Chapter 70

"That letter..."

Harold looked at the letter in Gauss's hand. Rosemarie Doak's signature. Dustin Glenn's name.

Gauss Manfred smoothed his rumpled collar and spoke calmly.

"A forgery, made from Doak's reports still in Intelligence files."

"Ah..."

"He reacted to Rosemarie Doak's name early in the interrogation. I thought we might be able to work that opening, so I put one together."

Harold glanced into the sickroom.

"Effective. Do you know what the two of them were to each other?"

"No."

Gauss didn't openly grimace, but his face soured.

"Doak's reports are straightforward. The director... I don't know what the late Count Bertholdt and Doak worked out between them about handling Dustin Glenn, but the warning itself, it seems, came from Doak first."

Harold had also seen the Doak reports his brother had left behind.

Well, what tangled business it had taken for an Intelligence officer working undercover as a trainee reporter and a delivery man at that same paper to become an operative and her informant, he didn't know. But what the surviving records did make clear was that after that incident, Doak had never contacted Dustin Glenn again.

"That said."

The Intelligence officer who had subdued Dustin came out of the sickroom. Gauss stopped. The officer asked permission to call in medical staff for the injuries.

Dustin was slumped on the bed, pinned by the watchman. His wrist was bent at a strange angle. It had to hurt, but he wasn't reacting at all.

For him, it had been worth breaking the act he'd kept up all this time. That letter Gauss had shown him.

Or Rosemarie Doak.

"Whether Doak's belongings actually contain anything to do with Dustin Glenn, we couldn't confirm."

"Beyond the reports?"

"There's no telling where the late Count Bertholdt might have left things, is there? We found the reports themselves by accident."

Look at the journal his brother had left in the family vault, and his sister-in-law's case files hidden in the library of the Bertholdt estate.

Given Albrecht's nature, he wouldn't have kept anything important where he couldn't reach it himself. But if Rosemarie Doak had worked with Albrecht for a long time, the possibility wasn't zero.

"Couldn't confirm — meaning you couldn't find it?"

"The family refused."

Gauss smiled ruefully.

"She wasn't officially on Intelligence's rolls."

"But she wrote reports."

"That's one thing, this is another. Intelligence, when it comes to who's actually listed... no, that's a different story. In any case, Rosemarie Doak was strictly a cooperator. An informant, like Dustin Glenn."

"The watch's request was turned down the same way."

Harold tilted his head.

He could follow their reasoning. As for the family refusing — frustrating, sure, but having been in the position of a grieving family himself, he couldn't fault them for it.

Then Harold noticed two pairs of eyes fixed on him.

"...What? You want me to sneak into Baron Doak's estate and walk it out?"

"What? No!"

"What are you talking about?!"

Anne and Gauss both jumped.

"..."

"..."

"Just — I'm asking out of curiosity, Sir Bertholdt. Could you actually do it?"

"With floor plans, I'd be able to tell..."

"Senior! Viscount!"

Anne yelped.

---

While his uncle was away visiting "someone he knew" at the hospital.

Edgar cautiously stood in front of the portrait in the first-floor gallery. It wasn't wrong to look at a portrait, but somehow, when his uncle was around, he'd found himself avoiding it. It might have been the look on Linda's face when she saw him looking at Waldemar Alharn's portrait.

But Linda was in the kitchen right now, reading a book and enjoying a lazy afternoon.

Edwin would be... in the garden with Nabi. So long as they stayed in the garden, his uncle and Linda didn't much mind.

"..."

For the first time in a while, Edgar had the teddy bear in his arms. Unlike Nabi's coat, the soft fur was just right for stroking mindlessly.

Edgar looked at the king's portrait.

Waldemar Alharn still wore his quiet smile.

In the future, Duke Grisha Lambert had stood at the center of national politics. His clash with the prince had reached even Edgar's ears down in the Bertholdt domain. Back when Edgar had been living at the Lambert estate, he'd wondered what had gotten into a man who'd been all but a recluse to suddenly step forward.

But thinking back, that man had always been... at the center of everything. Which was why Edgar hadn't been able to trust the Duke of Lambert. Just being near the Duke of Lambert would drag his uncle into every kind of danger. Edgar had no wish to clash with the prince.

Edgar turned it over.

With the aged king incapable, the First Prince had taken hold of real power. The First Prince was on bad terms not only with the assembly but with the nobles too. The Duke of Lambert had been the representative force opposing him. And there had been rumors of war...

And in the end, hadn't Carlisle Adler inherited the throne?

Edgar frowned. He had a memory of a state funeral. No — of hearing about one. No, that wasn't right; if there had been a state funeral, he, as Count Bertholdt, would have had to attend without fail.

"What're you doing?"

Edgar blinked.

The blur in front of him sharpened. Without meaning to, Edgar tightened his grip on the teddy bear and turned to look behind him.

Backlit by the sun pouring in from the entrance hall stood a small figure. His face was in shadow, but when he took a step toward Edgar, the familiar face came into view.

"Edwin."

"What are you doing here? You said this place was scary."

"I never said it was scary."

"Were you reading?"

Edwin asked, looking at Edgar's feet. A book had rolled onto the floor.

