The Villainess Is Fond of the Silent Witch

Every child in the Kingdom of Ridill knew the nursery rhyme “Old Man Sam’s Pigs.”

Old Man Sam raised many pigs.

In the first winter, he sold one

In the second winter, he sold one

In the third winter, he sold two

In the fourth winter, he sold three

In the fifth winter, he sold five

As the wagon’s wheels went clatter-clatter

The little pigs cried oink-oink

If in the sixth winter he sold eight pigs

How many did he sell in the tenth winter?

Monica was currently on her way to Louis’s estate in the royal capital, but her mind was completely taken up by “Old Man Sam’s Pigs”—specifically, how many pigs were being sold.

If the answer to the song’s riddle is the sum of the two previous years, then on the tenth year, he’d sell fifty-five… On the eleventh, eighty-four, and on the twelfth…

In her head, mostly as a way to escape reality, she continued to calculate the numbers of pigs at length. When she reached 10,946 pigs, Louis, who was sitting next to her, said, “You don’t look well, my fellow Sage.”

“…and on the twenty-eighth, it would be 317,811 pigs, on the twenty-ninth it would be 514,229 pigs…”

“Hello? My fellow Sage?”

Louis poked her, finally yanking her from the fast-proliferating pig farm and back into reality.

“I-I’m sorry! I was just, um, thinking about things…”

“Thinking about things?”

Monica fell silent, not able to admit she was calculating the number of pigs to be shipped.

At the moment, they were flying through the air using wind magic provided by Ryn, the spirit bound to Louis. Flight magic was extremely difficult and used up a lot of mana. Even a high mage would run out of steam after about thirty minutes.

Ryn, however, was a spirit, meaning she could pull off the feat of high-speed movement up in the air. She’d enclosed Louis, Monica, and even Nero—who had slipped into the baggage—in a hemispherical wind field. As a spirit, she possessed far more mana than humans, and her talent for using it meant she didn’t need to chant.

Whenever she witnessed how amazing spirits were, Monica was reminded that her own ability to use magecraft without chanting wasn’t that incredible in the grand scheme of things. People admired and complimented her for it only because she was a human.

Miss Ryn is amazing, but so is Mr. Louis for having a contract with her…

Monica, in the meantime, was just a shut-in researcher whose only strong point was being able to cast spells a little more quickly. And yet, he wants me to guard royalty…, she thought, gripping the travel bag containing Nero and hanging her head.

Just then, Ryn, who was in front of them maintaining the field, adjusted her head so that she could see Louis and Monica without turning her body. The motion was like that of a doll with a broken neck. It shocked Monica, but the pretty maid’s expression remained impassive—which only made her look like even more like a doll.

“We will be arriving soon,” she announced. “To that end, I have a proposition for a completely unprecedented landing method—”

“That is quite fine. Please take us down safely.”

Ryn remained straight-faced, but her response sounded somehow disappointed.

“Of course, sir.”

Once they’d entered a residential area, she set them down gently, as ordered.

Louis’s mansion was relatively cozy but neat and trim. Monica had initially assumed it would be more extravagant; its surprising homeliness took her off guard.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” said Louis, opening the door. Inside, Monica could see a woman who looked to be in her midtwenties. Louis’s face immediately broke into a smile. “I’m home, Rosalie.”

His tone was quite lively. The woman must have been his wife—Rosalie Miller.

Compared with the elegance of Louis’s appearance and dress, she was a little plainer. She wore clothing without much ornamentation but in a style that allowed freedom of movement. Her brown hair was bundled together behind her head.

Louis’s body language indicated that he’d missed his wife a lot, but Rosalie’s attitude was indifferent. Instead, she stared unsmiling at Monica as Monica hid behind him.

She isn’t angry that her husband brought a young girl home without any warning, is she? Monica thought. Uneasy, she lowered her gaze to try and flee from Rosalie’s, but the woman quickly walked over, grabbed Monica’s cheeks in her hands, and turned her face upward.

“Eek?!”

“Excuse me for a moment.”

As Monica stiffened in terror, Rosalie brushed back her bangs and tugged on her lower eyelids.

“U-um, I, wh-what—?” stammered Monica.

“Hold still,” ordered Rosalie. “Now open your mouth wide.”

Monica did as she was told. Rosalie checked her oral cavity. Then she checked every other part of her body, even down to her hands and nails.

“Eye movement normal, no gingivitis. Insides of the lower eyelids are white, and the nails are whitish as well. Dry skin, too… Malnutrition, plus signs of anemia. How old are you?”

