Chapter 65

The kings of the Kingdom of Alharn had always been blond.

In the early days of the kingdom, blond had mattered so much that the throne sometimes went not to a dark-haired eldest but to a youngest who had inherited the color. The kingdom staked its legitimacy on descent from the imperial line of the Eshan Empire — famously blond in its own right — so this made a certain sense.

Even setting that aside, it was true that the royal family had a striking number of blonds. The royal house said this was proof of magic passed down from the Eshan Empire. Trotting out magic as an explanation in the modern age — not even back in imperial times — was frankly ridiculous, but since it was the royal family's legitimacy, everyone went along with it. And if a mystical bloodline stirred up interest or a bit of romance, that was all to the good.

Most people in the Kingdom of Alharn had dark hair, so that bright blond stood out sharply. Grisha Lambert's hair was the same.

Edgar had heard that his mother — whom he could barely remember now — had also been blond. But the Barbosa family, his mother's, had come from overseas. Her deep gold had been a clearly different shade from the blond in the portraits.

"..."

Edgar walked slowly along the row of portraits.

The kings in the portraits differed in dress, in pose, in setting. Nor were they wearing the stern expressions of the official portraits painted each year from the moment of accession. These weren't hung in the palace but in the royal family's private space, which explained it.

Some portraits showed a king reading, or sitting in a garden. Rarely, some were painted with the queen or their children.

Edgar stopped at the last portrait.

Edgar Bertholdt had seen the king only once, before he returned to the past. The elderly king's hair had long since gone white, so his original color was impossible to tell.

The two princes, however, both had brown hair.

Even without any tie to the royal family, Edgar of course knew how the king had come to the throne. The previous king had died young and left no children. The king's younger brother had been assassinated at an even younger age.

The only royal left was so distantly related he could hardly be called royal anymore — Marquis Adler. Ryan Adler. The current king.

The royal family had shrunk so far that the Adlers, who normally wouldn't have counted as royalty at all, were the previous king's only remaining kin, and Ryan was said to have been as close to him as a real brother. If the cause of the previous king's death hadn't been clear, Ryan might have been saddled with the stain of assassination — but as it stood, Ryan Adler became king.

Before Edgar was a portrait of Ryan Adler as a young man. He wore an old shirt and waistcoat and a faint smile. His naturally tousled hair was a bright brown. Brighter than what Edgar remembered of the princes' hair, but a color no one would ever mistake for blond.

The painter had clearly used warm tones, yet somehow the impression was strangely melancholy.

That gloomy face... was familiar. The Grisha Lambert Edgar remembered looked much like it.

But Edgar looked at the portrait to Ryan Adler's left. A portrait of the previous king, who'd died young. Since his reign had been short, only a few portraits remained. This was the first time Edgar was seeing one of them.

Neatly tied bright blond hair. Smiling green eyes. The face behind the glasses was...

"...He looks like him."

He looked so much like Grisha Lambert it was startling.

So much that Edgar couldn't help saying it aloud.

The gently smiling face in the portrait could have passed for the man himself. The Grisha Lambert who'd held his hand out earlier had smiled almost exactly the same way.

"Master Edgar."

Absorbed in the portrait, Edgar jumped clean off the floor at the voice behind him.

He whipped around to find Linda standing there.

"What are you doing here?"

"Uh, um... I was looking at the paintings!"

"The portraits?"

"Yes..."

He hadn't done anything wrong, but Edgar found himself watching Linda's face uneasily.

Linda looked at the portrait Edgar had been studying.

"Prince Waldemar. He was a good man."

"You knew him?"

Dead or not, speaking of a king so casually seemed a bit much, and it made Edgar nervous. But Linda didn't scold him.

"I met him once, a long time ago. If he hadn't passed away..."

Linda's eyes clouded. Edgar held his breath and waited for whatever she was going to say next. But Linda shook her head instead of saying it.

"Listen to me, an old woman rambling. This is from long before you were born, Master Edgar."

Linda clicked her tongue and laughed.

"It sounds like Sir Harold has finished his conversation. The guest is leaving — would you like to come see him off, Master Edgar?"

"But... he's the one who lent this place to us."

"The ones living here now are you young masters and Sir Harold."

"..."

"Come on, seeing off a guest is a duty of the host. Master Edwin has already gone out."

Linda took Edgar's hand and led him toward the entryway.

Knowing perfectly well the portrait wasn't going anywhere, Edgar still turned back once more to look at the portrait of Waldemar Alharn.

The dead king in the portrait was seated in an easy chair, but resting on the left hand he'd extended sideways was a small white hand that looked to be a woman's.

On the woman's hand was a blue cameo ring carved with the profile of a horse's head.

The king's gaze wasn't on the viewer but off to the side. The warm smile turned toward the owner of the hand he was holding looked less like an expression a king would wear than one of an ordinary young man.

"..."

Edgar shook his head once and followed Linda out to his uncle.

---

"Edwin..."

"Uncle, please?"

The moment Edgar came out into the garden with Linda, he heard Edwin tugging at their uncle's hand, pestering him.

Harold was trying to talk Edwin down, looking put out. But Edwin dug in, no matter what Harold said.

"Auntie Anne comes over all the time and stays for tea!"

"Chief Inspector Archibald?"

"Anne doesn't come by all that often either, Edwin."

"You know Auntie Anne?"

"She was a year below me, so yes."

