The night before, a single line Gustav had written in the records room bore its fangs quietly in the morning light. Emilia didn't know about it. 7 AM. The Grand Dining Hall, Saal Lumière—ceiling height six meters, twelve chandeliers, surrounded on all sides by portraits of eight successive dukes—Emilia descended into and settled into her usual chair. Her deep crimson long curled hair arranged with care, a cream-colored dress with fine gold thread embroidery. The small mole on her right cheek caught the white morning light just slightly. From every angle, it was the perfect picture of a young noblewoman at breakfast. Except—the air was different. The servants standing along the walls had strange eyes. The moment their gazes threatened to meet Emilia's, every single one of them subtly shifted the angle of their face. Watching without watching. Not so much wary as observing with a thick, appraising gaze that hung throughout the room. (It wasn't like this until yesterday.) Emilia tilted her head inwardly while reaching for the freshly baked bread. Crisp on the outside, fluffy within. That breakfast bread Kurt insisted on baking fresh every morning. She put it in her mouth. Delicious. Just as always, properly delicious. "[gentle]This bread is delicious today too" Since the Kurt-crying incident last week, Emilia had been choosing her words carefully. One dish at a time, quietly, naturally. It was around the time she was beginning to understand that this was what "being honest" meant. The sous chef standing beside her stopped moving abruptly. Then—a quick glance, a "thank you very much" while never meeting Emilia's eyes, and a step backward. Emilia followed the movement with her eyes, fork still in hand. Last week's Kurt had collapsed in tears. Overwhelmed with emotion, he'd crumpled to the floor. But this morning's reaction—it was completely different. Not emotion, not surprise, but something else mixed in. She tried speaking to the next servant. "[gentle]Your new apron suits you very well" That servant froze for a moment. Then said "thank you very much" with only their mouth, their body half-turning away. The distance they created was as if Emilia's words carried some physical weight. Something was wrong. Clearly wrong. Emilia pushed down her inner confusion and brought the teacup to her lips. The fingers holding the fork had gone slightly white with tension. No one was taking her sincerity at face value. Everyone was processing Emilia's honest words as some kind of "performance." Each time she was confronted with evidence of this, something deep in her chest ached with a slow, creeping pain. (As it would later be discovered, the notice Gustav had written the night before had such heavy pen pressure that his handwriting was quite distorted, and when the servants who could read it relayed its contents verbally to those who couldn't, the information that eventually spread throughout the mansion was: "The young lady may have her heart controlled by a spy." The original text had been merely five characters—"please be cautious"—but the fact that it had passed through seven people before reaching that conclusion was not recorded anywhere.) Emilia, unaware of all this, set down her fork. Her hand trembled slightly. ──── 10 AM. She'd fled to the library because she didn't want to see anyone. Second floor of the main building, a library packed with approximately 8,000 volumes—this space where Emilia spent most of her days now functioned as a refuge. Beyond the window, the eastern district of the imperial capital Solvaredo slowly awakened in the morning light. The surface of the Grao River gleamed white in the distance. Emilia pulled a book on etiquette from the shelf and sat at the desk. The door opened. It was Alto. Silver short hair. Buttons of the butler's uniform fastened precisely. Eyes like ice, blue. His 182-centimeter frame entered the room while closing the door. Normally he would place a teacup on a tray and set it quietly at the corner of the desk. Today—there was no tray. Alto stood across from the desk. He didn't sit. He stood, looking at Emilia. The small silver earring on his right ear caught the window light and gleamed for just a moment. "[serious]Please explain your relationship with Reihert Sebastian" His voice was flat. None of his usual sarcasm. No sharp tongue. Just a cold sentence in the form of a businesslike demand. "[cold]……Including the contents of last night's conversation in the rose garden" Emilia looked up from the etiquette book. "[serious]There's nothing" Keeping her voice steady was slightly difficult. "[serious]He simply said he wanted to see my smile. He said what all of you have wanted me to say for so long. That's all" "[serious]You trust people too easily" Alto took a step closer to the edge of the desk. His tone didn't change. But each word was sharp as a blade. "[serious]The Reihert family is currently caught in factional struggles within the Crown Council. They don't belong completely to either side and may be extracting information from both. Captain Gustav's investigation last night suggests as much. That man's words carry political context……" "[angry]Then who am I supposed to trust!" Her voice echoed through the library. Emilia herself was surprised. She hadn't thought such a loud voice could come from her. The etiquette book slid from the desk. A rustling sound. Neither of them picked it up. "[angry]All the servants doubt me, and since this morning no one will even look me in the eye—and you, you were cold to me for the first time today!" She was standing. She didn't remember standing up. "[angry]You told me to be honest! Every time I tried to change, you were right there beside me! Day after day, saying sarcastic things, but——" Her voice caught. "[angry]……But you were really watching me. Weren't you" Silence fell. Alto's eyes widened. Slightly, but unmistakably. Something wavered in those ice-blue eyes. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. Alto looked away from Emilia. Toward some other direction—the meaningless spines of books on the shelf—and opened his mouth. "[cold]……I was merely offering an opinion necessary for my duties as a butler" His voice was perfectly composed. Emilia heard those words. Her facial muscles didn't move for a moment. "[cold]……I see. So that's how it is" She placed the etiquette book back on the desk. Carefully, aligning the corners. Alto turned on his heel. Only the sound of the door closing remained. Left alone in the hardened silence. ──── 1 PM. Walking down the corridor after leaving the library, Emilia's footsteps stopped as she turned past the main staircase. There was a figure ahead in the corridor. He was carrying a travel bag. It was Reihert Sebastian. He'd stayed one night in the guest room of the mansion since yesterday's tea party, and in this morning's light he seemed slightly—his outline thinner than last night. Red streaks mixed through his black hair lay dull in the white light of the corridor. The mask hanging at his chest swayed quietly. "[gentle]I received a notice from Captain Gustav" His voice was as gentle as always. The mysterious smile was unchanged, still there. "[gentle]Not to make unnecessary contact with the young lady within the mansion" "[serious]……And" Sebastian's gaze turned to Emilia's golden eyes for a moment. "[gentle]If you doubt me, then my staying here would only be a burden" "[serious]I don't doubt you" "[gentle]Even if you don't——" Sebastian adjusted his grip on the travel bag's handle. "[gentle]This entire mansion doubts me. Your feelings alone aren't enough to keep me here" That voice carried something for the first time—something unlike the usual masked nobleman. In a voice too accustomed to performance, something real seeped through, just barely. Emilia tried to say something. She searched for words. But found nothing. "[gentle]I'll come again" Sebastian smiled. Today's smile was slightly thinner than yesterday's. "[gentle]When you've found your answer" He walked down the corridor. Emilia watched his back recede. The travel bag disappeared into the distance of the hallway. Just then, a servant appeared from the end of the corridor. Noticing Emilia, they lowered their eyes with an "excuse me" and slipped past her like a shadow. They didn't stop. They didn't speak. Alone in the corridor, Emilia placed her hand against a pillar. ──── 3 PM. The color of the sky began to change. The octagonal pavilion in the rose garden—the small white-columned pavilion built in the center of the garden where 127 varieties of roses her grandmother had spent thirty years collecting bloomed in profusion—was the one place in the ducal mansion where Emilia could be completely alone. She placed her hand on the railing. Looking at the Grao River. Today the river's surface gleamed dully, without beauty. The sky was beginning to cloud. The water reflected gray. The first raindrops fell on the rose leaves. Emilia didn't move. Fine drizzle became heavy rain within minutes. The sound of rain striking the pavilion's roof grew louder. Rain covered the entire rose garden. All 127 varieties of roses grew wet at once. (I just wanted to be honest.) That was all. That was all it was. I just wanted to live truthfully, to tell someone "this is delicious," to say "that suits you well." To slowly reclaim the words I couldn't say for eighteen years. Just that—and for it, all the servants doubted me, Alto built a wall, Sebastian left. Slowly, her knees gave way. She sat down on the pavilion's floorboards. A memory from when she was five surfaced abruptly. Before her mother took to her sickbed. Walking through this rose garden, hand in hand. When rain began to fall, her mother's voice—she still remembered it—saying: rain is necessary for roses too, Emilia. When was the last time her father returned to the mansion? Emilia hadn't seen her father's face in weeks, consumed as he was by Crown Council meetings. How many nights had she spent alone before mountains of etiquette books. How many times had she seen the morning breakfast in Saal Lumière with forty chairs arranged empty. It all came crashing down at once. She wrapped her knees in both arms. A noblewoman doesn't cry in public. That was the most fundamental teaching of the Unwritten Law of Noble Emotion—the unspoken rule of Weltheim imperial noble society that treated the exposure of emotion in public as "bestial behavior." But this was sacred ground. No one was here now. So—the crying of eighteen years that knew only how to be silent, the kind that leaves no sound, seeped out slowly, hidden in the sound of rain. ──── Twenty minutes after the rain intensified, there was a presence. A figure stood at the pavilion's entrance. Emilia looked up. It was Alto. He had no umbrella. His butler's uniform was soaked through. Water dripped from his silver short hair, traced his cheek, and fell from his jaw. His white gloves absorbed the rain, the outline of his fingers visible through the transparency. His 182-centimeter frame simply stood in the rain. In his hand was a single red rose. A single rose freshly picked from the mansion's rose garden. The water droplets on the stem dripped from Alto's fingers. Alto held the rose out toward Emilia without a word. Emilia couldn't take it, couldn't refuse it. She only looked up at Alto's face. Those ice-blue eyes were looking at her. No sarcasm. No sharp tongue. No wall of "as a butler, on business." Just soaked through, holding a rose, standing here. Alto opened his mouth. "[gentle]……You'll catch a cold, Miss" His voice was trembling. Not his usual composure. There was a slight wavering at the edge of his voice, as if he'd tried to suppress it but couldn't quite manage. New moisture welled up in Emilia's eyes. This time it wasn't from despair. "[gentle]……You're the one who'll catch a cold" Her