With Rosalie’s serious expression right in front of her, Monica—half crying at this point—answered in a shaky voice, “I-I’ll be, um, seventeen this year…”

“And too thin for your age. What do you normally eat? Average daily sleep time?”

“It, um, varies a lot, I guess…”

The more questions Monica answered, the severer Rosalie’s expression became. After a few more rounds, Louis looked at his wife, seeming like he really wanted her to give him some attention. “Rosalie,” he said, “your new husband has come home. Won’t you give him a kiss and welcome him back?”

“The patient is of utmost importance,” said Rosalie, swiftly cutting down the suggestion.

“I’m…healthy…,” Monica insisted, almost inaudible.

Rosalie shook her head and declared, “I don’t know who you are or where you’re from, but it doesn’t take a doctor to see that you’re a living, breathing example of unhealthiness. My prognosis is to get plenty of food and rest. I also suggest taking a bath and changing out of those clothes.”

There was no doubt this was Louis’s wife. There were many differences between the two, but their outspoken, direct manner of communication was exactly the same.

As Monica’s mouth flapped open and closed without making any sound, Louis shrugged in resignation.

“Rosalie is a doctor. You may want to follow her instructions—for your own good, my fellow Sage.”

* * *

After being shoved into the bath by Rosalie Miller and given a warm meal and a change of clothes, Monica finally had a chance to breathe on her way to the mansion’s guest room. On the way there, Nero poked his head out of her bag—he’d been in there for the entire trip. But when Louis entered the room, he immediately ducked back inside.

With an uninterested glance at Nero, Louis said, “Rosalie insists that you need to take a nap, but before that, I must introduce you to our guest, who will be arriving shortly.”

“G-guest?” Monica tensed.

Louis nodded, then gave the name. “Count Kerbeck’s daughter, Lady Isabelle Norton.”

Lady Isabelle was Monica’s coconspirator for this mission and would be enrolling in Serendia Academy with her. He’s right, thought Monica. It’s probably a good idea to see her before we go to school.

Then something occurred to her.

“U-um, is ‘Kerbeck’ not her family name?”

“I’m sorry?”

Louis looked like he didn’t understand the question. Monica played with her fingers and said, “Um, well, she’s the noble daughter of Count Kerbeck, so I assumed her name would be Isabelle Kerbeck…”

“Kerbeck is their peerage title. Most nobles ranked count or above are called by a peerage title.”

“…?”

With Monica seeming baffled, Louis’s expression stiffened, and his cheeks twitched. “My fellow Sage, how much do you know about the noble ranks?”

Monica simply shook her head. The smile finally disappeared from Louis’s face.

“You surely can name our kingdom’s ranks from highest to lowest, yes?”

“…B-baron, marquess, duke, count?”

At her confused response, Louis put on a magnificent smile that definitely said, You’re an idiot, girl. “Not a single one of those was in the correct position, and you’ve entirely forgotten about viscounts.”

“…Eep!”

“For someone who knows all one-hundred-plus magicule names, how can you not remember five noble ranks?”

All she could say was that she’d never been interested. But if she was that blunt, he was sure to start hurling insults, so she just looked down in silence.

Louis pushed his monocle up with a fingertip and heaved a sigh. “First, try to get at least this into your head. In Ridill, the noble ranks are, from highest to lowest, duke, then marquess, then count, then viscount, then baron. There are other ranks below that for the lesser nobility, but I’ll spare you the details. For now, just remember that if you ever meet someone who is a duke or duchess, that means they’re most likely part of the royal bloodline.”

Committing his words to memory, Monica muttered, “C-counts are higher than I expected.” To tell the truth, she’d thought count was the lowest rank.

Louis’s eyes widened until they couldn’t widen any more, staring at her in disbelief. “…My fellow Sage? You do remember that you have a noble rank yourself, yes?”

The Seven Sages were given a special rank called a “count of magic” that corresponded to a normal count. In other words, Monica was a noble, too.

She was also a rare female titleholder, one of less than ten in the whole kingdom…but for someone who had been shut away in a mountain cabin for two years, she certainly didn’t think of herself as a noble.

Now that she thought back on it, she did remember receiving a bunch of things when she’d become one of the Seven Sages, like a certificate of noble rank and a ring. She’d forgotten where she’d put them. They were probably buried somewhere in the stacks of paper in her cabin.

When Monica confessed to this, Louis frowned, put his fingers together, and sighed.

Then they heard a knock at the door. Ryn’s voice came from outside. “The young lady of Count Kerbeck has arrived.”

Louis gave Monica a glance and said, “Let’s get going.”

Monica, holding her aching stomach, wobbled to her feet.