Roselia placed a model ship that had been shoved into a corner onto the tabletop, her expression heavy with intent. “How about this, Grandfather?”
“Who is your grandfather?”
“Don’t be like that. Doesn’t this stir something in you? Doesn’t it make your hands itch to work?”
At Roselia’s hopeful look, Count Bernas stared blankly at the ship before scratching the back of his hand with sudden, vigorous intent. “My hand is itching, yes, but that’s likely just a mosquito bite.”
At the Count’s detached reaction, Roselia let out a deep, deflating sigh. She was currently cleaning the dust-choked Bernas mansion. Though she called it cleaning, it was more of a desperate hunt for anything that might spark the Count’s dormant memory. Because it was impossible for her to scrub the vast estate alone, she focused her efforts on his living quarters.
As she wiped down a table, she spotted a frame that had slipped behind the nightstand and pulled it out with some effort. The black-and-white photo showed a young man in a military uniform standing at rigid attention. Assuming it was the Count’s son, she held the picture out. “Grandfather, is this your son?”
The Count, who had been playing chess by himself, responded with a listless gaze. “Yes.”
“He’s a soldier, then?”
The works that had earned Count Bernas the title of a genius painter were all rooted in the navy and war—vivid depictions of survivors raising victory flags amidst the smoke of battle. His years as an active naval officer had clearly fed that brilliance. Hoping the sight of his son might reignite that creative fire, Roselia watched him with bated breath.
“Well… he falls far short of my own accomplishments, but he is a fellow who has received imperial medals. He is currently commanding the Rugvelzet’s finest, the Eskivan naval fleet.”
“It seems he hasn’t been home for quite a while.”
The state of the mansion made that much obvious; had the young Count been a regular visitor, the halls wouldn’t be layered in such thick neglect.
“The ungrateful wretch,” the Count muttered. Even as he tried to affect a tone of indifference, his shoulders slumped, appearing infinitely small. “No matter how busy he is with the affairs of the nation, does he not even wonder if his old man is dead or alive?”
Feeling a prick of misplaced guilt at his hurt tone, Roselia forced a smile. “He must be terribly busy.”
Sensing the mood souring, she quickly pivoted. “Grandfather, what was it like when you were in the service?”
She hadn’t expected much. As with many suffering from his condition, the Count’s memories were fragmented, flickering like a dying candle. Yet, she hoped against hope that he might summon a shard of the past that would inspire him to paint again.
To her surprise, the Count stopped his restless fidgeting. His gaze sharpened, and he began to pour out stories with the sudden, vibrant clarity of a fish finding water. “When I was in my prime, I led dozens of fleets across the vast Calio Sea. I encountered a Kraken—a monster of the deep—several times while braving the storms. People think those are rumors or legends? The creature is real. Many of my subordinates were lost to its reach.”
“Oh! That’s incredible! Grandfather, tell me more. Was there anything else?”
Seeing a glimmer of hope in his sudden fluency, Roselia leaned in, her eyes wide with exaggerated interest to sustain his excitement.
“The fleet I led was invincible. We brought the Evers Civil War and the Battle of Clamman to a close, and our service was honored by the Imperial Family.”
“My goodness, that’s amazing!”
Watching the Count puff out his chest with pride, Roselia kept the momentum going with enthusiastic commentary. Encouraged, he pushed further.
“During the Battle of Clamman, land and sea warfare collapsed into one. Because the army was completely annihilated, the navy had to go ashore. My fleet had no choice but to join the blood-drenched fray.”
He scrunched his face, the horror of the memory resurfacing. “It was hell. I lost so many of my comrades.”
The Count bowed his head into his hands, falling silent. Concerned by the sudden heaviness, Roselia watched him—until he suddenly snapped his head up, scanning the room with frantic eyes.
“Bagnon… where is Bagnon? Bagnon??”
“Grandfather?”
“Bagnon!!! If you go that way, it’s total annihilation! The vanguard must be abandoned! Come back! Bagnon!!!”
Roselia scrambled to her feet as the Count lunged toward the empty air, shouting into the void.
“Grandfather! Please, get a hold of yourself! Grandfather?”
She grabbed his arms, shaking him, but he only scrambled harder, shouting orders as if the phantom cannon fire of the past were ringing in his ears. “Fourth Fleet, retreat! Damn it! Abandon the wounded! Only the living, get on the ships!”
