his family and his looks, he’s prime real estate, you know. On top of that, I think the combination of his cold appearance and those vaguely melancholy eyes tends to tickle feminine hearts. And then, every time someone makes advances, young Gilbert comes crying to
me
…”
“Lucky! That sounds like fun!” Oz said, delivering that heinous remark with a bright smile.
Gilbert felt an overwhelming desire to disappear.
“So, Gil, what’s this Dahlia lady like? Is she pretty?” Oz’s expression was excited.
“…No idea,” Gilbert said, uncooperatively.
“Don’t you at least have a photograph?” Oz asked.
“N-no.” Gilbert shook his head.
“Aaaah, this is it! Here you go.”
Break had a photograph pinched between his fingertips—who knew where he’d pulled it from—and he held it out to Oz.
Taking the photo, Oz exclaimed, “Wow, she’s gorgeous!”
With a start, Gilbert pressed a hand to the breast pocket of his jacket, where he’d been carrying the photograph. “Break, when did you—?!” he yelled. Break just smirked smugly.
Gilbert stretched a hand out toward Oz—“Give it back!”—but Oz dodged gracefully, still examining the photograph.
“Matched brunets,” he muttered, and then, in a very casual tone: “Say, Gil. Are you going to go out with her?”
“…No. Don’t be stupid.”
“Huh. What a waste.”
It was hard to tell how serious Oz was. “Just drop it,” Gilbert mumbled.
This is exactly what’s meant by “The master knows not what his valet’s heart holds,”
he thought. Just as he was beginning to think that, for now, he had to figure out a way to muddy the waters and make his escape, Oz struck his own chest with a thump. With an absolutely brilliant smile, he said, “Well, if that’s how it is, Gil, I understand. Just leave it to me!”
Oz flashed a sharp thumbs-up and continued, ignoring Gilbert, who’d been rendered speechless.
“If his valet is in trouble, it’s a master’s duty to do something about it! Right?”
“My,
my.
The
paragon
of masters, Oz-kun, that’s you. I’ll help,” Brake chimed in, applauding, and the two of them put their heads together right away and began making plans of some sort. Gilbert could only stand there, aghast. This was going in the worst possible direction.
As he spoke with Break, Oz looked happy through and through. That gave Gilbert an awful feeling, too.
If this keeps up, it’s going to be a disaster.
…And so.
On reflex, Gilbert roared, “I-I-I’ll handle this one myself! I’m not who I used to be!”
At those words, Oz and Break both broke into warm smiles.
As you’d expect, their expressions said:
Now
things are getting interesting!
4
When, concerned about the time, Dahlia had left her mansion, she’d made her way to a dressmaker’s shop on a narrow lane one block down from Reveil’s high street.
The boutique Night Butterfly.
As the shop’s name suggested, the show window was hung with evening dresses meant to be worn at soirees. The designs were showy and provocative: Most of the gowns had plunging necklines and gaping backs, and all were the sort that would attract men’s eyes. They might easily have been made for just that purpose.
Echo, who was lurking on the roof of the antique store opposite the boutique and had watched Dahlia enter the shop, glanced at the dresses and gave her murmured impression:
“…Gaudy.”
Her voice held no emotion, but she meant the words from the bottom of her heart.
…Really, though—
Echo was a bit puzzled. The array of dresses in the shop seemed to clash terribly with Dahlia’s quiet demeanor.
“Or,” she muttered, “could it be…? Are women like her the type who are most likely to cut loose at night…?”
She didn’t know. Echo couldn’t begin to understand what was supposed to be fun about wearing an audacious dress and attracting male glances in the first place.
But
, she thought,
maybe Echo thinks that way because Echo is only a tool,
me
…”
“Lucky! That sounds like fun!” Oz said, delivering that heinous remark with a bright smile.
Gilbert felt an overwhelming desire to disappear.
“So, Gil, what’s this Dahlia lady like? Is she pretty?” Oz’s expression was excited.
“…No idea,” Gilbert said, uncooperatively.
“Don’t you at least have a photograph?” Oz asked.
“N-no.” Gilbert shook his head.
“Aaaah, this is it! Here you go.”
Break had a photograph pinched between his fingertips—who knew where he’d pulled it from—and he held it out to Oz.
Taking the photo, Oz exclaimed, “Wow, she’s gorgeous!”
With a start, Gilbert pressed a hand to the breast pocket of his jacket, where he’d been carrying the photograph. “Break, when did you—?!” he yelled. Break just smirked smugly.
Gilbert stretched a hand out toward Oz—“Give it back!”—but Oz dodged gracefully, still examining the photograph.
“Matched brunets,” he muttered, and then, in a very casual tone: “Say, Gil. Are you going to go out with her?”
“…No. Don’t be stupid.”
“Huh. What a waste.”
It was hard to tell how serious Oz was. “Just drop it,” Gilbert mumbled.
This is exactly what’s meant by “The master knows not what his valet’s heart holds,”
he thought. Just as he was beginning to think that, for now, he had to figure out a way to muddy the waters and make his escape, Oz struck his own chest with a thump. With an absolutely brilliant smile, he said, “Well, if that’s how it is, Gil, I understand. Just leave it to me!”
Oz flashed a sharp thumbs-up and continued, ignoring Gilbert, who’d been rendered speechless.
“If his valet is in trouble, it’s a master’s duty to do something about it! Right?”
“My,
my.
The
paragon
of masters, Oz-kun, that’s you. I’ll help,” Brake chimed in, applauding, and the two of them put their heads together right away and began making plans of some sort. Gilbert could only stand there, aghast. This was going in the worst possible direction.
As he spoke with Break, Oz looked happy through and through. That gave Gilbert an awful feeling, too.
If this keeps up, it’s going to be a disaster.
…And so.
On reflex, Gilbert roared, “I-I-I’ll handle this one myself! I’m not who I used to be!”
At those words, Oz and Break both broke into warm smiles.
As you’d expect, their expressions said:
Now
things are getting interesting!
4
When, concerned about the time, Dahlia had left her mansion, she’d made her way to a dressmaker’s shop on a narrow lane one block down from Reveil’s high street.
The boutique Night Butterfly.
As the shop’s name suggested, the show window was hung with evening dresses meant to be worn at soirees. The designs were showy and provocative: Most of the gowns had plunging necklines and gaping backs, and all were the sort that would attract men’s eyes. They might easily have been made for just that purpose.
Echo, who was lurking on the roof of the antique store opposite the boutique and had watched Dahlia enter the shop, glanced at the dresses and gave her murmured impression:
“…Gaudy.”
Her voice held no emotion, but she meant the words from the bottom of her heart.
…Really, though—
Echo was a bit puzzled. The array of dresses in the shop seemed to clash terribly with Dahlia’s quiet demeanor.
“Or,” she muttered, “could it be…? Are women like her the type who are most likely to cut loose at night…?”
She didn’t know. Echo couldn’t begin to understand what was supposed to be fun about wearing an audacious dress and attracting male glances in the first place.
But
, she thought,
maybe Echo thinks that way because Echo is only a tool,
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