A slight rewind in time, to the second floor, at the end of the corridor.
Just as Rosie’s hand was about to touch the dagger strapped to her arm, a somewhat nonchalant voice came from behind her.
“Miss Moulton, you might not have noticed.”
“Noticed what?”
Rosie paused her movement, ignoring the pounding of her heart and striving to keep her tone normal.
Herman cocked the hammer, pressing the gun barrel further against the head of this “unruly” noble lady.
“When we first met, and before entering the dining hall,
every time something unexpected happened, you instinctively placed your hand on your left arm.”
Rosie fell silent for a moment, then gritted her teeth.
“Mr. Rhys, you really pay close attention to me!”
Herman shrugged, teasing, “Miss Moulton’s beauty is so dazzling, it’s hard to ignore.”
What a sleaze!
Her intentions exposed, Rosie didn’t struggle further.
She picked up the brown glass bottle, opened it, and sniffed.
No strange odor.
She furrowed her brow slightly, steeled herself, and downed the liquid in one gulp.
Hm, bitter with a hint of sourness—not too unusual.
Setting down the bottle, with the deed done, she dropped the act of the obedient noble lady, her tone sharp.
“You’d better not be lying about the antidote, or I’ll drag you down with me, even in death.”
Facing the threat, Herman didn’t respond, just stared at her intently, his brow furrowed.
“What are you looking at?”
“I’m waiting for the effects to kick in,” Herman said seriously.
“It’s not actually a slow-acting poison but a compound made primarily from Martin grass.”
“Martin grass?”
No memories stirred, meaning the term was unfamiliar to “Rosie Moulton.”
“Oh,” Herman said casually, “it’s that stuff noble gentlemen use in bed for a boost.”
Rosie: “!!!”
A boost?
Just say aphrodisiac!
Seeing the girl’s pale cheeks flush like a sunset and her hand move to her arm in a defiant stance, Herman raised his hands.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.
Calm down, Miss Moulton.
As newly allied partners, I was just trying to lighten the mood with a joke to break the ice.”
Herman extended a hand.
“Happy cooperation.”
Cooperate, my ass—you’re clearly coercing me!
Fuming, Rosie gave him no courtesy, swatting his hand sharply.
“Happy cooperation!”
Herman rubbed his hand, unbothered by the kitten’s scratch, and asked, “What’s your plan when we return?”
Rosie knew he was asking how she’d explain Donahue Bobby’s death.
For a moment, she hesitated.
“You plan to tell the truth?”
Herman scoffed, mocking the noble lady’s naivety.
“Then what? Lead them to this room?
How will you explain the portrait?
With a murder on your record, suspicion and fear are enough to send you to the stake.”
Herman’s tone turned cold. “No matter how you explain, tonight, the name on the parchment will be Rosie Moulton.”
Irritated, Rosie crossed her arms over her chest, her misty blue eyes glaring at him.
“Then what’s your brilliant idea, Mr. Rhys?”
“Burn this place to the ground, clean and simple.”
Hearing Herman’s words, Rosie froze, then glanced at Donahue Bobby’s body.
It wasn’t that she was overly saintly—someone tried to kill her, she killed them back, and she wasn’t about to shed tears or repent.
But Donahue was likely a victim too, driven by a misunderstanding to attack her.
For him to end up without even an intact body left her with complex feelings.
Herman was clear-headed. “If you feel guilty about Mr. Bobby’s death, you should use every advantage to crush this conspiracy and catch the real mastermind—the source of all this misfortune.”
Rosie fell silent for a moment, then nodded. “Fine, we’ll do as you say.”
“But,” she looked at Herman, raising her concern, “this way, all evidence against me is gone.
But Mr. Bobby’s death is a fact, and without proof of my innocence, their suspicion won’t lessen.
With their four votes against our two, I’ll still be voted out tonight.”
Herman smiled, pointing to his chin. “Simple—give them a murderer.”
“You mean…”
Rosie frowned. “Tell them you attacked me and Mr. Bobby, and you’ll play the murderer?”
Herman shook his head.
“No, I’m not the murderer—I’m the scapegoat. The real murderer is still you.”
Rosie was confused, her misty blue eyes blinking at him. “What does that mean?”
Herman explained, “If I’m the murderer who killed Donahue Bobby, how could you, a delicate noble lady, subdue a ruthless killer like me alone?”
“I have a gun,” Rosie said instinctively.
“Exactly. Once they know you have a gun, what if they demand you hand it over out of fear?”
“Impossible.”
It was her means of self-defense—she wouldn’t give it up.
“Then, to them, who’s the bigger threat: a subdued, defenseless murderer, Herman Rhys, or Rosie Moulton, wielding the most lethal weapon?”
Herman looked at her, continuing, “They could vote you out today and me tomorrow.”
“But I have a gun. If they vote for me…”
Herman cut her off. “That would pit our two groups against each other, making bloodshed inevitable—exactly what the mastermind wants to see.
From the moment we woke up, the one behind this could have killed us easily.
But they designed this elaborate scheme for one purpose: to make us suspect and kill each other.”
What is this, some clichéd movie plot?
Rosie didn’t get it.
“Why would they do that?”
Herman didn’t answer immediately, instead pulling an iron box from his coat pocket.
“Miss Moulton, have you heard of contractors?”
“Contractors?”
Click.
The iron box opened, and Herman took out a thin, gelatinous sheet, pressing it to his face and rubbing it.
In moments, half his cheek transformed into a horrific, burned appearance, with grayish scabs and pale blisters looking all too real.
Under Rosie’s shocked gaze, Herman spoke slowly.
“A group that gains hidden powers through specific rituals.
Such people are called contractors.”