A Fortune-telling Princess

“That so-called Guardian—what’s so great about it... tch.”

Even so, the Duke of Sorpel’s hand on the pendant stayed cautious. To find or awaken the Guardian, this pendant was indispensable.

“Sigh.”

In the end, another long breath slipped from him.

****

Looks like I really did get indigestion.

Camilla, sprawled on the bed, pushed herself upright.

She had collapsed the moment she returned to her room, worn out from that uncomfortable meal, and her stomach still felt off. She should probably go out and walk the garden a bit.

“Lady Camilla.”

On her way out, debating which garden path to take, Camilla stopped at the voice calling her. It was Derrin, the butler’s ghost.

“Yes?”

Camilla frowned at the sight of him. He didn’t look as usual.

The gentle smile he always wore was gone. He looked almost tense.

“Is something wrong?”

“There is someone I would like to introduce to you.”

At that, Camilla said nothing for a moment. She only stared.

“Who is—”

“A ghost, I’m sure.”

“Pardon? Ah—yes.”

If a ghost was doing the introducing, of course it would be a ghost.

“Then I’ll pass.”

“Excuse me?”

“It isn’t someone I absolutely have to meet, is it?”

“N-no... wait!”

If it had been anyone other than Derrin, she wouldn’t have considered it. As it was, she wanted to grant him the favor if she could...

That face is far too solemn.

If he was opening with a look like that, this was no ordinary being.

Experience said there was nothing good to be had from meeting that kind of ghost.

She could stake everything she owned that she would end up saddled with something very, very—very—annoying.

I’m sorry, but no, thank you.

“Lady, that person—”

“My stomach’s not well.”

“Ah—my lady...”

“I’m sorry.”

Leaving Derrin’s flustered voice behind, Camilla hurried out. Thankfully, he didn’t follow.

I do feel a little bad.

She was relying on Derrin and Ferrol for help.

She had even told them to name what they wanted, thinking she’d grant most favors.

But he said he didn’t need anything.

No wishes—he’d said so himself. He was simply happy to help the ducal house again.

She felt a little sorry, but she really wanted to avoid tying herself to another ghost.

Once they start flocking, there’s no end to it.

For now, Ferrol and Derrin were enough. ★ 𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 ★ She had no desire to accept introductions and form ties with more.

Still, he’s giving up more easily than I expected.

Camilla walked on, feeling a touch lighter.

But then—

“Lady Camilla.”

“Forgive me for disturbing your sleep.”

“Forgive me for disturbing your meal...”

“He truly wishes to see you...”

“Could you meet him just once?”

“My lady.”

“Lady Camilla.”

She’d been wrong.

Damn it...

Butler, were you always this tenacious?

From the next day on, Derrin circled her day and night, repeating the same words, and Camilla wore down.

If it had been some selfish, nasty person—no, ghost—who only thought of himself, hounding her like that, she could have ignored it.

But—

His face is too sad!

Following her with genuinely earnest eyes, apologizing over and over for asking this favor—the look on his face made it that much harder to refuse.

“All right.”

In the end, Camilla threw up both hands.

“I’ll meet him.”

“Thank you! Truly, thank you!”

“He’s a bound spirit, isn’t he?”

“Pardon? Bound spirit? What is that?”

“A ghost tied to one place. Someone who can’t leave a spot, right?”

If he was going to pester her for days to go meet the ghost, he could just bring the ghost to her—if that were possible.

It wasn’t as if a locked door could keep them out.

And yet Derrin kept coming alone, day and night. There was only one answer: the ghost couldn’t move.

Which meant she would have to go.

“That’s right.”

Derrin nodded vigorously.

“He cannot move freely as we do.”

Impressed at how she had pieced it together from a few clues, Derrin could not stop marveling.

“So—where?”

****

I hate this.

“Sniff... sniff.”

I really hate this.

“Why did I have to die!?”

I said I really hate it!

What is wrong with this place?

Ask people where there ought to be a lot of ghosts, and they’ll say funeral halls, columbaria, or graveyards.

Buzz! Wrong.

Contrary to expectation, ghosts weren’t glued to those places.

The moment they realized they were dead, they either rose straight on or went to the unfinished matters and people they’d left behind.

So in the places where the living mourned the dead, the souls themselves were often hard to find.