“Count Bernas!”
Sensing a true collapse, Roselia gripped his shoulders firmly, forcing him to look at her. Slowly, the focus returned to his murky, unfocused eyes.
“Hah… Haa, haa…”
“Are… are you feeling a bit more clear-headed?”
She tried to support him, but the Count roughly shoved her hands away. His voice was hollow, stripped of all color. “Get out.”
“Pardon?”
“Get out of my mansion immediately!”
As he began to throw the few remaining household items in a fit of sudden madness, Roselia had no choice but to retreat. Her gaze lingered on the door, heavy with worry, but it was clear that for now, he needed to be left alone. With heavy, reluctant steps, she turned away and headed back toward the Duke’s estate.
* * *
Through the window of a curtained carriage, a woman glared at Roselia as she retreated from the mansion. “He is that woman’s brother?”
“According to the servant we bribed at the Ducal estate, that is correct.”
“Hmm… The rabbit we’re looking for is nowhere to be seen, but this black cat keeps hovering around.”
Unlike her cold, precise tone, a man with a solid build was currently entangled with her. Even as he pressed against her, she merely stroked his hair with leisure, as if petting a cat. The man sitting opposite, tasked with the report, didn’t bat an eye at the display.
“Hmm… If he’s her brother, we should be able to find that woman if we track him. You’ve placed a tail on him, correct?”
She let out a soft hum, stroking the face of the man who had pulled down the front of her dress, and glanced at the reporter.
“That is…”
“What? You didn’t put a tail on him?”
Her eyes darkened with displeasure. She grabbed the hair of the man clinging to her, but neither of them so much as flinched, their focus entirely on the game being played.
“The security of Duke Baltezar is extremely tight.”
At the reporter’s strained admission, she arched a brow. “Go on.”
“There is already a shadow placed by the Duke that is providing close protection for him.”
The woman tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. “The Duke is protecting a man who is merely a servant to that extent?”
She fell into deep thought, her hand moving idly over the man at her waist. “Isn’t that overprotective, even for the brother of the woman he’s in love with?”
Suddenly finding the man’s service lackluster, she kicked him away with a sharp, dismissive movement. “Is there a real need to put this much effort into finding that woman? I truly cannot understand his way of thinking.”
The man who had been shoved away scrambled to his knees on the carriage floor. Ignoring him, she stared at the messenger with narrowed eyes.
“For now, keep watching that man closely.”
“As I just said, it is impossible to tail him…”
“You idiot! Who told you to follow him directly? Ambush him. Monitor him within the specific areas he frequents!”
“Yes, I understand.”
As the man bowed and retreated, she looked out the window, frustrated. “I’ll have to coax the Duke myself. He even took a tavern woman as his mistress, so why not me? Right?”
She pulled the man back into her arms. As the air in the carriage grew thick and stifling, the coachman’s voice cut through the silence. “Viscount Clement, it is time to attend the banquet at Count Blimond’s estate.”
“Depart.”
Her voice was impossibly calm, a stark contrast to the scene of indulgence within the carriage.
* * *
Roselia, taking tea for the first time in a while as Closette’s *Il Domestico*, sat across from her, sipping the brew Melda had prepared. Watching Roselia sit in her crisp servant’s uniform, Closette puffed out her cheeks.
“Where have you been going lately? You don’t even play with me…”
At the sulky complaint, Roselia offered an apologetic, awkward smile. “I’m sorry. I’ve just been a bit preoccupied…”
“Did you find another art piece?”
Since Closette had played a pivotal role in connecting art pieces to the Crown Princess through Lady Herden, she was well aware of Roselia’s secret mission.
“Um… something like that.”
To be precise, she was waiting for a broken artist to find his way back to his canvas.
“Well, it can’t be helped if you want to escape from Klaus’s clutches. I understand.”
Closette spoke of her own brother as if he were a dangerous, predatory beast. Roselia looked at her and offered a bright, knowing smile.
“As expected, only the young Lady understands.”
Pleased, Closette puffed out her chest, shrugged, and haughtily tilted her teacup.
At that moment, as if struck by a sudden thought, she put her cup down and looked at Roselia.
“Oh, the Crown Princess sent an invitation for a tea party. Of course… to Roselia.”