Chapter 72

"Thank you, Sir Bertholdt."

"Not at all. Well, then."

"Yes. Safe travels. I'll see you again before long."

The moment he stepped out of the building, Harold loosened the tie choking his throat.

If it weren't for work, he'd never dress like this. Normally people would have been coming and going around the northern commander's visit, but with the schedule bumped up this time, Harold — already in the capital — had ended up stuck with the tedious end of it.

Any other time he'd have hidden behind being on leave and pretended not to know. He couldn't this time, because the commander's early trip was on him. What could he do. And there would be more tiresome business ahead.

And it wasn't on Grisha's account either. He knew the commander disliked the First Prince, but that didn't mean he liked Grisha.

Still, if the commander heard about the Adrien Renard business, nothing good would come out of his mouth. Harold believed in his superior's morals.

At the very least he was sure the man wouldn't sign off on harboring a criminal who'd been mixed up with a child. Harold stuffed the tie into his coat pocket.

"Sir Bertholdt. All done?"

The servant waiting by the carriage called to him. The carriage bore no crest, but the driver was one of Grisha's men. In the King's Woods only those with permission could come and go, so he'd relied on the royal guard, but outside of it that wouldn't do.

Granted, a certain someone did use the city watch like his personal footmen...

"I'm sorry to keep asking these favors."

"Ha. Favors, nothing. It's you helping our young master, isn't it, Sir Bertholdt. This kind of thing is all we can do."

"Grisha would prefer it that way."

The driver laughed.

"Our young master is more innocent than you'd think, isn't he."

Innocent?

Harold didn't answer, just smiled. Long experience had taught him that striking up conversation meant hearing childhood stories the entire way to the destination.

When Grisha was born, the Duke of Lambert had surrounded his son with a small circle of people he could trust. Call them servants — they were as good as family. Even now they were the ones around Grisha. With Harold's brother dead and the carriage accident on top of that, the guard around him would be tighter still.

"So, where to?"

The driver answered in the warm voice of a man addressing the friend of the young master he'd watched grow up like a son.

"To the Lambert estate."

---

"I have no idea what Albrecht left behind."

Grisha, unusually for him, let out a complaint.

Harold, who had been about to sit down on the sofa, looked at Grisha awkwardly. Grisha waved a hand. It meant sit wherever.

Grisha looked as worn out as Gauss had at the watch hospital a few days back. Harold gave an awkward smile.

"He was my brother."

Grisha clicked his tongue in irritation, but he couldn't disagree.

"I can't understand what he was hiding so carefully. Like you said, I'd been assuming it was tied to the investigation he'd been running — evidence, or something along those lines."

"But not now?"

"I don't know."

Grisha rested his chin on his hand, thinking.

"We're already in the same boat anyway. I'm not saying there's no one in Intelligence with other loyalties... but there are plenty I can trust, too."

"Viscount Manfred?"

"He's one of them. Less because he likes me than because he was loyal to Albrecht."

After Gauss, a few names Harold didn't know followed. Harold made a mental note of them.

If they really were in the same boat, as Grisha put it, he'd meet them before long.

"If it was a critical piece of evidence, there'd be no reason to sit on it alone. When something happens to you personally — the way it did — that's exactly when it becomes a problem. To keep the investigation from stalling..."

"He should at least have shared it with you."

"Right!"

An unusually forceful agreement, for Grisha's usual composure.

His brother's journal must have been that much of a headache. Or he'd finally come home for once and let his guard down. In the whole kingdom there wasn't another place where Grisha could relax the way he could at the Lambert estate.

"If he was going to use a code that ridiculous, he could at least have left the key."

"..."

"I don't think I'm as clever as Albrecht."

"Most people aren't, so don't worry about it."

"But this — that code is strange."

"All I could figure out was that it had foreign languages mixed in."

"That's what's strange about it."

Grisha swept a strand of hair back off his forehead and grumbled.

"I don't know every language used in that journal, either."

Apparently far more languages had gone into the code than Harold had picked up on.

"But at intervals... there are stretches I can't even guess the language of. Those are the key."

"The key?"

Grisha considered for a moment, then explained.

"So... that journal isn't built on Alharnian. Every character in it is a transliteration from some other language."

"..."

Harold nodded gravely.

"Got it. It's hard."

Grisha nodded back with a look that said he'd expected nothing more.

"Right. Either Albrecht made up a new language, or... hm. He may have drawn on Cecilia Barbosa's research. Didn't she do work on ancient languages too?"

"She did."

"Either way, he put in this much effort. And didn't tell anyone."

Even Harold, who'd assumed it was just an investigation record, found himself taking it more seriously as he watched Grisha struggle with it.

He didn't know what kind of code his brother had built, but Grisha had a point. If it were about Carlisle, he wouldn't have buried it that deep...

Which left one possibility.

"...my brother's personal journal, then?"

"You said you found it in the family vault?"

"Mm."