More than that, plenty of ghosts wouldn’t go near funeral halls or columbaria because they hated seeing their own dead bodies.

And yet...

Why is this place swarming with them!

Camilla was walking through a cemetery—specifically, the plots for those who had rendered great service to the state.

Every noble in the Empire—indeed, anyone who had dined even a little at the state’s table—wanted to be buried here.

To be laid to rest here was an honor to one’s house.

“It’s still a graveyard.”

So what if you had served the state and were buried here? The place was thick with souls who couldn’t leave this world for sheer regret, circling their own graves.

If anything, unable to accept their deaths even more than other ghosts—for not having wielded greater power, not having achieved more.

Camilla gave not the slightest glance to the wails in her periphery. If she did, they’d latch on, delighted to have found the right person, and never let go.

So she trailed close behind Derrin.

“This way.”

The place he led her was not the common plots.

It was... more finely appointed. Even at a glance, the graves belonged to those of higher rank.

The higher they climbed by steps toward the rise, the fewer graves there were.

Filthy gorgeous day.

Sunlight on the graves was especially warm. On a day this nice, what was she doing traipsing around a place like this?

“Lady Camilla.”

After a time, Derrin stopped and quietly called to her.

She lifted her head and saw a middle-aged man seated in easy repose at a grave.

“Master.”

Derrin approached quickly and addressed him with care.

The middle-aged ghost, who had had his eyes closed, opened them slowly and looked at Camilla.

“That child?”

“Yes, Master.”

Camilla still hadn’t heard who she was supposed to meet. She’d only let herself be hauled along because Derrin had insisted it was necessary.

“...”

The middle-aged ghost stared straight at her. Camilla stared right back.

“So you really can see me.”

“I can hear you too.”

“Heh... heh...”

His laugh sounded utterly hollow. He seemed glad and sad at once, a tangle of feelings.

“At last... at last there may be an end.”

An end. So he did want something from her.

“I should introduce myself first.”

“Hersel Sorpel.”

“...!”

“You’re a former duke—the head who once led House Sorpel.”

“...How did you know? Did Derrin tell you?”

Puzzled, the middle-aged ghost—Hersel—asked. Camilla let out a small sigh and pointed behind him.

“I do know how to read.”

“Ah...”

The headstone where he sat had the name engraved in bold strokes.

Forty-ninth Lord of Sorpel, Hersel

Here lies at rest.

Forty-ninth—that’s quite far back.

The present Duke of Sorpel was the forty-second head of the house.

“The reason I called you here—”

“Before that, may I ask one thing?”

“...? Ask anything.”

With his leave, Camilla let her eyes drift to his head.

“Is it hereditary?”

“Hereditary?”

“The hair.”

Beautiful head shape.

Shiny.

His perfectly bare scalp, glinting under the sun, kept catching her eye.

****

A Guardian, he says?

Turning away from her meeting with Hersel, Camilla’s head felt crowded. She already knew the rough outlines about Guardians.

The Guardians held by the Empire’s three great houses. And the Guardian that had vanished long ago from House Sorpel.

She also knew which Guardian symbolized House Sorpel.

The White Tiger.

A white tiger.

Fits Ludville perfectly.

Thinking of Ludville’s hair—white without a trace of any other color—Camilla let out a small sigh.

So...

You want me to find it, is that it?

The middle-aged ghost she had just met, Hersel. He was the one responsible for the Guardian’s disappearance from House Sorpel.

Well—strictly speaking, it wasn’t his fault.

It wasn’t as if he’d wanted to be poisoned.

His regret at failing to tell his heirs where the next Guardian would be born had bound him to this world as a ghost.

He must tell them somehow—but even after so many years, he hadn’t found a way, and it rankled.

How deep must that regret run—how deep must his death have cut—that he’d become a bound spirit at his own grave, unable to leave it for anywhere else?

It’s pitiable, but...

What exactly am I supposed to do?

Hersel had told her where House Sorpel’s Guardian was.

But this was not simple. If she suddenly produced the Guardian’s egg that no one had found for ages, what would everyone say?

The gooseflesh.

Just picturing the barrage of questions the house would fling at her made her head throb.

Why do I have to play shaman in this world too?

Fortune-telling, fate charts—she might have to do all that here as well. A sigh escaped her.

And what? Underwater?

Perfect—just what she needed to sound like a lunatic.