Klein stared at the surface of the water in his teacup for a moment, his mind replaying the scenes from earlier over and over.
The way that black-robed girl had stood under the porch. Her tone of voice, her choice of words, and that small section of her jawline occasionally revealed through the gap in her hood—he couldn't put his finger on it, but something... something felt off.
It wasn't a bad kind of off.
It was a strange, inexplicable sense of familiarity.
After a long silence, he suddenly turned his head and glanced at Raymond, who was standing in the corner.
The old steward stood as straight as ever, hands folded in front of him, eyes looking straight ahead. His breathing was steady, and his back was perfectly upright.
Klein stared at him for three seconds.
“Raymond.”
“Yes, Master.”
“I want to ask you something.”
“Please, go ahead.”
Klein took a sip of tea and asked a very non-casual question in an extremely casual tone:
“My father and mother... they didn't happen to leave me an older sister out there somewhere, did they?”
The guest hall fell silent for a heartbeat.
Raymond’s expression didn't change, but his Adam’s apple bobbed—he had choked on his own spit.
The old steward coughed twice, pressing a fist to his lips. It took a bit of effort for him to catch his breath.
“Master,” his voice remained steady, though it carried a layer of restrained helplessness, “that is absolutely impossible.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am certain.”
Raymond straightened his body, his tone matter-of-fact. “I have been by the master’s side since I was fourteen. For the twenty-odd years following that—whether in the imperial capital, the north, or the years spent traveling the continent—I knew the master’s whereabouts better than anyone.”
He paused, his phrasing becoming even more precise. “The master had only one partner in his life, the madam, and the two of them had only one child: you. I swear it on my life.”
When the words “I swear it on my life” came from Raymond’s mouth, they carried a different weight. If someone else had said them, Klein might have had to weigh the truth, but coming from Raymond—it was an ironclad fact.
Klein nodded.
He believed him.
It wasn't because of Raymond’s oath, but because he understood the man. This old steward likely knew his father better than Klein did himself. After all, from youth to middle age, from a death-sworn soldier in the slums to a partner wandering the world, the road Raymond had walked with his father was longer than the years Klein had been alive.
It was to the point where, even though Klein’s father had been gone for many years, this nearly perfect steward would still occasionally slip up and confuse the titles “Master” and “Young Master.”
Klein set his cup down, his finger unconsciously tracing the rim.
Ophelia listened from the side without interjecting, but her gaze moved between Klein and Raymond. She was clearly surprised that Klein would suddenly ask such a thing.
Her fingers rested on the armrest, tapping twice—a gesture she only made when she was deep in thought.
“Why did you suddenly ask that?” she spoke up.
Klein didn't give a direct answer. He just set the teacup down and tapped his finger against the porcelain.
“It’s nothing. The thought just occurred to me.”
Ophelia didn't press further, but she clearly didn't fully believe that explanation. Knowing Klein as she did, the man never asked questions without a reason.
The guest hall remained quiet for a few more breaths.
“Alright,” Klein stood up, brushing non-existent dust from his sleeves. “The tea is cold; have the kitchen brew another pot. We have an extra guest tonight, so tell the chef to add two more dishes.”
He took a couple of steps toward the stairs, then stopped and looked back at Raymond.
“Oh, right—remember to change the bedding in the guest room. Don't use the set that’s been sitting in the cabinet all year.”
“Yes, Master.”
Klein headed up the stairs, his footsteps growing distant with every step.
Raymond stood where he was, watching the retreating back until it disappeared around the corner.
...
...
The carriage came to a halt at the entrance of the town.
Martha was the first to hop off, her movements crisp and efficient as her boots hit the flagstone path with a thud.
The black-robed figure stepped out of the carriage, planting her feet firmly on the ground with a soundless grace.
“We’re here!” Martha announced happily.
The Sage didn't speak, her head tilting slightly. Her expression remained hidden beneath the hood.
However, she paused at the carriage door for about a second and a half—slightly longer than a normal exit—as if she were mentally preparing herself for something.
The town wasn't large. A single main street ran from the east end to the west, lined with crooked wooden signs and faded cloth banners. There was a bakery, a general store, and a blacksmith shop, with a quiet little tavern tucked in between. Since it was market day, the street was livelier than usual, but only by a small margin.
The Sage stood at the street entrance, looking left and right.
She was looking very intently. She lingered on every sign, every window, and even the old woman at the roadside stall selling pickled vegetables. It wasn't a superficial glance; it was a way of looking that suggested she was... trying very hard to remember.
Or perhaps not quite “remember.”
It was more like she was “comparing.”
It was as if she were taking everything she saw and comparing it, item by item, to a version that had long existed in her mind.
Martha stood with her hands on her hips, following her gaze, but she couldn't make heads or tails of what was so interesting.
“Your Excellency Sage, is this your first time in a place like this?”
“...Not exactly the first time.”
“Then what are you looking for?”
The Sage paused.
“Seeing if anything has changed.”
Martha didn't understand, but she didn't dig deeper. She clapped her hands. “Let’s go, let’s go! Bakery first! I promised you earlier—the owner’s rye bread is the best. Though, he’s got a bit of a temper, so consider this a heads-up—”
She strode ahead, greeting everyone she met along the way. The woman selling vegetables, the man chopping wood, the old man sunning himself by the wall—she knew them all.
