Previously
The backstory of Mercedes is revealed, showing how she became Caesar's wet nurse after losing her own child and serving Empress Adelaide.
Because he towered so far over me, I couldn’t reach the crown of his head; if I wanted to dry his hair, he would have to sit down.
“Sit here.”
He sat quietly on the chair as I told him. Gently working with the towel, I began drying his strands, which had curled even more tightly from soaking up the water.
Hair grows heavier when wet, and it slumped forward until it completely shielded his eyes.
“Didn’t that bother your eyes? It must have been uncomfortable.”
“Yes.”
“We’ll probably have to cut your hair next time, won’t we?”
Bathing alone had been exhausting enough, so what would cutting his hair be like? Sharp tools like scissors or razors would have to go near his face; would he even tolerate that? Trimming his hair seemed like an even taller order than the bath itself.
“I don’t think just anyone can handle your hair.”
Such work required extraordinary skill—so much so that some people called in professional stylists specifically for it.
I had never cut anyone’s hair before, so it would probably be better handled by someone experienced. But right now, no one was available.
“Aside from this…”
Fortunately, the bathroom was stocked with basic grooming supplies, from razors to nail clippers and files.
“Hmm…”
A thought suddenly struck me.
“I can at least trim your nails, can’t I?”
“Huh?”
Yes, those pointed claws! How many scratches had they left behind? I took the clippers from their place.
“Let me trim them. Leaving them this dangerous all the time is unnatural.”
“Mmm…”
Predictably, Caesar put up a stiff protest. I firmly took hold of his left hand—the one I had never touched before.
I expected his hand to feel rough, but it was warmer and gentler than I thought. I lightly brushed my fingers over his long, blade-sharp claws.
“I’m going to start, all right?”
I held the nail clippers, which resembled a pair of pliers with wide, rounded jaws fitted with two blades, while the handles behind them were reinforced with leather to give a steady grip.
I set them against the tip of his finger and told him to squeeze down. He nodded, tension plain on his face.
That was when the trouble started.
“No way…”
His nails were unnaturally hard. No matter how much pressure I applied, the clippers wouldn’t budge.
“I thought they’d be softer after a soak.”
“No, don’t like this.”
Oh, so you don’t like it either? Neither do I. But I didn't have the strength to clip them, leaving me no choice but to hand the tool over to him.
“You’re stronger than I am. Try it yourself.”
A stubborn streak took over, and I shoved the clippers firmly into his right hand. He looked at me in bewilderment, but gripped them anyway.
“Hold it right here and squeeze with all your might.”
“Okay.”
He squeezed the handles. With a sharp snap, the blades moved.
With another snap, his whole body flinched as a clipping flew through the air.
I darted a look at his face. He seemed a little aggrieved, but he was fine.
“Keep going, it’s all right.”
I fixed my eyes on his claws; every single one seemed longer than two knuckles! We still had a long way to go. He gave me an anxious look, as if asking: do I really have to keep doing this?
“Mmm…”
His brows softened, and a dazed look crossed his eyes. I stroked the fringe of his hair to soothe him.
“Good boy, wonderful job.”
“…Yes.”
The words hardly suited a man of his size, but I kept petting his hair as though praising a little child.
I watched his reaction, and he seemed to warm up to it. Another snap sounded, and another piece of claw came off.
“You’re amazing!”
Smoothing my hand through his hair, I gave his cheek a gentle tickle. He began to sway cautiously, watching me closely, as if trying to puzzle out what I was doing.
After hundreds of “well dones,” we were finally finished. Although the cut wasn’t perfectly even, the menacing sharpness of his claws was gone.
“Look! They look so neat. Why didn’t we do this before?”
I began smoothing the edges with the file, even though Caesar flinched every time it touched him.
Yet whenever I kept up a stream of “good boy” and “I’ll give you a treat when we’re through,” he patiently clamped his mouth shut and tried to endure it.
The scrape of the file and my lavish praise filled the bathroom.
“Pretty. Very tidy.”
I ran my thumb over his polished fingertips. It had taken far longer than I expected.
“Shall we head back now?”
“Yes.”
That evening, we had a simple dinner: roasted quail, a light soup with vegetables and lentils, a crust of stale bread, and wine watered down.
For me, that amount was plenty. From my days living on the streets, I was accustomed to hunger. Even after moving into the Duke of Flores’s estate, my meals had never been more than black bread and nearly saltless porridge.
Back then, even meals like that were considered a luxury. I was just grateful not to starve to death.
Caesar, however, was another matter. Hadn’t he devoured an entire chicken on his own before?
“Do you want my share?”
I nudged my piece of quail toward him. He took it without hesitation, picking it up in his hand, then smiled and began eating, flashing his sharp canines.
When he started crunching through the bones, I gasped.
“I told you not to eat the bones.”
“Okay.”
He began carefully picking the bones clean. I didn’t know why, but just watching him eat made me feel full.
“It’s good that you have a healthy appetite.”
Still, I thought to myself that I would have to teach him table manners one day. I had heard royal banquets included formal meals.
“You can’t eat like that there.”
It occurred to me that there was still so much left to teach him. With that, we finished our simple meal.
Mercedes, who had stepped out earlier, never showed her face again. But the sorrowful look she had worn lingered in my mind, unsettling me throughout the night.
“Will she be all right?”
I tossed and turned all night, unable to get a restful sleep. And the following morning, I discovered something bizarre.
Is this… real?
“What on earth?”
I had gone to bed alone, yet I woke to find him in my bed, sleeping beside me under the same blanket, his arm wrapped around my waist.
What alarmed me far more than any of that, though… were his claws.
“What… what happened?”
I caught him before he could get up and asked.
“Hm?”
Yes, the very claws I had painstakingly filed down yesterday… had returned today, just as long and razor-sharp as before!
“Do they grow that fast?!”
How could they have grown back so quickly?! I had no time to marvel any further, for a knock sounded at the door—it was Mercedes.
“My lord, my lady, are you awake?”
“Yes, we’re awake.”
I thought meeting her would be awkward after what happened yesterday, but she came in carrying wash water as though nothing were amiss.
“Good morning to you.”
I greeted her warmly in return.
Ah, if only Caesar’s nails had stayed the way they were yesterday! I would have proudly shown them off to her. Maybe she would have looked at him differently then.
So, keeping an eye on her, I tried to steer the conversation toward something she might like.
That was why I told her that yesterday… I had trimmed Caesar’s claws.
“What… did you say you did?”
“About yesterday. Caesar bathed on his own, and I tried trimming his nails.”
· · ·
“But madam, do you know what? They grew right back! Imagine, in just a single night!”
I was so caught up in recounting these miraculous feats—Caesar bathing by himself, his long claws growing back overnight—that I failed to notice Mercedes’s face drain of all color. I didn't even notice her whole body trembling as if struck by terror.
“I wonder how his body works. Isn't that truly strange?”
My cheerful tone was nothing more than a facade; a desperate attempt to bridge a small rift that had opened between us without my realizing it.
I should have paid closer attention to Mercedes’s expression right then.
Her face lit up in a strange way… like gazing upon a spring meadow in full bloom.
Yet amidst all that beauty, there lay a hidden fissure I had never anticipated.
· · ·
Mercedes kept a suffocating silence.
That fissure was like one running through a field; so small that most people could easily overlook it or step over it without a second thought.
But I was not like them.
I had grown up at rock bottom, and I knew how even the smallest ruts could trip you up and send you crashing down if you weren’t careful.
And right then… I felt my foot catch in that very crack.
“Mercedes?”
I called her name, if only to measure the depth of the chasm opening between us.
FADE OUT