Welcome to the Rose Mansion - Chapter 130
“What… what is this?”
A man lay on the bed.
A man who was dying—no, more accurately, a man who was rotting away.
The foul stench of decay rose through the overpowering scent of roses. His body, covered by the blanket, had already turned black and festering up to his neck. Blackened pus and dried blood clung to the red bedclothes.
His face was not spared either. Rotten flesh had peeled away from his cheeks, revealing decaying teeth and bones. The only part of him that remained intact was his right eye—a dark, dull eye, like a worn piece of obsidian.
That eye moved slowly, focusing on Richelle. The moment their eyes met, Richelle was struck by a sudden memory—the twins’ black eyes flashed through her mind.
No, it couldn’t be. Surely not…
“Are you… Master Otis…?”
Even as she spoke, she silently prayed it wasn’t true. But the man slowly closed his eyes, then opened them again.
An undeniable affirmation.
“My God, how…”
He was alive.
The missing Rick Otis had been here on the fourth floor all along.
In a state so terrible, so decayed, that death would have been kinder.
Richelle clutched her forehead. How was she supposed to break this cruel truth to Alan?
It was clear just by looking that Rick Otis didn’t have much time left. His body was rotting away in real time, and at best, he might survive another week.
Torn by indecision, Richelle bowed slightly toward Rick Otis.
“Master Otis, I’m a governess employed by Bertrand. Right now, I’m helping Alan Otis.”
“……”
“Is there anything I can do to help you?”
Rick Otis closed his eyes again, this time for ten full seconds, before opening them. It seemed to be a sign of refusal or denial.
Ten seconds passed before he opened his eyes again, but now, they were not looking at her.
They were focused on something behind her.
Startled, Richelle turned. There was a red bookshelf.
“Do you want me to bring something from the bookshelf?”
Rick Otis closed his eyes for another ten seconds. Richelle tried again.
“Is there something on the bookshelf that I need to see?”
This time, he blinked slowly. Richelle moved toward the bookshelf.
There were various books lined up—some in unfamiliar languages, others as simple as thin children’s books. The spines came in a variety of colors, as if red couldn’t dominate here.
Richelle carefully examined the bookshelf.
‘Nothing stands out.’
Should she pull out each book to check their contents?
She bent down to inspect the lower shelves, and then, her gaze stopped on something.
“A book…?”
No, it wasn’t a book. Hidden cleverly among the volumes was a small, rectangular box, similar in size to a book.
She had found it.
The moment her eyes fell on the box, she knew it.
Richelle quickly grabbed the box. There was a small lock attached.
“Do I need to find a key for this too?”
Just as she was glancing around and about to head toward the drawers, she bumped into the sofa.
Thunk. Clatter—
The keyring in her pocket fell to the floor.
As Richelle bent down to pick it up, she froze.
“That key…”
Tucked between the other keys on the ring was a very small one, so small she hadn’t even noticed it before.
Driven by a strange intuition, Richelle fit the small key into the lock on the box.
It fit perfectly. The box opened without resistance.
“What’s this?”
Inside the box was a gold locket and a thin brown diary. Both items were impeccably preserved, showing no signs of age.
Richelle inspected the locket first. When she opened it, she found a portrait of a young girl with sharp features and dark green eyes. It was a well-drawn portrait, though she had no idea who the girl was.
Carefully placing the locket back in the box, Richelle turned her attention to the diary. As soon as she opened the first page, her hand froze.
[ To the brave and wise person who has come this far. ]
The handwriting was neat and familiar.
[ Pleased to meet you. My name is Charlotte Otis. ]
Charlotte Otis.
The one who had written Bertrand’s rules and started the wager with Rogéros Walter.
The guide who had led Richelle and Alan to this very moment.
The owner of this diary was none other than her.
