By the Poolside
It had been close to a howl. Antoine, who had glanced back at Nathan thrashing in fury until his face flushed a deep, blotchy red—at Nathan once, at Xavier once—picked up the bucket brimming with ice.
"Move."
The next moment, the ice-cold water came pouring straight down over Nathan's head.
Nathan's shouting cut off. He blinked for a moment as if trying to grasp the situation, and then turned his glare on Antoine instead.
But Nathan was hardly in any position to talk back to Antoine.
Antoine spoke first.
"Drink up quietly, then go."
Nathan's mouth twitched.
"It wasn't my fault—"
"Spare me. Anyone can see that bastard provoked you."
Cutting Nathan off mid-sentence, Antoine turned his head and shot a sidelong glance at Xavier. His face said he already knew everything.
That attitude alone knocked some of the wind out of Nathan's sails. Antoine turned to Xavier next.
"Xavier Bransen, you've been away long enough—know when to stop. Don't ruin someone else's party. Get out."
Then he jerked his chin toward the door.
"Pierre's waiting outside."
Xavier said nothing, only lifted one shoulder in a shrug. Antoine's gaze slid at last past Xavier's back.
"Artois too."
Stepping through the door, the air was entirely different.
The garden party bore nothing of the atmosphere of the drawing room inside.
People were scattered around a long rectangular swimming pool. Sofas, stools, and sun loungers had been laid out, and guests were singing and dancing on and around them.
The music was different too. If the entrance and the interior had carried the refined elegance of galant-style music, the garden party centered on the pool pulsed with a faster, rougher rhythm.
"Bransen."
A man lounging against a crimson sofa greeted them first.
"We were just talking about how Siflodenge got out of prison."
It was Clément Rousseau. His blue bowtie and brown hair matched each other beautifully.
He was Pierre's closest friend and, at the same time, the eldest son of the cousin branch of that famous Rousseau family.
Clément took enormous pride in that fact. He was also an old schoolmate who had crossed paths with Xavier during the group training program before Xavier entered Le Havre.
"And now you're the one coming in?"
Xavier barely reacted.
"Nathan would be first, not me."
Instead, he raised his glass.
"When did Siflodenge go in?"
"Last year. About ten months ago."
"Whether you like it or not, the alumni association does have a way of dragging up things you'd forgotten."
"So you wrecked the party from the inside on purpose, did you?"
A crooked smile curled at the corner of Xavier's mouth.
"I was only the one who put up with Nathan's drunken carrying-on."
"I suppose you were."
Between the two of them lay that peculiar distance—it was impossible to tell whether they were close or not.
"Where's Pierre?"
Clément pointed toward the pool with a tilt of his chin. Xavier settled naturally into the seat across from him, in a spot with an unobstructed view of the water.
Clément's gaze moved on to Dolores.
"You should sit too."
He said it lightly, but in a tone that was hard to refuse.
He carried himself like a co-host because of how exceptionally close he and Pierre were.
Dolores let out a short breath and sat down across from Xavier, leaning her cane beside her. Just then—water splashed up from the pool. A man rose from it as if surfacing, hair dripping, waving like a child. It was Pierre Thomas.
"Well, if it isn't Dolores!"
He looked hardly any different from before.
"The beautiful siren of Saint-Germain—"
"Let's talk after you're out of the water."
Dolores pointed at the cane with her chin. Pierre faltered for a moment, then smiled.
Hoisting himself out of the pool with the aid of the railing, he was the owner of a magnificently muscled torso. Xavier let out a whistle and raised his glass.
"My dear friends. The mood tonight is rather fine... so let's raise a toast to the man who prepared this splendid party—"
"—to Pierre!"
Everyone lifted their glasses high, no one left out.
"Cheers!"
Pierre, who seemed none too displeased with the attention, came over shaking out a towel.
"Xavier, it's a little frightening when you're like this."
"Why."
"You remind me of Alain."
Xavier muttered, "Ah, Alain," and laughed it off without a care.
"That's a name I haven't heard in a while. Why isn't he here today?"
"He moved. To Gilette."
"That far? Did he ever actually enroll in the seminary?"
Clément cut in, laughing.
"Are you joking? He was running away."
"From whom?"
After that offhand exchange, a brief silence fell. Then Pierre and Clément and a few of the others snorted with laughter.
"...Do I really have to spell it out for you? You were the one who completely finished Alain off."
The so-called "Alain Incident" was one of those absurd memories that surfaced now and then over drinks in Lange. But Xavier replied as though he didn't even remember it.
"Did I?"
Pierre draped a robe over his shoulders and came closer. Then he bent down naturally and pressed a greeting to Dolores's cheek.
"The great musician Sir Xavier Bransen returns, and now the princess of Artois makes an appearance too. It's a shame the night is so short."
"I can't stay long."
"Stay a while. Plenty of people haven't arrived yet."
"It's a lovely party, so I'll enjoy it while I'm here. Anyway, Pierre—how have you been?"
Dolores pulled him in by the neck for a brief hug. They had drifted apart for a time, but this much of a greeting she could manage.
"Me? Times have been rough lately."
Pierre shook the water from his wet hair like a dog, then, with a conjurer's sleight of hand, swapped glasses and handed her a champagne flute.
"I'm fine."
"I know you prefer brandy, but this is a rather good vintage too."
"Even if you get me drunk, I can't stay long."
Having seen straight through her, Pierre gave a low laugh and shot back a look of sly probing.
"You're not pregnant, are you?"
"Yes."
"Who's the father?"
"You are."
A beat of silence—then laughter erupted on the spot. It was so natural that even Pierre, the one who'd started the joke, was a half-step late in joining.
Pierre rolled his eyes left, right, and back again, then burst into hearty laughter as if nothing had happened.
"Seems you've been doing well for yourself too."
"For someone who claims to be struggling, you don't look worse for wear. I hear Lord Thomas's business is thriving. My little sister talks about your family these days, as it happens."
"That little one? How old is she now?"
"Seventeen this year."
"A lady already, then."
A young man seated on the far side from Pierre cut in.
"Pierre's trials and tribulations aren't the business—it's his wife."
"Quiet. She's upstairs."
The young men soaking in the pool cackled and splashed water about wildly.
Droplets glittered in the air as they scattered. Amid that lighthearted ruckus, Dolores laughed her fill for the first time in a long while.
"Honestly, you're all so childish."
Then something landed over her head. A towel—it was Xavier's.
Xavier then picked up another towel from the empty seat beside Clément and, without a word, roughly wiped the water from himself.
Clément, watching the two of them with an odd look in his eyes, opened a case and drew out a cigar.
"Want one?"
Dolores shook her head.
"I'm fine."
"No fun."
Clément turned the hand holding the cigar aside, toward Xavier.
"My aunt smuggled these in from Corten. A rare thing you won't find anywhere on the market. You've probably never even seen one."
"Don't mind if I do."
Xavier accepted the cigar without ceremony and set it between his lips.