The Sage followed behind at a steady pace. Occasionally, a townsman would peer curiously in her direction, but she didn't shy away.
They reached the bakery. Martha ducked inside and emerged less than two minutes later with two loaves of rye bread, already taking a bite out of one.
“Here.” She handed one over, her voice muffled by the food. “Eat it while it’s hot.”
The Sage took the bread and looked down at it.
She stared at the coarse crust for several seconds as if identifying something.
Then, she lifted the edge of her hood and took a small bite.
Martha tilted her head, watching her chew.
“How is it?”
“...It is fine.”
Her voice was a tiny bit softer than before.
“Hey, that’s a bit of a bland review.” Martha finished her own bread in a few bites and brushed the crumbs off her hands.
She wasn't annoyed, however, and simply continued leading the Sage forward.
The walk down the street didn't take long. The owner of the general store was outside splitting wooden crates, the tavern sign was lopsided with no one to fix it, and the rhythmic clanging of a hammer echoed from the blacksmith shop—that was Martha’s father’s shop; she was a blacksmith’s daughter.
“That’s about all there is to it.” Martha spread her hands, looking a bit embarrassed.
The Sage finished the last bite of her bread.
She looked back at the street once more, her earnestness leaving Martha a bit puzzled.
“Is there anywhere else you want to go?” Martha asked.
The Sage didn't answer.
Her gaze remained fixed on that modest main street. The sunlight slanted in from the west, casting long shadows from the signs. The old woman selling pickles began to pack up her stall, moving jars into a handcart one by one—slowly, but steadily.
Martha thought for a while, then thought some more. There really wasn't anywhere else to go. She had walked through this town countless times over the last decade; she could walk from one end to the other with her eyes closed.
Suddenly, she slapped her forehead.
“Oh, right! How about we go see Lillian?”
“Lillian?”
There was a minute change in the Sage’s voice. It wasn't the pitch, but the rhythm—she repeated the name a beat faster than a normal reaction would dictate.
Martha didn't notice.
“She’s the town tailor, the one making Lady Ophelia’s wedding dress,” Martha said. “The dress was sent to the manor a couple of days ago, so there shouldn't be anything secret left in the shop. But her little place is quite interesting; the whole room is filled with plushies and thread—it’s like a tiny warehouse.”
The Sage didn't move.
Martha waited for two seconds. Thinking she wasn't interested, she was about to suggest something else—
“Alright.”
The voice was soft, but quick.
Martha blinked.
The Sage had already turned around, the hem of her black robe sweeping across the ground.
“Which direction?”
“Oh—this way, just around the corner.” Martha didn't think too deeply about it and hurried to catch up.
The two of them turned into a narrower alley.
At the end of the alley hung a natural wood sign with the words “Lillian's Sewing House” carved into it.
Martha pushed the door open, and a bell chimed.
“Lillian! You have a guest—”
The sound of something hitting the floor came from behind the counter.
It was the distinct thud of a book hitting the wooden floor, followed by a small yelp that trailed upward at the end.
The Sage looked inside.
The shop wasn't large, but it was packed to the brim.
Rolls of fabric were stacked on shelves against the walls—some rolled neatly, others leaning against each other haphazardly.
Scraps of cloth from a half-finished project were spread across the workbench, and a pincushion was bristling with needles of all sizes.
A girl was crouching behind the counter, flustered as she tried to pick up the novel she had dropped.
Her movements were frantic, but her coordination was poor; the book slipped again as she tried to grab it, and she had to pin it against the counter with her knee to steady it. By the time she finally stood up straight, her face was red to the tips of her ears.
Her light brown hair was braided and draped over her shoulder, and two sewing needles she had forgotten to remove were stuck in her apron.
Lillian glared at Martha first.
The reproach in her eyes was obvious—could you not shout so loudly when you come in?
But she only dared to glare for a second. As soon as her gaze met the black-robed figure behind Martha, she immediately shrunk back.
She stuffed the book under the counter, wiped her hands on her apron, and took a deep breath to force herself into business mode.
“...Hello.”
Her voice was as quiet as a mosquito’s buzz.
“Are you here to buy clothes?”
The Sage didn't answer immediately.
She stood at the door, watching the awkward girl.
Lillian froze—being naturally poor at social interaction, she didn't understand what the black-robed girl’s silence meant.
Martha, however, reacted quickly. She turned and looked the Sage’s black robe up and down. The robe was wrapped tightly from collar to ankle; the quality wasn't bad, but it certainly didn't look like something a normal person would wear while out shopping.
“Your Excellency Sage, would you like to buy some casual clothes? Isn't it hot wearing that all day?”
The Sage didn't respond to the suggestion.
Her gaze was still fixed on Lillian.
More accurately—it was fixed on the two sewing needles she had forgotten to remove from her apron.
After a breath, she finally spoke.
“...Is her skill good?”
“Of course!” Martha puffed out her chest. “She’s the only tailor in town, so there’s no other choice—but even if there were, she’d still be the best.”
“You won't see the wedding dress she made for Lady Ophelia until tomorrow, but those stitches—even a clod like me can see how beautiful they are.”
Lillian’s face turned even redder. Her fingers gripped the hem of her apron and her lips moved as if she wanted to say “no, no, don't say that,” but in the end, she only managed a faint, muffled sound.
Rate on N.U.