He'd brought it along so that even if he was caught in the gallery, he wouldn't have to say he'd been looking at the portraits. It wasn't wrong to look at a painting — why did it feel like that?

Edgar's face went hot for no good reason.

"...Reading, and other stuff."

"Were you looking at the paintings?"

"Just..."

Edwin shrugged and came over.

"Where's Nabi?"

"In the kitchen. She said not to bring him into the gallery."

Linda was strict about Nabi's range. His paws had to be wiped before he came into the house, and he couldn't get up on the beds or sofas. The gallery, especially, was one of the places Nabi absolutely was not allowed.

Edwin stood next to Edgar. His eyes fell naturally on the painting Edgar had been looking at.

"You suddenly got interested in paintings?"

"..."

"Something bothering you?"

Edgar couldn't hide anything from Edwin. Edwin chuckled and picked up the book Edgar had brought.

Edgar had grabbed the first thing that came to hand as an excuse, so he hadn't checked what book it was. Edwin gave it a quick glance.

History and Culture of the Highland Nomads.

Had a book like that... been on the list? Edgar clutched the teddy bear tightly.

He'd brought all sorts of things along besides the books their father had written down, so it must have gotten mixed in.

"He looks like Uncle's friend."

Edwin snapped the book shut.

"Huh?"

"That painting. That's why you were looking, right?"

"..."

Pale blond hair. Green eyes.

Waldemar Alharn had been twenty when the portrait was painted. He'd died at twenty-one, so it had been painted the year before his death.

If Edgar hadn't known who it was, he'd have taken it for a portrait of a young Grisha Lambert, or of a brother of his. That was how alike they looked.

"I..."

Edgar opened his mouth to explain to Edwin, but he couldn't get anything out.

Explain what?

Why Grisha Lambert looked like the dead king? Edgar didn't know either.

Not once had he doubted Duke Grisha Lambert's bloodline. There had been no opposition when he'd inherited the Lambert dukedom. Every power due to him had passed to him without a hitch.

"...I met the Duke of Lambert's younger sister once."

She'd been two years older than Edgar. But her long illness had left her body so pale and thin that she'd been smaller than he was.

Adelheid had been delighted, because her illness had kept her from meeting anyone her own age — and not long after, she had never gotten out of bed again.

"She had red hair. She told me she'd inherited her father's hair color."

The flame-red hair had been one of the few colors you could still find in the sick child.

Adelheid was one of the few vivid memories Edgar had from the Lambert estate. He'd only met her a handful of times, but the memories had been vivid enough that they stayed clear to him now.

Clear enough that he remembered the impression, on the first day, that she looked nothing like her brother.

"Hmm."

Edwin hummed a strange little tune.

"Hey, Edgar."

Edwin, who had been studying Waldemar's portrait closely, reached out a hand.

"Edwin!"

"I'm not going to touch it. I'm not."

Despite reaching out as if he were about to touch it, Edwin stuck out his tongue and denied it.

"Who do you think the Duke of Lambert is, Edgar?"

"...This house used to be lived in only by the crown prince."

"Well, more that it was traditionally used as the crown prince's country retreat."

"If His Majesty gave it to the Duke of Lambert..."

"Have you ever met His Majesty, Edgar?"

"Once, from a distance."

"Ah, I see."

Edwin nodded and stepped sideways.

Ryan Adler's portrait.

Late afternoon. As the sun began to slant, the light coming into the house glowed yellow. The shadows of the trees in the garden lengthened. The trees' shadows fell twisted and strange across the gallery floor.

"Does it matter?"

Edwin was standing in one of those shadows.

"Huh?"

"Whatever Grisha Lambert's bloodline is. It doesn't have anything to do with you, Edgar."

"I..."

Edgar frowned.

"What are you talking about? Uncle's close with him. Of course it has to do with me."

"Mmm. But, really, we're in the capital because you want to be, so Uncle's here too."

"..."

Edwin pushed his lips out and then broke into a grin.

"The domain's dangerous, so no. But wouldn't running abroad be all right?"

"..."

"Even now, if you told Uncle you wanted to travel, he'd say yes, wouldn't he?"

Edwin whispered to Edgar.

"There's no reason we have to stay here."

Was that... true?

Edgar tilted his head.

"We could just go somewhere far, far away and live just the three of us."

Edgar looked at Edwin.

Maybe it was the glittering afternoon light, but Edwin — tucked behind a pillar of the gallery and in the shadow of the trees — looked unusually dim.

Edwin's argument wasn't entirely wrong. Giving up on uncovering why his uncle had died, leaving everything behind — that choice wasn't a bad one either. In a way, it was tempting.

"I already tried that."

"Huh?"

"I told Uncle I hated it here, that we shouldn't do anything, and couldn't it just be you and me and Uncle."

Edwin's eyes went round.

"So Uncle took us down to the domain."

His uncle's arms had been warm even then. He hadn't been clinging to his uncle as often as he did now, so being held had felt awkward, but even so, whenever he'd reached out, his uncle had never turned him away.

Said run, and they'd run. And what had it come to?

After he'd graduated the academy, after he'd slipped out from under the Duke of Lambert's guardianship and fled to the Bertholdt domain like a coward.

What had become of Edgar Bertholdt?

How had the domain, saddled with a half-formed lord, fallen into ruin?

"I can't repeat that future."