The Uninvited Guest Of The Haunted Mansion (27)

Why do ominous premonitions never turn out to be wrong?

Serenity, taking a morning walk with a troubled heart, finally confirmed her fears through the passing chatter of young maids.

“Did you see the person who entered through the main gate today?”

“The little boy, you mean?”

“I heard he caught the master’s eye.”

“Then what happens to the painter in the cottage?”

“Won’t he be kicked out?”

“My goodness!”

Hearing that a young boy carrying painting supplies and a canteen had been led away by the Rose Knights, it seemed certain he had come to paint Serenity’s portrait.

The problem was that even if she tried to dig up more about the new painter, there was little information. The servants only remembered his appearance and knew little about the painter; they didn’t even know his name and called him “the boy,” which suggested there was no information at all. And if she carelessly approached those who might know, Serenity would likely find herself at death’s door even faster.

‘What am I supposed to do about this.’

She was standing alone among the bare thorn vines, lost in thought, when a dark silhouette suddenly intruded into her view.

“Why the long face today?”

“…Duke.”

Serenity flinched unconsciously and took a half step back.

It had been several days since she had seen the Duke’s face, and rather than feeling strange it felt oppressively familiar. It wasn’t much different from the face she’d seen close by in her dream: then he was naked with his hair disheveled, now he was impeccably neat; aside from that, it was the same.

He grinned when he saw Serenity stepping slightly away.

“Why so startled? Were you thinking of me all of a sudden, or do you miss me?”

“Good morning.”

“You’re dodging the question.”

“Have you been well in the meantime?”

“Not particularly. Your father has been quite troublesome, you see.”

The Count was persistent and vexing in many ways. Apparently he wasn’t much different when dealing with the Duke either.

Even at Blake’s playful mention of her* father, Serenity couldn’t muster much of a response. The man before her made her excessively tense, and her thoughts were tangled like a thread spool.*

“The weather’s nice… aren’t you going to stroll? Or are you planning to be one of the trees planted in the garden, standing dazed?”

He said this while looking up at the sky.

It was eleven in the morning. The sun shone more clearly than at dawn, occasionally flashing dazzling light between the clouds.

“Last time you said you liked rainy days, and today you say you like bright days.”

“Each has its merits.”

“The more I see the Duke, the more optimistic he seems.”

“Are you implying my head is a flowerbed in a roundabout way?”

“I apologize if it came across that way. I have a lot on my mind.”

She meant to offer a stock reply, but once it slipped out it sounded sarcastic. Serenity couldn’t think of how to fix it and only shifted her eyes subtly.

The Duke widened his eyes and then laughed aloud.

“So you weren’t trying to be a tree but rather wearing your discomfort on your sleeve. Sorry I didn’t notice.”

By the time Serenity realized her* mistake, it was already too late. If the man before her had been an Anomalous being rather than the Duke, Serenity would likely have been at the brink of death for offending him.*

She had felt this before: apart from the awkward feelings, she definitely felt her tension ease in his presence. If someone suddenly found a listener in the lonely legend they thought they were trapped in… someone who could converse with them to some degree… wouldn’t anyone feel the same?

Or perhaps she had genuinely grown accustomed to this man.

After staring at Blake with a nuanced look for a long moment, Serenity asked.

“Duke, have you by any chance seen the young painter who entered the manor this morning?”

“A painter? Has someone like that visited?”

“Don’t you know? Mother summoned him… ”

Serenity, taken aback, asked in return.

For some reason she had expected this man to know everything. She felt a bit odd that there was something he didn’t know.

“Young lady, you seem to forget from time to time that I am a guest in this manor. How could I know visitors you yourself don’t know? Especially if it’s your mother’s affair.”

“Ah….”

It was a perfectly reasonable remark, but why did disappointment come first? Serenity thought her reaction absurd, yet a renewed sense of despair washed over her.

If even this man didn’t know the visitor, would she have to bury her head in the ground? Could she even come out alive?

Seeing a shadow fall across Serenity’s face, Blake asked.

“Have you heard anything about his appearance? You never know, he could be a painter I know. If the Countess with a deep appreciation for art chose him herself, he might already be a celebrated hack in the capital.”

“Ah.”

That could be.

Only then did Serenity desperately try to recall the painter’s appearance she’d overheard among the servants.

“I heard he had ginger curly hair and lots of freckles… they said he was a boy. He seemed quite young, a little short and slight in build…”

Is that even a distinguishing feature? Then again, there are so many distinct-looking Anomalous beings here that such an ordinary appearance might stand out. After all, didn’t Serenity herself get startled by a Duke with a human face? Arguably, the fact that he was very handsome had a strong effect.

Blake, musing over Serenity’s words, let out a lively exclamation.

“I know who it is. He’s the ‘sad painter.’”

“The sad painter?”

The name alone sounded ominous.

“I’ve heard he’s the young painter currently all the rage in the salons. They say he’s especially good at portraits. I haven’t seen his work in person, but I’ve heard enough to remember him.”

“Anything else? Any other peculiarities?”

“Miss, I haven’t observed him closely… do you have a taste for artists? His eyes are said to shine unusually.”

“That’s not it.”

It felt like she’d grabbed a lifeline.

She had practically handed herself over to this brazen, puzzling Duke to secure a way out; telling him she didn’t want to become a portrait subject unprepared only to return after death ten months earlier and have to start over wouldn’t do any good; he wouldn’t understand anyway.

“…That painter is going to paint my portrait today. It’s a picture that will last a long time, and I thought if I knew what kind of painter he was before meeting him, the result might be better.”

“Ah.”

Blake scanned Serenity slowly and lowered his voice.

“I have a habit of not remembering those who aren’t beautiful for long…”

“…”

“All I remember is that his expression was very melancholy.”

Whatever expectations Serenity had were thoroughly deflated.

‘Of course… his name is the ‘sad painter’ after all.’

Blake added.

“I’ve heard he has extreme mood swings. Despite his genius, he often despairs of his skill, tears up his work, and cries his eyes out. So it’s best to be kind to him.”

Can that simply be dismissed as ‘mood swings’? Serenity pondered seriously. The cottage painter was temperamental, and this one had mood swings. Artists were a problem for this reason. Even if they were Anomalous beings, their fundamental issues seemed unchangeable.

‘This painter’s behavior will probably depend on his emotions.’

She didn’t know the details, but she could sense that the moment the painter began to sob, the gates of hell might open.

The problem was how to prevent that.

No matter how she thought about it, there was too little information.

‘Isn’t there some way…’

Serenity concentrated deeply. Suddenly feeling a gaze, she looked up to see Blake looking down at her with a subtle smile.

“Some painters believe a painting must contain a soul.”

“What?”

“It’s a common tale: the liveliness or longing that makes a painting seem to contain a soul.”

His smile deepened.

Serenity had seen that expression before… probably when they first met, when he taught her how to win the kitchen master’s favor. He had worn exactly this look across from the sofa.

…This is a clue.