Chapter 35

Harold could hear the boys' voices from the back of the garden.

They were together every waking hour, and yet somehow they still had things to talk about. He couldn't help finding it a little amazing.

Now and then he'd been curious enough about what they went on about that he'd listened in. At their age, none of it was anything grand. Sometimes they were chattering about the puppy or a fairy-tale book, and there were times they'd spend a full hour on what snacks they wanted.

Neither his brother nor his sister-in-law had been especially talkative — where in the world had it come from? Because they had a twin?

Harold had a brother too, but with eight years between them, he'd never chattered on to his older brother about every little thing. He wondered whether it would have been different if he'd had a same-age sibling....

He couldn't quite picture it. Harold shrugged and wrapped up the work. If the boys got along, so much the better.

"..."

The fence didn't look all that different from before he'd started.

The estate was already well kept. There couldn't be much of anywhere that actually needed touching up. The fence around the garden was more of a boundary marker than anything else. If Grisha said Harold could tear the fence down and level the woods behind the house, he'd almost certainly say yes. He'd probably prefer it.

He'd told his nephews he was repairing the fence, but more accurately he'd added an alarm to it. A trick he'd picked up in his mercenary days and up at the northern base.

At the very least, if some madman tried to come over the fence in the middle of the night, it would do its job. Harold gave a dark little smile.

Then he snapped back to himself. Footsteps.

He put the hammer and nails back in the toolbox. As soon as he'd more or less tidied up the mess around him, his nephews came into view. Something must have happened while he'd let them play in the garden — their hands and knees were caked in dirt.

"Uncle!"

Edwin barreled straight into Harold's leg. He grabbed onto Harold's clothes with practiced ease and scaled him all the way up to his shoulder in one go — enough to leave Harold shaking his head.

Thankfully, it seemed he hadn't inherited his father's coordination.

He'd settled himself on Harold's shoulder deftly enough, but Harold still didn't quite trust it, and grabbed Edwin's ankle.

"Hold on tight to my head."

"I won't fall!"

"Even so. All right?"

"Yes."

Edwin hugged Harold's head firmly.

Unlike Edwin, who'd come at him at a full run, Edgar was standing back, hesitating. When his eyes met Harold's, he twitched once and then let the tension out of his shoulders.

He wasn't like Edwin, who flung himself at their uncle without a second thought. But the careful way he came over said plainly enough how much this small boy trusted Harold.

"Edgar. Where'd you leave the bear?"

"...Why?"

"You always used to carry it around."

Edgar's eyes narrowed.

"I'm not a little kid. I don't carry a stuffed bear around."

"Is that so?"

Harold couldn't help smiling. Edgar clearly didn't like that his uncle was smiling — he stuck his lip out.

Even that face looked far too young.

How had his brother been able to close his eyes leaving these precious boys behind? What had he been thinking as he wrote the letter he'd left for Harold?

The sound of dirt striking the coffin was still sharp in his ears.

No — one way to look at it, at least he'd been able to hold a funeral at all. There was still no telling whether his sister-in-law was alive or dead.

"Uncle, when do we eat?"

Rather than scaling Harold's body the way Edwin had, Edgar tugged at his clothes.

"Is it already that time? Really hungry?"

When Harold held out his hand, Edgar naturally took it. The small hand tickled his palm.

"Not super hungry, but..."

"Let's go in, wash up, and eat. What were you two doing?"

"The swing! Uncle, did you make the swing out back?"

"Edwin, don't lean forward, you'll fall."

"Okay."

The hand cradling Harold's head brushed his face. Feeling the damp, Harold belatedly remembered that Edwin's hands had been caked in dirt too.

Judging by the way Edgar was scolding Edwin, Harold's face had probably ended up a mess of dirt as well.

"The swing? That's been there a long time. I just replaced the ropes."

"You said this was your friend's house. Are we allowed to just ride the swing?"

"You already did, Edwin."

"You can't just say that!"

"You already told Uncle we played on the swing!"

"All right, all right, no fighting."

With them chattering both above his head and below his waist, it was hard to keep track.

Harold ducked as he went through the doorway, careful not to bump Edwin's head against the frame.

"It's my friend's house, but I've never actually lived here."

"This house is only for royals."

"That's not quite right, but..."

The long history around House Lambert wasn't fit for the boys' ears.

Fortunately, Edgar's interest had latched onto the idea of his uncle having a friend.

"Uncle has friends?"

"I do have friends."

"Why?"

"...Uh."

"When did you meet him?"

"When I was in school. You've heard of the academy?"

"The place Dad went?"

"That's right. Your father graduated from there too."

Harold set Edwin down in front of the washroom. Edgar and Edwin quietly washed their hands alongside him.

"Uncle, back then —"

Harold was in the middle of handing them towels when he straightened up.

"Boys, one moment."

"Uncle?"

Harold headed for the front door. The boys came after him. Harold didn't stop them.

Far off, along the woodland path where spring green was starting to come in, a carriage was approaching. Rounding the bend, the side of the carriage flashed briefly into view — bearing the crest of House Lambert.

The carriage stopped in front of the manor. Before the driver could get to the door to open it, the carriage door flew open and a stately older woman stepped out.

The woman, in dark navy clothes, took one look at Harold and her face pinched into a frown.

