Chapter 28
“…Charlotte has left, you say?”
“Yes. She’ll be back in about a month.”
“A month… Did Charlotte say that herself before leaving?”
Marquis Blanche did not answer, keeping silent instead.
Theodore clenched his fists. Not being able to see Charlotte was bearable. It only meant their meeting had been delayed. He had endured five years; another wait would not matter. He could wait ten years more.
What weighed on his mind was whether Charlotte had left of her own accord, or if she had been driven away. He hoped it was not the latter, but the expression on Marquis Blanche’s face already gave him the answer.
Theodore knew. Having grown up with Charlotte, he knew well how others saw her. He had watched her grow frailer by the day, tears coming more easily.
She was strong, like Ronan, but wounds left to fester could not be overcome. He had seen that most closely. That was why he knew instinctively.
“Who was it? Who dared…?”
Marquis Blanche cherished Charlotte deeply. If someone had tried to harm her, he would never have let it pass. Yet it was Charlotte who had left.
That meant either the marquis himself could not exert his influence, or—if not that—he had no evidence to punish them with. Theodore would be less enraged if it were the latter, but even if it were the former, it mattered little.
For whom had he become a Holy Knight, a hero? If Marquis Blanche could not act, then Theodore would use everything he had built to exact retribution. If Charlotte had been hurt to the point of tears, then losing his title meant nothing to him.
“It’s already been settled. You need not step in. Besides, the Klagen family… they’ll try to find fault with you until the investiture ceremony. You should keep yourself in check.”
What did it matter? He had endured years of this already. A few more years would change nothing.
“And it was I who suggested she leave first.”
“…!”
“Charlotte… that child was too exhausted. She needed rest.”
At those words, Theodore’s fire subsided at once. If it was the marquis’s suggestion, then Charlotte truly needed to rest. Theodore himself had thought so before, but had never voiced it—afraid that speaking it aloud would only wound her further. For the marquis to have said it to her, despite knowing, meant much…
“…Please grant me permission to see Charlotte. Where is she?”
“That is not for me to grant. You are on the verge of your investiture. Where do you think you’re going?”
“Please tell me where Charlotte is, my lord.”
Marquis Blanche suddenly recalled his butler desperately holding him back when he had tried to go to Charlotte himself. For the first time, he understood that feeling.
I must be mad. And Theodore too, perhaps a little mad. The marquis placed a hand on Theodore’s shoulder to calm him. But what Theodore said next was something even Marquis Blanche could not deny.
“It troubles me to think Charlotte is alone in some distant land.”
How many truly worried for Charlotte? Marquis Blanche had always carried that burden—though he could provide every material thing, relationships were something Charlotte had to forge herself. Yet time and again, whenever she dared open her heart, she returned wounded—as though cursed by the gods. It pained him endlessly.
But Theodore, though he had burned with fury toward those who hurt her, still worried for her well-being. Marquis Blanche allowed a faint smile.
“I have assigned someone to stay by her side. A bright, sociable girl. Likely she has kept Charlotte company.”
He had no intention of telling Theodore that the one who had driven Charlotte into such a state was none other than Rieta. That was for both Charlotte’s sake and Theodore’s. Still, he could arrange for them to meet eventually.
“That child would be glad to know you’ve returned. She might even have wished to come see you. But the roads there are harsh—perhaps she could not. So once all your duties are complete, go and visit her. Charlotte is in…”
“The Nostri domain.”
“Yes, the Nostri—what?”
How did he know that? Marquis Blanche’s eyes widened.
If he had sent Charlotte far away, then it must have been a place where she could live peacefully. But if the roads there were difficult, then there must be another reason. Considering which rough, mountainous domains were tied to either House Blanche or Lord Ronan, there was only one answer: Nostri, where the Steria Castle lay.
So it was. An insight so sharp, it startled even Marquis Blanche.
A third letter had arrived from “East.” It came from the information guild that Norman had once frequented.
