The fog cleared, and the bath was visible from edge to edge.
No one else. Just the two of them.
Once she was certain Gojo had left, Ram lowered her gaze to Roswaal.
"My apologies, Lord Roswaal."
He shook his head, raised a finger to his lips, and let his eyes drift half-shut, settling deeper into the water as if giving himself over entirely to her care.
Ram said nothing more. She turned her attention back to the towel and scrubbed with quiet precision.
Clean, dressed in a loose bathrobe, and feeling lighter than he had in weeks, Gojo strolled back toward his room humming to himself.
His mind, though, was somewhere else entirely. Still turning over the conversation in the bath.
A nobleman with a storied lineage. Vast wealth. A public backer of a royal candidate.
No matter which angle he examined it from, Roswaal's behavior didn't add up.
Forget the clown makeup and the theatrical drawl for a moment.
An estate this size, maintained by two maids. Two. That alone was absurd.
This world and the modern one were different in countless ways, but some things had to be universal.
Aristocratic vanity, for instance.
A noble only cut staff when the money ran out. Even back in his own world, history was full of examples: families on the verge of ruin still throwing lavish parties, keeping up appearances at all costs, terrified of letting outsiders see the cracks.
Roswaal was the opposite.
Fine. Maybe the eccentric wardrobe and mannerisms could be chalked up to personality. Maybe the lack of guards made sense when the lord of the house was the kingdom's strongest mage.
But dismissing the rest of the staff to "protect them from getting caught up in something"?
Even if all of that could be hand-waved away, there was still Emilia.
Puck, her spirit, was no pushover. But he was only useful during the day. At night, anyone fast enough could put a blade through Emilia before she had time to summon him.
Other people might not know that. Roswaal, as her backer, certainly did.
A vulnerability that obvious, and no one assigned to watch over her? Anyone with half a brain would station a powerful guard at her side around the clock. This wasn't some children's game. The throne was at stake. Corporate succession fights involved assassinations. A royal contest would be worse.
That was the piece Gojo couldn't reconcile. From where he stood, the whole picture was riddled with holes.
Ordinarily, none of this would have been his problem.
Felt had said it from the start. Their plan was simple: get paid, get out, live comfortably.
But learning that Felt was a candidate herself had planted a different seed.
Not ambition. He couldn't have cared less about crowns or thrones.
What if he could turn this into a revenue stream?
Squeezing a one-time payment out of Roswaal was a single score. No follow-up, no future.
But using Felt's status as a candidate, turning it into a long-term arrangement...
Hard to say how it would shake out. At minimum, they'd never have to worry about money again.
Knowing Felt and her obsession with coin, she'd agree the second he explained it. That much was guaranteed.
The only question was whether Roswaal was the right mark. That was why he'd been probing during their chat, feeling out the Margrave's true attitude toward Emilia.
From what he'd seen so far, the odds looked decent.
He'd need more time to watch and confirm.
Rounding the corner near his room, he spotted Rem standing at his door with a tray, one hand poised to knock.
"Miss Rem?"
Surprise colored his voice.
"Some kind of special nighttime room service?"
"The guest is kindly asked to refrain from phrasing things with suggestive undertones."
"Rem only wishes to ensure every guest has the best possible experience."
Her tone was even, unbothered. She tilted the tray so he could see its contents.
"Fuwafuwa Candy. Crafted by a premier confectioner, a dreamlike sweet that's nearly indistinguishable from an actual cloud. Quite expensive and well-known throughout the capital. Given the guest's preferences, Rem thought it would be to your liking."
"Miss Rem, you're an angel." Gojo stared at the tray. "So much more considerate than a certain blonde brat."
"I heard that, you jerk."
Felt's voice came from behind him, followed by the whistle of something cutting through the air.
Gojo caught the shoe she'd hurled without looking and shrugged at Rem. "See? That's what I'm dealing with."
"Once the guest has finished the sweets, please remember to wash up before bed. If there's anything else you need, find me or my sister. Indecent requests excluded."
Rem showed no reaction to the commentary. Duty complete, instructions delivered, she turned and left.
"Already won over, are we?"
Felt leaned against the wall with her arms crossed, one foot lifted behind her, toes curled together. A smirk on her face.
"Did she bring you something too?"
Gojo tossed the shoe back.
"A bunch of nice clothes. I didn't take them..."
"You should have."
He cut her off.
"We're here to make money, not sightsee..."
Impatience sharpened her voice.
"Exactly. That's why you should have taken them."
He said it again, and Felt went still.
She stared at the sunglasses hiding his eyes, searching for something she could read. Finding nothing.
A beat of silence. Then she snorted.
"Fine, fine."
"But you'd better explain yourself later, or I won't let it go." She brandished a small fist in warning, then spun on her heel and disappeared into her room.
Gojo watched the door close, smiled, and carried his tray inside.
Some things were better saved until he was sure. He'd tell her when the time was right.
"Fuwafuwa Candy."
"That's a good name."
He looked down at the sweet on the tray, still smiling.