It was hard to believe she was only ten years old.
Lyriette's manner was courteous, and impeccably polite.
"Yes. Are you keeping well yourself, Uncle?"
"After burying myself in books all day, I can't say I'm in the best condition."
I'd been cooped up in the workshop, after all, trying to reach the 7th Circle.
It felt like the smell of ink and paper still clung to my entire body.
"What brings you to see me today?"
There was a faint unease flickering in Lyriette's eyes as she asked the reason for my visit.
Bitter.
Kids this age were usually supposed to light up at the mention of some uncle-type relative showing up—*Oh, is he going to give me pocket money?*—or something like that.
Tch. Just how rotten must the people who'd come to see her before have been, for her to react like this.
"Since I'm back at the estate after so long, I thought I'd come see my pretty niece's face. There's also an important matter I need to discuss."
"My face? It's not particularly pretty, though."
"Really? Looks quite pretty to me. You'll be making boys cry later on."
"Th-thank you for the compliment."
Lyriette looked startled for a moment, then bowed her head politely.
But I could tell.
There wasn't a shred of genuine feeling behind it in this child.
No—more precisely, she must have taken my compliment as empty flattery.
Just how starved of affection must she have been, growing up, to react that way?
In my previous life, my little sister used to turn red and giggle the moment some adult nearby said she was cute.
"Niece, do you have any time later?"
"Time? I have to study today."
"Study? Is there an exam or something?"
"N-no. It's just that neglecting my studies, as a member of House Argent, would be…"
Lyriette avoided my eyes as she stammered out a flimsy excuse.
No doubt her stepmother had nagged her into sitting at that desk, half against her will.
Honestly, what could there possibly be to study, at ten years old?
Whether in my past life or now, parents desperate to work their children into the ground made my teeth grind.
Better to spend that time playing in the mud at a playground—far more constructive.
"I see. What a fine attitude. Then what were you studying? Might I take a quick look?"
"Ah, yes…"
If I had my way, I'd have whisked Lyriette out of here right then, bought her something delicious to eat, taken her for a walk.
But for now, I decided to hold back and slowly close the emotional distance between us.
*The original story mentioned that this room was where Lyriette felt safe.*
To Lyriette, this room was a prison—but it was also her one and only sanctuary.
Because even in the original story, the people who tormented her—her stepmother, her older brother—never once came all the way here to do so.
Quite the irony, really.
That the very prison confining her should feel like the safest place of all.
Perhaps she simply hadn't yet realized this place was a cage.
A child who didn't even know what freedom was might not think to leave it in the first place.
For now, I'd just teach her a bit, close the distance a little more…. Hm?
"…Niece, what exactly were you studying just now?"
"The fundamentals and practical application of swordsmanship."
"……."
It seemed my grand plan to impress her with an uncle's dazzling wisdom, and thereby close the gap between us, had crashed and burned at the very first step.
I should have at least picked up some superficial swordsmanship, back when Father used to nag me about it.
***
Her blue eyes rolled restlessly.
A glance this way, then down at her notebook.
Then another peek in my direction, before whipping her head away again, over and over.
I suppose this is a bit much for her.
Well, if I put myself in her shoes, I'd probably feel awkward too.
An uncle she'd barely exchanged two words with had barged straight into her room, and was now sitting right beside her, staring intently as she studied.
*Cute.*
But there was such childlike charm in it that I decided to enjoy the sight a little longer.
To me, who'd only known the cold, prickly Lyriette from the original story, this was a wonderfully refreshing sight.
"Um, Uncle."
"Hm?"
"You said you came for an important matter. If it's not too forward of me, may I ask what it is?"
"Ah."
Right. What was I thinking.
I'd tossed out a vague excuse just to buy some time, and hadn't thought a single step past it.
It seems my brain is useless for anything that isn't magic.
"So I did. But I mustn't interrupt your studies—let's talk about it later."
"Alright."
Thankfully, once I'd offered up a passable excuse, Lyriette seemed to accept it.
Though "accept" might not be quite right.
More like there was nothing she could say against it, so she simply held her tongue.
Anyway.
*It really is bare in here.*
What kind of ten-year-old girl's room looked like this?
I half-wondered if a ghost might come out of it.
Everything that was strictly necessary was there.
But—in other words—that was all there was.
Not even a small doll for a child to play with.
Not even the kind of plants people commonly decorate a room with.
A servant's quarters would probably be better furnished than this.
"Niece."
"Yes, Uncle."
"Do you happen to like dolls, by any chance?"
"Dolls? That's…"
I asked casually, out of curiosity, and Lyriette's gaze dropped away.
The most troubled expression I'd seen from her yet.
Of course it would be hard to answer easily.
Because I already knew.
In the original story, Lyriette adored dolls.
Even well into her teenage years, she kept small dolls displayed in her dormitory room at the academy—she loved them that much.
In a way, it was a late-blooming passion.
Because she could never have indulged in it back at the main estate.
Because of Cassdia Argent.
That damned second sister-in-law, who, on the flimsy logic that the second daughter of House Argent had no business playing with something as "frail" as dolls, had never once bought her one.
No—if it had simply stopped at never buying her one, that would have been bearable.
