Chapter 42
Once again, Josée dreamed.
It was the dream of the day Marlène collapsed—
In the reception room of Baron Donovan’s estate, a much younger Josée, dressed in a pink frock, stood before the assembled household staff and declared with confidence,
“The one who killed Madam Marlène... was Damian!”
Damian immediately exploded in protest.
“You little brat, what the hell are you talking about?! I was heating the bath at the time—with Coam, the carpenter’s apprentice! There’s no way I could’ve gone to the construction site by the waterwheel to kill her!”
Josée responded calmly.
“There was testimony that you took sulfuric acid from the storage room, supposedly for pest control. If you dilute it and apply it to a rope, the moisture will eventually evaporate, and the acid will eat through it. While you were heating the bath, the rope binding the stacked lumber would have snapped... and Madam was crushed beneath it. It was murder, made to look like an accident.”
“You got proof?!”
“I do.”
“...What?!”
“A servant gave a statement. They saw you repeatedly burning rope near the stove used to heat the bath. You were running experiments—testing how many hours it would take for the acid to eat through. There should even be traces of sulfuric acid mixed in the ashes inside the stove. I’ve already alerted the police.”
“...!”
The entire household froze, stunned by the girl’s sharp deduction.
Damian was immediately confined in the waterwheel hut to await the authorities.
Soon after, Baron Donovan arrived.
“You must be Josée,” he said, amused. “What an extraordinary little girl you are!”
“Well, I nearly got assassinated the same way once.”
“...?”
“Oops, just thinking out loud. Now, about that reward.”
“Hahaha! You really are something! As promised—1,000 deniers.”
Josée accepted the hefty sum, a fortune for someone her age—equivalent to three months’ wages for a high-end courtesan.
(Solving a single case nets me this much...)
As the dream drifted, Josée reflected vaguely.
(Living in that cramped brothel room is enough to make anyone lose their mind. I need somewhere better.)
What came to mind was Château Fournier, upriver along the Lubton.
(I wonder how much it costs to buy a castle like that...)
While she was idly fantasizing, the police arrived—the Royal Capital’s investigative unit.
A detective greeted the baron. Josée, pressed against the wall, peered up at them. One of the younger investigators noticed her.
“You’re the girl who cracked the case?”
Josée looked up at the arrogant young man and replied coolly,
“That’s right.”
He snorted.
“You shouldn’t have meddled. If things had gone sideways, there could’ve been more victims. Solving cases is our job. Girls like you should stay home where it’s safe.”
He spoke curtly, but Josée only smiled, meeting his gaze with defiance.
“Fool. If you lot weren’t so useless, someone like me wouldn’t have been called in.”
The young man gave her a long look, then said bluntly,
“I’m Bernard de Simon. And you?”
“Josée.”
“Josée, huh... Fine. Just try not to get yourself killed playing detective.”
They both turned away with a huff.
Josée glanced back down at the thick wad of bills in her hands.
(What nonsense is he spouting...? Typical noble.)
He had a strikingly handsome face, but Josée was far more dazzled by the gleam of cold, hard cash.
(If I keep solving cases like this, I can definitely become the mistress of a castle.)
She was the blood of the Sarana dynasty. Her father’s obsession with status ran thick in her veins.
(I’ll make them kneel with the power of money—from noblemen all the way up to the king.)
With a dramatic flip of her pink dress, the girl stepped proudly into the waiting carriage.
Of course, Marlène would demand her cut. Josée was both anxious and excited to see how much she’d get to keep.
"I'm back."
Upon returning to Brothel Lirondelle, Josée headed straight for the office. When it came to money, taking detours was a surefire way to lose the brothel master’s trust.
She knocked on the door.
No response.
A chill ran down her spine. Dread prickled at her skin.
Without waiting, she opened the door.
There lay Marlène—collapsed on the floor.
“!!”
Josée ran to her side, lifting her up gently. Marlène groaned in pain.
“This is bad... Someone get a doctor!”
Lisette hurried down from the second floor.
“Wha—? I heard a noise and... Marlène?!”
“Her breathing’s rough. Something’s really wrong.”
“I’ll get a doctor! Josée, stay with her!”
“Got it!”
Marlène coughed violently. Josée rubbed her back, trying to soothe her. Marlène was no stranger to coughing—especially when smoking—but this was different.
“Ka... hah...”
Another wrenching cough tore from her, and Josée’s eyes widened in horror.
Blood was pouring from her mouth.
“M-Marlène...!”
Marlène opened her eyes, managing a faint, brave smile.
“Welcome back, Josée.”
“Don’t talk. The doctor’s on his way. Can you make it to the bed?”
Supporting each other, they slowly made their way upstairs.
Once she was in bed, Marlène murmured, her voice hazy with fever.
“I guess... my time’s come…”
Josée’s heart pounded. The wad of cash pressed tightly against her chest, heavy with emotion.
“Don’t say stuff like that, Marlène…”
“......”
“You’re like a second mother to me. Don’t make me lose a mother twice... please...”
“......”
Marlène’s eyes fluttered shut, as though all her strength had left her.
In that moment, Josée made a vow.
I’ll live in Château Fournier.
I’ll fulfill Marlène’s wish—to die somewhere other than a brothel.
To do that, I’ll need money.
And so, Josée began working as a pretend detective. Clients brought more clients, and word of her talents spread. Eventually, she saved enough for a down payment.
She negotiated with the castle owner and signed a rental contract. If she paid a fixed sum every year for twenty years, she’d own it outright. If she paid the full amount upfront, it would be hers immediately.
Josée only furnished one room of Château Fournier with luxury, and laid Marlène to rest there.
The doctor had diagnosed Marlène with tuberculosis. To keep the infection from spreading to the other courtesans, Josée temporarily hired servants to care for her.
But it wasn’t enough.
Six months later, the day after Josée turned fourteen, Marlène passed away.
From that day forward, Josée wore only black dresses.
The funeral was held at a small church near Château Fournier. Clients, patrons, and friends of the brothel poured in. For a brief time, the sleepy rural town buzzed with life.
Little Josée, having lost the emotional pillar of her world, drifted along with the tide, serving as chief mourner. By the time the crowds dispersed, only the empty castle and a few courtesans remained at her side.
“Hey, Josée,”
said Anaïs, one of the newer courtesans.
“These three say they’ll stay with you. The others... they’re moving to different brothels.”
Most likely, the women didn’t believe a child could run a brothel. Or maybe, deep down, they resented Josée—who had never worked as a courtesan herself.
But in that moment, the fire inside Josée reignited.
“Lisette, Michelle, Anaïs... Thank you for staying with me.”
The girl in the black dress rose to her feet, her expression solemn yet radiant with resolve.
"I’ll repay your kindness," she said, her voice unwavering. "I’ll make sure you become the highest-earning courtesans in the world."