Chapter 75: Iris Housekeeping Services |
“Something wrong?” The soldier who had spoken first lowered his head slightly, the shadow of his cap covering most of his face.
His eyes beneath the brim locked onto the slight upward curve at the corner of his comrade’s lips.
He shouldn’t be laughing.
He shouldn’t be feeling emotions like that.
Clearly, he didn’t believe the explanation. “Then what were you smiling at?”
Nani yo, omoshiroi.
What do you take patrol duty for?
“Smiling?” The accused soldier looked surprised.
Raising a hand clad in the same rough sheepskin glove, his fingertips touched the corner of his mouth—which was indeed turned upward. He seemed completely unaware that he had actually been smiling.
He immediately smoothed out the grin, forcing his expression to turn stern.
“Something’s not right.” He looked toward where Samuel had been, his voice hoarse. “That man just now wasn’t normal. There’s something wrong with him.”
“I noticed.” The interrogating soldier’s tone held no sign of softening. As he spoke, he aimed his rifle at him. “It seems like he did something to you.”
The air seemed to freeze, the smell of coal smoke and distant horse manure becoming unusually pungent.
The soldier caught in his comrade’s sights fell silent for a moment, his Adam’s apple bobbing painfully.
Soon, he seemed to compose himself and replied calmly, “I’m willing to go back for questioning.”
The interrogating soldier held the rifle on him, silent for a few seconds.
*Click.*
A soft sound—the stock of the rifle settled back onto his shoulder.
That soldier re-shouldered his weapon, his tense shoulders relaxing just a little. He withdrew his gaze, turned it back toward the open expanse of the square, and took a step to continue patrolling.
“I hope you really don’t have a problem.”
He said.
The accused soldier nodded, offering no defense. It counted as accepting the “trust” that wasn’t really trust.
But then he suddenly spoke again. “But I suspect he didn’t just tamper with me. I’m guessing he got you all, too.”
“Us all?” The third soldier, who had remained silent until now, was caught in the crossfire.
“Yes.” The accused soldier nodded. After a moment’s thought, he replied in a low voice, “You two… do you still remember his face?”
“Was his nose high or flat? What color were his eyes? Was there stubble on his chin? What style and color of clothes was he wearing?”
“Him?” The third soldier frowned, trying to recall.
The man who had approached them earlier…
His memory seemed blurry; all he could conjure was an indistinct smear of color. The outlines of his nose, eyes, and mouth seemed to have melted like wax in the heat of a cheap candle—impossible to piece together.
Though he knew someone had come close to them, the specific details—what the man looked like, his build, what he wore, whether he was tall or short, fat or thin—he found he couldn’t recall them at all.
He couldn’t even be sure if the person who had approached was a man.
His memory clearly recorded that there was a man just now, but when he tried to think back, he realized he couldn’t picture him no matter how hard he tried.
The harder he strained to remember, the thicker and more twisted the fog of memory became, bringing with it a dizzying nausea.
Even if that man were standing right in front of him, he doubted he would recognize him.
“This…”
“Looks like we all need to get checked out when we get back,” the soldier who had first spoken said quietly.
“…It seems so.”
Patrol couldn’t continue. They needed to return to the post immediately, submit to inspection, and have a few replacements take over their shift.
The soldiers didn’t spare another glance at the suspected comrade. They headed toward the camp.
Only, the soldier who had spoken first—the corner of his mouth curled upward, almost imperceptibly.
It vanished in an instant, as fleeting as an illusion, quickly swallowed by the stern expression he reassumed.
…………
Without waiting for a third knock, Celt pulled open the door.
*Click.* He pressed down the handle and gave a gentle pull.
The door opened smoothly.
Since the door was brand new, there was almost no resistance, and it made no sound at all.
A faint floral scent, mixed with a hint of perfume, drifted into Celt’s nose. It wasn’t strong or pungent—it was only because Celt’s senses were far sharper than an ordinary person’s that he could detect it from such a distance.
Celt leaned to the side and looked out. He noticed that the one who had knocked was a middle-aged gentleman in a perfectly tailored butler’s uniform. Behind him stood a young maid.
The butler appeared tall and sturdy, but his gentle demeanor kept him from being intimidating.
His face had distinct features—a high nose bridge, gray-blue eyes. He looked to be around forty-five. He wore a well-cut black tailcoat, a white shirt ironed to perfection, and his bow tie was tied just right. His silver-gray hair was combed neatly flat, and his face was clean-shaven.
He wore white gloves on both hands, carrying nothing. His left hand hung naturally at his side, while his right hand was raised to chest level, maintaining a knocking posture—but he didn’t knock. He wore black trousers and leather shoes.
Half a step behind him stood a young maid. She wasn’t tall, barely reaching Celt’s chin. She looked up slightly, gazing at Celt.
Her features were delicate, with soft chestnut hair tied into a meticulous bun at the back of her head. She wore a carefully tailored black-and-white maid’s dress. The black gown hugged her slender waist, the hem stopping at mid-thigh, and black stockings wrapped around her long legs.
Her figure was normal, not particularly voluptuous. A white lace apron was tied around her slim waist, and her hands were clasped in front of her.
Her fingers were slender and fair, her nails trimmed neatly and painted with a pale pink polish. Her hands were folded together in front of her, left over right. In her right hand, she held a small pocket watch with a silver chain and a white casing.
“Hello?” Celt spoke first, his tone tinged with confusion. “Who are you?”
“Good day, esteemed sir. Please forgive our presumptuous visit. I am William Iris, from Iris Housekeeping Services.” The tall man before him spoke, his voice low and gentle, his tone even.
William placed one hand on his chest, bowed his head, and leaned forward in a respectful greeting.
“Hello, sir. I am the maid, Alia Iris.” Her voice was soft, with a hint of perfectly measured shyness.
Alia straightened her back, tucked her chin in, and bent her legs slightly in a maid’s curtsy.
Though puzzled, Celt still nodded. “I am Celt Frein.”
William kept his head lowered, his voice steady.
“My sincerest apologies, Mr. Frein, for the intrusion.”
“Your front garden has no doorbell, so I took the liberty of knocking on your door directly. I hope you don’t mind.”
When visiting someone’s home, if they had a small front garden, the proper etiquette was to ring the garden doorbell first.
But Samuel’s garden was in the backyard, not the front. The small patch of front garden didn’t even have a gate—just a few fence posts casually marking the boundary.
So the butler and maid had simply bypassed the process of ringing the garden gate and knocked directly on Samuel’s front door.