That madwoman had gone so far as to burn, right in front of Lyriette's eyes, a stuffed doll the girl had scrimped and saved her allowance to buy.
"…No. A daughter of House Argent has no need for such frail things."
The answer came exactly as I'd expected.
And so did the change in her expression, exactly as expected.
The sight of a ten-year-old child straining with all her might not to let her true feelings show was pitiful enough to make my chest ache.
She'd grown up too fast.
No—that phrase is too generous, too clinical.
More accurately, she'd simply grown too skilled at hiding her feelings, too early.
Perhaps that would be a useful skill in society at large.
But it certainly wasn't a desirable one for a child her age to possess.
And yet, I didn't have enough rapport built up with her to coax out her honest feelings just yet.
So how about this, then.
"Really? It's a bit embarrassing to admit, but I happen to like dolls a great deal myself."
"What? Y-you do, Uncle?"
Perhaps she never imagined a grown man, well past the age of peach fuzz, would confess to liking dolls.
Lyriette's eyes went round like a startled squirrel's.
It looked as though a lake might spill right out of them.
"Is something strange about that?"
"N-no, it's not strange so much as… unexpected."
"In what way?"
"That someone as strong as you, Uncle, would like dolls, just like me."
"Didn't you just say you didn't like dolls much?"
"What? Ah, um, that's…"
I suppose there's only so much a child can do to hide her true feelings.
Whether from a sense of kinship, or simple haste, I wasn't sure—
but I found myself smiling at how unconsciously she'd used herself as the point of comparison.
A shame.
A little more, and I might have heard her true feelings.
"Ha, just teasing. Of course, as you said, it might seem unexpected. But personally, I think your view might be a bit narrow, in the other direction."
"I'm sorry."
"I'm not blaming you. I only want to shift your thinking, just a little."
I raised a finger, pointing straight at her, and continued.
"You spoke as though dolls were something a strong person shouldn't like. Why do you think that is?"
"That's…"
Difficult to answer, of course.
No matter how much she tried to act mature, she was still only ten years old.
Suppose, for instance, that boys are expected to like robots, and girls are expected to like dolls—the common assumption among children this age.
Even so, if pressed on the reason behind that belief, it would be hard to explain.
Because it's simply a broad, unquestioned social norm.
The child had grown up seeing and hearing it, so she simply accepted it as given.
And for Lyriette, the one and only person who could have instilled such so-called "common sense" in her was none other than Cassdia Argent.
It was that simple.
All she had to do was say the words.
That dolls were toys for the weak.
That such things didn't suit a daughter of House Argent.
Dressed up as though it were universal truth, this teaching from her stepmother left the child with no way to reject it in her own mind.
Even if she'd genuinely loved dolls to begin with,
she would only have come to see it as wrong, as something shameful, and drifted further away from it.
There was no room left to question it, no room to attach caveats.
That is exactly why one must never carelessly force ideas or beliefs onto a child.
"…I'm sorry. I don't really know."
"That's fine. Not knowing isn't a fault."
"It isn't?"
"Why—did someone tell you that not knowing something was wrong?"
"No. It's just…"
Startled, Lyriette flinched again and looked away from my eyes.
Every step I took seemed to land on a landmine.
And not even landmines of her own making.
Some wretched woman had scattered them here however she pleased, which only made it worse.
"In any case, for what little wisdom I can offer—that's simply a narrow-minded view held by the world at large."
"Why is that?"
"Because there shouldn't be a right or wrong to liking something in the first place."
Lyriette drew a startled breath.
It seemed that single sentence had struck some kind of chord in her.
"Of course, that doesn't mean anything goes without limit. For instance, have you ever seen people get roaring drunk and cause a scene?"
"Yes, once, when Father…"
"What did you think, watching that?"
"It scared me, a little."
"That's exactly it."
I gave a thumbs-up, as if to praise a sharp observation, and continued.
"Even if you like something, you mustn't cause trouble for others because of it. Drinking too much and causing a scene, loving money so much you exploit others—those things are certainly wrongs."
"I see."
"But if I like dolls, does that hurt anyone?"
"No."
"Right. Far from harming anyone, it would probably be a great help to the doll shop owner."
Of course, there was much more to consider if one wished to push the argument further.
Whether liking something purely for oneself, without harming others, was necessarily morally right—that was a separate question entirely, with its own answer.
But this child didn't need to know all that, not yet.
All I wanted to say was this: *your likes and dislikes are not wrong.*
"In other words, whether you're allowed to like something or not is something you have to decide for yourself. The world's opinions and voices matter, sometimes—but that doesn't mean they're always right. Understand?"
"Yes."
"Good girl. Our niece really is a clever one."
I clapped my hands together approvingly, and Lyriette blinked, dazed.
"What's wrong?"
I asked, puzzled by her strange reaction, and Lyriette waved her hands in flustered denial—
before answering, in an expression I couldn't quite tell was bashful or sorrowful.
"It's just… that's the first time anyone's ever praised me. So I'm happy."
"……."
The weight of every feeling packed into that single sentence hit me so hard, I found myself falling silent without meaning to.
I'd need to come armed with a whole arsenal of compliments, the next time I came to see Lyriette.