"When he had to know that if anything happened to him, you'd check the vault..."

"That's fair."

Harold pressed his fingertips into his temples.

"Dustin Glenn tried to open the vault regardless. This is the only suspicious thing in it. What would anyone want with domain paperwork?"

"..."

If he was preparing for his own death, he could at least have left clearer instructions.

Even now Harold couldn't work out what his brother had been thinking. Had he just tucked it in the vault temporarily, with no intention of showing anyone? Or had he expected Harold could crack it? Since when had his brother had that kind of faith in his little brother's brains? Or had he trusted Harold to pass it on to Grisha?

If that was it, he should've handed it to Grisha in the first place. Only Bertholdt family members could even open the vault, so what if Harold had forgotten about it...

Knowing full well that resenting a dead man led nowhere, Harold grumbled to himself anyway. Just on the off chance some new instructions might suddenly appear.

Of course, nothing of the sort happened.

"Should we take another look through my sister-in-law's study?"

"Your sister-in-law? Oh, right, you did say her study was still intact."

"My brother had kept it as it was. To my eye it's all much the same, but it might look different to you."

"Hm..."

Grisha nodded slowly.

"Couldn't hurt."

Whatever Albrecht's code meant, even Grisha wouldn't deny it was important.

If they got nowhere, they might have to ask for help. Whether there was anyone both trustworthy and useful for code-breaking was another question.

"I don't think I'll crack the code any time soon — should I give the journal back?"

At Grisha's words, Harold shook his head.

"No. It's not like I'll figure it out with it in my hands either."

"It's not as if I have a bright idea either... Your sister-in-law's study was at the academy, wasn't it?"

"Yes. I was planning to go back anyway."

"You were?"

"I thought there might be something worth showing the boys."

At the mention of the boys, Grisha didn't push further. He couldn't not know about Cecilia Barbosa's disappearance.

"That's enough about the journal for now. Was that why you called me here?"

"Of course not."

Grisha snorted.

But Grisha didn't get any further. A light knock came at the door.

"I said not to interrupt. What is it?"

"Master Grisha. Her Grace is asking for you."

Grisha shot up in surprise.

"Mother? Why? Wasn't she at the Reichnek estate? Did she say she was coming up?"

"She, ah, is asking for you urgently."

Grisha turned to Harold, thrown.

Not that it did any good — Harold was just as thrown, and looked right back at him.

"She's already here?"

"Yes. I did mention Sir Bertholdt was with you, but she said if anything that was all the more reason to see both your faces..."

"Is she in the main building?"

"No, she's downstairs right now—"

Grisha hurried out of the study, and Harold with him.

Just before leaving the study, Harold pulled the tie out of his coat pocket and knotted it back on as he followed Grisha down the stairs. It wasn't the kind of relationship that called for that kind of formality, but she was a friend's mother he hadn't seen in a while. Since he'd bothered with the suit, a little extra care wouldn't hurt.

They hurried down the stairs to find the woman just then coming into the building.

"Mother!"

Beneath a green hat trimmed with a white feather, dark chestnut hair fell in elegant waves. The green dress, matching the hat, had the grace and life of spring's first shoots. Her frame was slight, but her posture didn't waver.

The moment Claudia Reichnek saw her son, she opened her arms and pulled him in.

"Grisha!"

"Mother, where's Adelheid?"

"Having a very fine time at the Reichnek estate."

"You came up to the capital alone? What is it? Is something wrong?"

"Hendrick told me."

Grisha's whole body flinched.

But Claudia wasn't going to let her son slip away.

"You... do you have any idea how it felt to hear that? Grisha, all I want is for it not to be true — for you to just not get hurt."

"Mother."

"Oh, listen to me."

Claudia turned. It had been a long time since the academy days, but she hadn't changed at all.

Apparently only Harold thought so, though, because Claudia's eyes went wide.

"Goodness, Harold! Have you grown even taller since? Grisha's the same as ever, but every time I see you, you're bigger!"

"It's been a while, Duchess."

"And now you can even greet me properly like that."

"Ahem."

Harold cleared his throat, embarrassed. Claudia laughed under her breath. The brim of her hat was casting a shadow, and it must have felt stifling — she loosened the ribbon holding it in place as she spoke.

"I heard you've been helping Grisha out. Is today something important?"

"Well."

"If it isn't urgent, Grisha — let's talk for a bit."

Claudia lifted the hat off and handed it to the maid who had come up. Out of habit she toyed with the necklace at her throat, and looked at Harold with a face full of apology.

"I'm sorry, Harold."

"It's all right."

"Grisha?"

"..."

Grisha sighed. He had some idea why his mother had come back to the capital so suddenly.

"Harold, sorry — could you wait a bit? Mother, it isn't urgent, but it is important."

Claudia nodded, her face set.

At that small motion, the necklace swayed. With no other accessory to draw the eye, the blue cameo necklace stood out sharply.