The Secret Code of Monsters.

Chapter 1012 (Ch.1011) The Coffin and the Rats
Randolph was the most 'cautious' of all of Roland's friends.

When he arrived, he wasn't greeted by the master or Tereza—he was served by three maids who weren't in the main house. They mistook him for a turkey being plucked, led him to the washroom, and scrubbed him from head to toe for half an hour…

Caution is necessary.

Roland hoped that Randolph would hire three servants next time who weren't so prone to glaring.

Throughout the entire 'cleaning toxins' process, he was almost being watched by three bees searching for a flower's stamen: whenever Roland refused and claimed that he had two arms, a left arm and a right arm, the lead maid would giggle and tell him that this was a task they had to complete 'personally'.

'But there aren't any toxins below my belly button.'

In fact, whether a master can readily accept the service of a servant is the best indicator of a guest's status: the poor are always hesitant and reluctant to serve, while those who have been accustomed to serving since childhood are quite different.

“A person who is used to being served from childhood will not have three maids staring at the area below their navel all day long.”

Roland was rambling on without noticing Tereza, who had just turned in.

The old maid looked at Mr. Roland, who was wearing the 'pure' indoor clothes, with a surprised look: she was surprised and suspicious. She put down the freshly baked cookies, took a cheerful step like an eighteen-year-old girl, and disappeared at the end of the corridor in the blink of an eye.

She was eager to hear the rumors circulating among the maids.

Roland and Randolph both looked completely bewildered.

Beatrice took a nap, and when she woke up and learned that Roland was coming to visit, as usual she dropped Brontë, ran off her indoor shoes, and threw herself into Roland's arms—she had grown up again.

"Roland! Roland!"

Good morning, little princess.

"I miss you."

"Yes, I miss you too, my dear. We always manage to see each other when our longing is at its strongest... I guess there are many gods who are determined to make our love and destiny come together."

The older brother, standing nearby, objected: "You're becoming increasingly disrespectful to my sister."

“Don’t say that,” Roland said, placing Beatrice on his lap. “Maybe it’s just disrespect.”

After saying that, he covered Beatrice's face and dodged like a shrimp.

The half-eaten biscuit rubbed against his scalp and landed on the leather sofa, earning him a good scolding from Theresa.

Why do these two people always act like children?
“Miss Jones misses you very much, Mr. Collins. That’s absolutely true. She’s painted many pictures of you… By the way, how are Ms. Jones and Mr. Collins?”

After the toxin spread, the Blue Socks Club suspended its weekly gatherings.

After settling her family in, Brontë spent two sweet weeks with Randolph: not having to go out meant her rich husband could work from home all day—who could serve Randolph better than Brontë?
Even if Theresa didn't like it, she felt that no more people should be given a 'chance'—having one like that was already a headache enough.

“Miss Brontë is already a well-known writer, Theresa. Don’t you allow her to become even better?” While Brontë was upstairs helping Beatrice move her paintings, Roland whispered a few words about his friend’s love life.

Theresa gave him a smile that said, "I agree, but I'm determined not to change it."

"If the Taylor family needed a good position and reputation, why didn't Randolph marry an earl's daughter?" A writer is certainly good, but it depends on who you're comparing him to.

How long does it take Brown to write a book?
It's not even as much as Beatrice's allowance for two months.

"Why?" Roland glanced at the man who was silently drinking his tea and shrugged. "Obviously, because he doesn't like it."

"Whether you like the Taylor surname or not is irrelevant."

“I think Taylor only has Randolph left now,” Roland leaned closer to Theresa, lowering his voice. “He told me that he used to have a strong ‘liking’ for a business partner named Porter—don’t widen your eyes so much, even though I’m blind…yes, Theresa, a man. Randolph secretly told me that if it weren’t for Brontë’s charm, he would have fallen in love with a man long ago…”

"If I were to choose a lover from among men, you would be the first to suffer." The cookie that came with the voice finally hit Roland squarely on the back of the head.

Randolph gave himself a perfect score.

"Please, you two, every time you finish a battle, I have to have the maid clean up the cookie crumbs on the sofa—enough to feed half the homeless in the East End."

The old maid, one in each arm, carried the two monkeys, living in adult bodies, to the liquor cabinet in the living room. She made them sit obediently on low stools, unscrewed a bottle of whiskey, and gave Randolph a wink.

'Behave yourself.'

Randolph laughed like a flattened loaf of bread.

The sullen old maid turned around, a silent smirk playing on her lips.

Roland has arrived.

The dark clouds of the past two weeks seemed to have dissipated considerably in an instant.

"Ladies, I don't think you need to sneak peeks at them and smile: one is your master whom you see every day, and the other is a gentleman who is even more handsome than you—although for a man, one woman is far from enough...at least you're not drunk yet, are you?"

She shooed away the maids whose heels were stuck in the wool blankets like a mother hen shooing away a young lady.

Ever since the rumors about Roland started (believe me, it won't have taken more than half an hour), these girls' eyes have never left the tassels hanging from Roland's customer service belt.

It's not entirely because of some vulgar and shameless ideas.

after all.

Whenever ladies and gentlemen strolling the streets discuss the shape, structure, color, pattern, and speed of horse-drawn carriages, they are always surprised when they see a train with a steel frame.

'By divine intervention! This thing can actually run on the street?'

"Sigh, women just don't see much. Is it so hard to just widen the street?"

'You don't need to go to that much trouble.'

all in all.

The girls envied Miss Beatrice even more.

“If I were involved in even one of these paintings, I wouldn’t be so angry with you.” Brontë and several maids carried Beatrice’s paintings down from the second floor—needless to say, they were almost entirely by Romain Rolland:
Roland's profile as he drinks, his pensive expression with a cigar in his hand (actually daydreaming), his embrace of Beatrice, and his laughing face towards her: it seems that among the figures in the Taylor mansion, Roland is the only one who is 'blurred' in Beatrice's paintings.

It's not about whether the painting skills are superb or not.

Roland has no facial features.

She adored the man in the painting with gold, black, and green, while the rest were depicted in plain gray.

This was bound to anger Randolph Taylor.

He's his older brother.

"What's this?"

Roland flipped through the drawings, and a few pages caught his attention:

They were fluffy black spots, along the corners, the walls, in the most inconspicuous places on the drawing paper, so small that they could be mistaken for accidental blemishes if not looked closely.

Randolph glanced at it, displeased: "My sister isn't Turner."

Beatrice: "It's a rat!"

Theresa exclaimed in surprise, "There are no mice in the house, Miss."

That would be their dereliction of duty.

"The wall! It's inside the wall!"

Beatrice never lies.

(End of this chapter)