"My word. Still slovenly as ever, even now you're a knight. You'll need to set a better example for your nephews."

The woman strode over and dabbed at Harold's cheek with a handkerchief.

Pocketing the handkerchief with the smudge on it, the woman looked down at Edgar and Edwin, both plastered firmly to Harold's legs. The eyes behind her glasses were sharp enough to cut.

Harold let out a wide laugh.

"It's been a long time."

"Given how little you come to the capital, I'd wager it's been a long time for everyone."

The woman gave a snort.

Pushing her glasses up though they hadn't slipped, she didn't wait for Harold to introduce her, and introduced herself to Edgar and Edwin directly.

"Young masters. My name is Linda. I've served House Lambert for a long time as a maid. I'll be looking after you both for the time being."

---

Albrecht shouldn't have died.

Two nights ago, in the King's Woods.

The Crown Prince's country house, once called Cradle of Stars.

With the change of owner, that name too had been shed. This long-empty manor had residents in it again now, so perhaps it was picking up a little life.

But that night was quiet. The boys were fast asleep, and their guardian had slipped out of the bedroom and was sitting in the drawing room. Across from Harold sat the master of the nameless manor — Grisha Lambert.

Grisha, who had rattled Harold with a single line, gave a low laugh.

"I heard you were looking for someone to take care of the boys."

"...You throw a line like that out and then swerve straight to that?"

The drawing room was dark in the middle of the night. The faint lamplight wasn't much help.

But even through the dark, Harold caught the smile hanging at the corner of Grisha's mouth.

"Where'd you hear that, anyway?"

"I have my ways."

"Anne?"

"My dear old friend does put a lot of care into managing her household."

"Who was it? I didn't spot anyone who looked like one of yours."

"If you'd spotted them, they wouldn't be worth using."

Harold gave a wry smile.

Anyone Harold couldn't catch was no amateur.

"I'll send Linda. Stop using half-competent people."

What reason could House Lambert have to keep an eye on Count Archibald? His brother had sometimes scolded Harold, saying maybe he ought to try using that head of his, but Harold wasn't stupid. It was just that the standard he was being measured against had always been his brother.

If there was a reason for something, of course Harold thought and acted on it. There were plenty of things he knew, even if he hadn't wanted to, thanks to the people around him.

This wasn't about House Lambert and Count Archibald. Grisha needed a reason to look into the city watch.

Harold's head snapped up. Grisha smiled.

"You —"

"You know, Harold."

The smile at the corner of his mouth had grown loaded.

"Thanks to Albrecht dying, I've been able to come back into the country. I didn't say anything, but the situation was actually rather awkward."

"..."

"You see."

Grisha tapped a finger against his knee.

"I don't know exactly what the circumstances were when Albrecht died, or what he was thinking."

"..."

"But if it was going to happen anyway, he'd have wanted to make the other side hurt somehow. Your brother was that kind of man."

Grisha spoke as though he knew Albrecht well.

Harold groped desperately to follow what Grisha was throwing at him. His brother? Doing what?

Albrecht Bertholdt had been the Director of Intelligence. Intelligence didn't sit under any other body. At least, not as far as Harold knew. The only person who could move Intelligence was the King.

Which was why Grisha had kept up his friendship with Harold while keeping Albrecht at arm's length. And Albrecht in turn had never drawn close to Grisha.

Harold's face twisted.

"What exactly happened in the capital while I was away?"

His brother and Grisha would never move without a reason.

"Grisha. You —"

"Harold."

Grisha cut him off. Strange, given how many hints he'd been laying out.

"Go any further and you'll get tangled up in something troublesome."

His brother's letter.

The first — no, the second letter that had been tormenting Harold this past month. The first had been the one delivered to the northern base. The letter that had brought news of his brother's death.

Harold. You always hated troublesome things.

There was no way his brother and Grisha didn't both know exactly what kind of things Harold considered troublesome.

The smile at Grisha's mouth vanished.

"If that's what you want to avoid, get out of the capital. Take your nephews with you. Albrecht will understand."

Whatever you decide, I won't blame you.

"You can keep using this house. But think it through. Once you set foot in, you can't take it back."

Please take care of Edgar and Edwin.

"There are people already dead. You'll manage on your own — I'm not worried about that. But I can't guarantee Albrecht's children's safety."

I'm asking you, Harold.

"..."

"Go to the domain, wherever. Just go, Harold. Somewhere safe. Somewhere you can raise your nephews with peace of mind."

His head was strangely quiet.

Ordinarily his thoughts would have been so tangled he'd have wanted to break something. Maybe he was already well past that threshold.

How much did Grisha know?

Had he found out what Harold had been digging into as well? Or had he already known?

And Gauss? Had his brother's aide met with Grisha too?

After a long silence, Harold spoke.

"And you?"

"Me? Ha ha ha."

Grisha let out a laugh. To a question Harold himself couldn't have said what he was really asking, Grisha answered with a short laugh.

"Same for me. Whatever you decide, I'll back you."

Harold looked at Grisha.

"Are you safe?"

"Ah, who knows."

For a brief instant, Grisha hesitated.

But almost at once he shrugged, easily enough that the hesitation might as well have been Harold's imagination.

"I'll survive without you."