"You went to the academy together? What was Uncle like back then? Was he this strong even then?"

"Hmm, well, your uncle..."

Grisha Lambert was wearing that smile — the one that had thrown Edgar earlier.

It was hard to connect a man who laughed like that with the gloomy Marquis Lambert Edgar knew. Sensing someone approaching, Grisha turned his head.

The moment Edgar felt their eyes meet, Grisha narrowed his and pulled a face. For an instant the Marquis Lambert Edgar knew flickered into view and vanished.

"Edgar."

"...I heard the guest was leaving."

Seeing his uncle beckon, Edgar approached cautiously. Grisha smiled kindly at Edgar and gave him a friendly nod of recognition.

"Did you come to see me off?"

"..."

Edgar hid behind his uncle. Harold gave a small laugh and stroked Edgar's head.

"Have some snacks before you go!"

"Edwin, like Uncle said..."

"But Grandma Linda said she baked a cake today!"

"Ah, did she? Linda does make a good cake."

"So then!"

"But what am I going to do?"

With an apologetic look, Grisha held out his hand to Edwin. Edgar had thought he meant to shake hands again, but he was holding out his little finger.

"I have another appointment today, so I have to go. Next time, we'll definitely have snacks together. All right?"

"Hmm..."

Edwin folded his arms and puffed out his cheeks.

He rocked from side to side, then finally unfolded his arms and hooked his little finger around Grisha's.

"Fine. I'll remember, so you have to come again. I'll ask Grandma Linda to bake another cake."

"I will."

Was that... really the Marquis Lambert Edgar knew? Hadn't he been swapped out for someone else?

The sight was so hard to believe that Edgar's mouth fell open in spite of himself. It was so different even from the mood at his father's funeral.

Reading Edgar's face differently, Grisha spoke to him before straightening up.

"See you next time, Edgar."

"..."

"I'll bring you a present next time. Anything you'd like?"

"Edgar loves teddy bears!"

"Teddy bears?"

Edwin cut in. Edgar snapped out of it.

"No! Edwin, don't say weird things."

After a brief bit of commotion at the entryway, Grisha finally gathered his bag and climbed back into the carriage he'd come in.

Even after all their talk in the sitting room, apparently Harold still had something left to say — he leaned in toward the carriage and said something more.

Taking the opening, Edgar dragged Edwin off to a corner of the garden.

"What is with you, Edwin? Why did you go and grab Marquis Lambert like that?"

"He isn't marquis yet, remember. Uncle might think it's odd if he hears you, so watch it, Edgar."

"..."

Edgar bit his lip and nodded. Fair point.

"Anyway, he's Uncle's friend. Why can't he have snacks before he goes? Grandma Linda's cake is good."

"Good...! That's why?"

Edgar looked at Edwin, dumbfounded. Edwin lifted his chin, unashamed, and looked right back.

"..."

Edwin poked Edgar sharply in the side.

"Ow! What?"

"Did you actually think I meant let's have cake together?"

Edwin let out a long sigh.

Before Edwin could open his mouth again, Edgar looked over at the carriage. Their uncle was still deep in conversation with Grisha Lambert. If he went over now, wouldn't he be able to hear what they were saying?

The thought made him itchy to move. If he dragged Edwin over and clung to their uncle, no one would even find it strange...

"Edgaaaar."

Noticing Edgar wasn't looking at him, Edwin drew his name out and yanked at his arm.

"Edgar, listen. Did you not see that, um, Grisha? Mr. Lambert had a bag with him?"

"Mr. Lambert..."

"What!"

"Never mind."

"Calling him Marquis Roys would be weird too."

Edwin waved a hand as if to say don't interrupt.

"He didn't have a bag when he got here."

"...Didn't he?"

"After his talk with Uncle, suddenly there was a bag."

Edwin pulled his face into a serious frown. Edgar frowned along with him.

"I was going to spill the tea to get a look inside..."

"..."

"Quick to figure it out. Got away."

Edwin clicked his tongue with real disgust. Edgar blinked. Where on earth did his little twin brother pick that kind of thing up?

Edgar thought back over his own behavior and quietly repented.

"If the bag got wet, I figured we could see what was in it."

"The contents matter?"

"Uncle really does seem to be friends with him. He told me stories from his academy days."

"Right."

"But you know as well as I do, Edgar — Uncle wasn't in the capital. Even if they're friends, talking to him in the middle of the night... that kind of thing is weird. They're up to something."

Finally their uncle stepped back from the carriage. As he shut the carriage door, the royal guardsman on the driver's box got the carriage moving and drove it off down the forest path.

Harold stood there watching until the carriage was out of sight, then turned back to his nephews with a smile.

"Were you two waiting for me?"

"Yes!"

"Edgar? What's wrong?"

Edgar shook his head and pressed himself right up against his uncle's side.

"Uncle."

"Hm?"

"Your friend."

"Yeah."

"Just now, when he looked at me, he pulled a face. Why was that?"

"Ah, that."

His uncle answered with a wry smile.

"His eyesight's bad — he can't see well up close. He doesn't like wearing his glasses. Bear with him, Edgar."

Glasses.

Edgar thought of the portrait of Waldemar Alharn, wearing glasses. He looked alike even without them. If he'd been wearing them...

"Let's go have cake, quick, Uncle."

"All right, all right."

"Hurry up, Edgar!"

"Coming."

Marquis Lambert had never once worn glasses.