He had asked them to find out as soon as possible whether there was an orphanage in the Nostri domain. Their first reply had expressed reluctance. Understandably so.
Nostri lay in the northern snow mountains. Costs of operation outweighed profits. And unlike the capital, the population there was sparse—so when outsiders arrived, word spread quickly. The risk of one’s identity being exposed was high.
Among their many reasons for refusal, Norman discerned their true intent. Even though he had hidden his identity and used an alias, they were too experienced not to notice he was a noble. What they wanted was simple: more money.
So instead of a reply, he sent them a pouch heavy with gold. He had mailed it early in the morning, and by evening their second letter came. If he waited two days, they would have news.
After the blessing ceremony, Norman heard from Flynn that a letter had arrived from East. He returned immediately to the ducal residence. That was the third letter, now open before him.
“In response to your request: in the northern snow mountains of the Nostri domain, an orphanage operates under Duke Valiant’s oversight. The number of children is small, but official documents confirm it as a registered orphanage…”
He nearly crushed the letter in his hands. Norman was quietly delighted to see his suspicions proven true.
The “white-haired woman” described in the letter he had once thrown into the fire was Charlotte, and the child in her arms must have been one of the orphans.
Norman tapped his fingers lightly on the desk, then rose from his chair. Flynn, who had delivered the letter, flinched. Serving as his personal valet, Flynn could seldom read Norman’s expressionless face.
“Prepare the carriage.”
“Sir?”
“We’re going north.”
“…Excuse me?”
Flynn could not help asking again and again, though he knew it was improper. Did the young duke have acquaintances in the north? Did House Winteryle own land there? Nothing came to mind. Still, he asked no further questions.
Norman’s expression was grim. Best to stay quiet and prepare his luggage. Yet leaving immediately was impossible.
“My lord, you cannot. Tonight is the homecoming ball. You promised to attend as the Saintess’s partner.”
“I will stay only for the escort and the first dance. Then I’ll return.”
“And how do you plan to avoid the duke’s notice?”
“You know as well as I do—my father despises such events.”
More precisely, he despised them because he could not drink freely, surround himself with women, and squander coin as he pleased. Whenever an invitation arrived, he would foist all obligations on Norman and vanish to masked revelries in the noble underworld.
For once, his father’s vice was useful.
“I’ll say urgent business took me away. Escorting her and dancing once is more than enough. No one can fault me after that. Not even my father.”
It was true. Duke Winteryle neither cherished his son nor treated him well. He only called on him when it brought benefit. Flynn sighed heavily.
“How long will you remain there?”
“About a week.”
A week should suffice, Norman thought. Enough to meet Charlotte and clear up misunderstandings. Only later would he realize how mistaken he was.
Leaving the study, Flynn intended to tell the coachman to bind iron chains around the carriage wheels. But at the end of the hall, he spotted the butler approaching, his expression no less grim than Norman’s. Flynn bowed politely, intending to pass by—when the butler asked an unexpected question.
“Where are you off to?”
“Ah… the stables…”
“On your way, tell the servants this: the garden is crawling with pests, so it must be sprayed.”
“…!”
Flynn’s eyes widened. He nodded furiously, quickening his steps. The butler sighed, then stopped before Norman’s study. After a moment’s hesitation, he knocked quietly.
“Young master.”
“Butler? What is it?”
“The garden is crawling with pests…”—it was a code Norman had devised. A secret language used only between Norman, the butler, and trusted servants—excluding the duke himself.
The garden meant the ducal house. The pests meant Duke Winteryle. The remedy meant Norman.
In other words:
“Young master, the duke summons you.”
“And why is that?”
“I do not know exactly, but he met with Baron Portley earlier. Whatever occurred, his mood soured….”
Which meant: the duke’s temper was foul, and if one crossed his path carelessly, blood might be spilled—so Norman must subdue him.
“He demanded your presence at once, shouting for you.”
Norman pressed his hand to his brow. So it began again.
