Chapter 21
Cyril Ashley, Marquis Highton's son, had not originally been a member of House Ashley.
Because the current Marquis Highton had only daughters, Cyril, the most capable of his distant relatives, was chosen for adoption.
Although he was of Marquis Highton's bloodline, Cyril's family was the lowest of the low—a minor branch that did not even hold a title. Even so, he had been chosen for one reason alone: he was exceptionally capable.
Cyril, who had been languishing at a commoners' school, was proud—proud that he was capable, and that someone had chosen him.
After becoming an adopted son of House Ashley with pride and joy in his heart, Cyril met the Ashley family's daughter there...
He despaired.
The daughter of Marquis Highton—Cyril's adoptive younger sister—possessed an intellect that far surpassed his own.
House Highton was known as a family of scholars. Cyril's adoptive sister possessed a vast store of knowledge befitting a "scholar," and was so brilliant that Cyril could not hold a candle to her.
──Then what had I been adopted for?
As Cyril nearly lost all sense of purpose, he desperately studied every field he could.
Yet the gap between him and his adoptive sister never closed. If anything, the more he studied, the more keenly he realized the difference between them.
It was then that the second prince, Felix Ark Ridill, reached out a hand to the despondent Cyril.
'Would you lend me your strength, Cyril Ashley?'
When Cyril answered hesitantly that he lacked the intellect to live up to House Highton's reputation as a family of scholars, Felix said with a smile:
'I didn't choose you because you're a member of House Ashley. I chose you because you're you, Cyril.'
It was then that he made up his mind.
He would devote his life to His Highness.
＊ ＊ ＊
"Accounting is busiest at the beginning and end of each month. I'll list everything that must be done here, so make sure you don't miss anything."
Cyril Ashley was blatantly hostile toward Monica, but he explained the work carefully.
The only thing that concerned Monica was the large glass sitting on the table. During his explanation, Cyril briefly chanted a spell and dropped one chunk of ice after another into the empty glass.
When he reached a stopping point, Monica, unable to ignore it any longer, timidly spoke up.
"U-um, er... Th-the ice... What... are you going to use it for...?"
"To stuff into your mouth every time you make a mistake."
"Eeeek!"
Cyril fiddled nervously with the brooch at his collar and dropped another chunk of ice into the glass.
Monica suddenly noticed that whenever Cyril was making an ice chunk, the chill radiating around him subsided.
(...Could that be why he's making ice?)
"If you have time to look away, look over the materials."
"Y-yes! I'm sorry...!"
Monica hurriedly looked through the materials, but honestly, the work itself was not all that complicated.
Before coming to the academy, Monica had been saddled with every kind of work involving numbers—finances, cash ledgers, sales trends, population statistics, and so on. Compared to that, accounting was hardly any work at all.
Once he had finished explaining everything, Cyril gave the ice-filled glass a little twirl and snorted irritably.
"Hmph. If you had trouble remembering things, I intended to force these into your mouth... but it seems that won't be necessary after all."
Was this what Cyril meant by "a passing grade"?
As Monica breathed a sigh of relief, Cyril glared at her.
"Why are you so timid and jumpy?"
"Eek, um, uh... I, um..."
"I dislike that cringing attitude of yours."
That was something Monica had heard many times before.
──Why are you so meek?
──You should be proud of your talent.
──If you belittle yourself, what does that make everyone who isn't even as good as you?
"His Highness chose you, didn't he? He recognized your talent, didn't he? Why aren't you proud of it?"
Don't be servile. Don't belittle yourself. Have confidence in yourself. You have talent.
How many times had she heard those words when she learned magic without incantations?
Even so, Monica simply could not bring herself to nod.
It wasn't that she denied the value of pride. Taking pride in something was a good thing. Being able to believe in one's own talent was wonderful. If she could, Monica wanted to be that way too.
...Even so, Monica couldn't.
"...I'm sorry... I just can't... I can't take pride in myself."
Monica slowly shook her head and murmured:
"...I can't."
Back when Monica attended Minerva, there had been exactly one boy she could call a friend.
He had always looked after the shy Monica. He practiced incantations with her because she had trouble speaking in front of others. That had made Monica happy.
...But around the time Monica learned magic without incantations and began to be celebrated as a genius, their friendship started to go awry.
'You looked down on me in your heart all along, didn't you?'
The words "No, no, that's not true" never reached him.
Without ever reconciling with him, Monica graduated from Minerva and became one of the Seven Sages.
...It was a bitter memory that still remained as a knot in Monica's heart.
As Monica hung her head, Cyril furrowed his thin brows and pressed his lips into a pout.
"I hate the words 'I can't.'"
"...I'm sorry."
In the face of Cyril's rebuke, all Monica could do was lower her head and apologize.
Her father had once told her that talent could sometimes become a curse.
Talent was a curse to Monica. It always took away the things she wanted.
──Her father, and her friend.
"Hey, is everything going well?"
Monica was jolted back to reality by the cheerful voice. When she looked up, Felix was peering over the desk.
Cyril straightened and answered crisply.
"I have explained all the regular duties and the work at the beginning and end of the month. All that remains is matters related to events."
"Ah, there's a chess tournament and a school festival before winter break, after all. I'll have you teach Monica about those in due course."
"Yes, Your Highness."
When Cyril nodded, Felix looked at the glass on the desk and lifted it slightly. The ice clinked against itself with a rattling sound.
"...Are you feeling unwell, Cyril?"
"No, there is no problem, Your Highness."
"I see. That's good, then... But don't overdo it."
What had that exchange meant?
(...When Lord Ashley makes ice, is he feeling unwell?)
The chill he constantly released, the ice he deliberately created in the glass, the brooch he kept touching nervously... To tell the truth, Monica had one suspicion.
(...Could it be?)
As Monica stared at Cyril's brooch, a finger poked her cheek from the side.
Looking sideways, Monica saw Felix happily squishing her cheek.
"Don't keep looking at Cyril. Look over here, too, won't you?"
"S-s-s-s-sorry, s-s-s-s-sor..."
"You! What kind of insolence is that toward His Highness!?"
"S-s-s-s-s-s-sorry, s-s-s-s-s-s-sorry, s-s-s-s-s-sorry..."
When Monica apologized tearfully, Cyril slammed his fist into the desk.
"Speak clearly!"
"S-s-s-s-s-s-sor-ry..."
"Who told you to speak in staccato!?"
"Cyril, please don't bully this girl so much."
When Felix gently chided the shouting Cyril, Cyril replied with a stern expression:
"This isn't bullying, Your Highness! This is discipline!"
"Discipline is the owner's job, isn't it? Then it's my job."
It felt as though her human rights were being casually stripped away.
For now, Monica decided to escape reality by immersing herself in counting Felix's eyelashes.