, her assumption—that it would be a summary notebook—was off.

What is this? With a face as puzzled as when she saw his scribbled-up textbook, Tilia peered into the notebook.

Royal Calendar XXX, Month X, Day X

Walked with Judy Wells behind the culture building.

Seems the walk started about 30 minutes earlier due to the fall season. Must check sunset time before going out.

At first glance, with the date written at the top, it looked like a diary—but the mention of her friend’s name struck her as odd.

Did Ilex ever go on a walk with Judy? Maybe they’re friendlier now, but during their academy days, Judy had been too scared even to make eye contact with the Duke of Davenport’s second son. The thought made Tilia tilt her head.

The short memo that followed was in a similar format.

Royal Calendar XXX, Month X, Day X

First wearing of winter sweater.

A paler blue might suit her better…

Royal Calendar XXX, Month X, Day X

Got teased by Judy Wells for picking around the cooked carrots.

Thought she only hated asparagus. Maybe she dislikes all mushy vegetables. – Need to confirm on the day the dining hall serves eggplant.

Only after reading three of these dated entries did Tilia realize—it wasn’t just a diary. It was a record about her. A log of how he had observed her.

Huh. Tilia let out a half-bemused, half-unsettled laugh.

He’d told her he’d liked her for a long time—but she hadn’t known he’d been watching to this extent.

Casting a sidelong glance as though the handwriting was Ilex Davenport’s alter ego, Tilia turned the next page with an arch look.

Royal Calendar XXX, Month X, Day X

Followed her from behind the stairs and saw under her skirt.

White.

Were they shorts?

Probably were shorts… Doesn’t matter. This is tonight’s pick.

Psycho. What do you mean tonight’s pick?

Tilia glared down at the unnecessarily neat handwriting of the man with eyes full of disgust.