[CYM] 16 – Pretending

“Why did you come so early?”

He asked in his usual indifferent tone. Since she couldn’t see him, she couldn’t see if there were any marks of being hit, so if there were any signs of something strange, she had to discover them elsewhere.

She couldn’t ask directly since that would not yield an honest response from the prideful young master. She had to coax the truth out of him as if it were a game.

“Let’s play a different game today.”

“What is it?”

“We take turns in speaking. You ask a question, and I’ll answer, and then I’ll ask, and you answer.”

“Go ahead.”

“But I’m not expecting silence. I thought the young master would ask me something, anything at all, even something as trivial as my name, but he didn’t seem to care to even pretend to ask.”

“Well.”

“Then, it’s my turn. What did you eat last night?”

“I might’ve eaten the potatoes you gave me, mashed and turned into pancakes.”

“And why are you hiding from me today without showing your face?”

“You’re sneakily skipping my turn with this question-and-answer game.”

“You don’t have any questions for me. Whenever you have some, save them, and ask me anytime. What do you do when I’m not here?”

“It’s just dull.”

“That’s too bad. Who brought you your medicine before bed yesterday?”

“My father.”

The meaningless exchange continued. As she kept asking questions, it started to look like an interrogation. He began to respond more slowly, perhaps aware of the trap being set.

“I heard you behaved like a madman yesterday. The high official was furious.”

Suddenly, it was dead silent beyond the room.

“Why was that?”

Now she was certain. His mind had been exactly where it was supposed to be the whole time. If it weren’t for some spiteful caprice, his behaviour should have been consistent even in front of the high official. But she knew it wasn’t just a simple whim.

The young master, who had been too ill to associate with, had begun to converse like a perfectly sane person. Even when he seemed out of his mind, he never missed a word of her muttering, and even while scraping the floor like a madman, he seemed to delight in her shuddering response, deciding whether to continue or not.

He didn’t laugh at her jests, but he knew they were made in jest. Was there another patient who pretended not to understand but caught every word?

Neither the change in prescribed medication nor any apparent effort by the young master to heal himself or any effort by the high official suggested a cure.

The doctors who had come before her mother all declared there was nothing they could do, and her mother performed rituals out of duty, not out of concern for the young master’s well-being. His condition was ostensibly the same as a year ago, yet oddly, his mind seemed clearer.

And today, having heard from Ara about the young master’s odd behaviour and the high official’s anger, her suspicions had grown even more.

Was he truly ill with madness from the start?

“Why did you do that?”

“And you’re asking.”

Had it been in the past, she would not have cared at all whether the young master’s mind was dancing on the moon or even if the cobbler’s daughter became the subject of gossip. Now, however, she found herself curious about the mysterious reasons behind his behaviour.

“Why does the young master pretend to be a sick patient?”

“Oh, pretend?”

“Isn’t that so?”

“Didn’t people say? That I’m a useless son who can’t play the role of a proper man, just wasting food. Why keep someone who can neither carry on the family name nor marry with pride, nor is fit to be pushed into a marriage as a son-in-law for a powerful family?”

He spoke with a cold tone that seemed devoid of affection.

“You didn’t think of me that way at first, either.”

Her black eyes had turned colder than the North Sea, dropping a low, chilling laugh that made one’s heart shrink.

“Not at all.”

“Right.”

“It’s because the young master hides himself that everyone misunderstands. Why do you pretend to be a sick patient and refuse to come out?”

The following silence was affirmation. Through the crack of the door, her serene eyes, like a still painting, assessed my face’s expression, calculating something. She wondered if he was deciding whether to spill the truth.

The distance as if a wall had been erected remained. The moment she sensed the young master’s presence closer than before, she impulsively blurted out,

“Can you show me your face?”

If the rumour that he had been slapped was true, either side of his face would be swollen. She had asked to see his face just to confirm Ara’s words.

However, the young master immediately closed the door coldly as she brought up the question. He went back into his shell, locking himself in the darkness. She, having been turned away at the door, had no choice but to sit idly for a while before taking the things she had brought to share with the young master and returning home.

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//break next month :) you can read ahead for free on patreon