The Flower Called Silgerbera
"But, Your Grace the Grand Duchess. You can never be too sure."
"Hm?"
"What if my guess turns out to be right, and when the Young Lord returns, my lady's heart begins to stir? Didn't the young lady cry every single day after he left? Weren't the two of them so close as children that everyone envied them?"
The Grand Duchess Prihoson gave a slow nod. There was something in Mia's voice—gentle yet insistent—that carried a peculiar power to persuade anyone who heard it.
"Which is why I'm certain the young lady may well find old memories resurfacing and feel a tender affection for the Young Lord."
"Well... if Charles takes after my brother, he'll have grown into a staggeringly handsome man. He won't even bear comparison to that second son of House Hareis."
"Of course. It goes without saying."
With Mia's eager agreement, the Grand Duchess's expression softened. Her twin elder brother, Marquis Berihmen, was a beauty known to all, and she would stake her word that his son Charles could go anywhere without his face ever coming up short. Her heart eased, and her face brightened once more. Now all she had to do was wait in peace for her nephew's return.
The Berihmen Estate. In a quiet, secluded village, it was the day of the great market held once every five days. Stalls piled high with food and wares lined both sides of the street.
Hawkers called out again and again in ringing voices, drawing people in. The moment a passerby so much as glanced their way out of curiosity, they would flash winning smiles and coax the casually browsing into opening their purses, until hands grew heavy with purchases.
Someone's lively patter and hearty laughter naturally pulled the eyes of everyone passing by. The middle-aged man had beautifully sculpted features and great height. His gentle expression and warm voice made young and old, men and women alike, turn back for a second look—until they realized that the clothes he wore were nothing a commoner could ever afford, at which point they hastily averted their gazes.
As though entirely oblivious to the curious stares, the middle-aged man's eyes sparkled as he gazed at the gorgeous, lovely flowers spread across the stall. To him, those blossoms might as well have been the most precious jewels in the world.
The stall's owner wept inwardly at the sight of this exalted personage who did nothing but admire the flowers with sighs of wonder and never bought a single stem. Because the man only stared and never bought, the other customers who had come to browse took one look at his attire and at the tall, willowy figure standing guard behind him, and hurriedly abandoned the stall altogether.
Time and again the stall owner wet his lips, working up the courage to address the nobleman. But the escort knight standing behind the man glared at him as if to say, spare me your idle chatter, and so he swallowed whatever he wished to say countless times over.
The man bent down as far as he could go, eyes bright and round, and breathed in a flower's fragrance. The sweet scent filled his nose and lifted his spirits. From among them he picked up a pink blossom with petals sharp as needles and thrust it before the eyes of the escort knight, who stood warily on watch. Even at the sudden movement, the knight showed no surprise whatsoever. The man waved the flower with a beaming smile.
"George! Look at this! Do you know what this is?"
"No, my lord. I don't. What is it?"
At his escort knight George's answer, the man roared with laughter, clutching his belly as though he'd expected exactly that. The sound was so carefree, so like a child without a worry in the world, that the stall owner—who had been anxiously holding his breath the whole time—could only blink in bewilderment. But under the escort knight's fearsome glare, he had no choice but to look away at once. The man spoke again, his face suddenly quite serious.
"This flower is called a Silgerbera."
"Ahh. I see."
"Now that you know, you must never, ever forget it again. Understood?"
At this solemn charge, the escort knight nodded with equal gravity.
"Understood. I will remember it well, my lord."
"Good. George really is such an obedient, well-behaved child. Unlike our kiddo."
The man, who had laced the word kiddo with a subtle edge, smiled for some reason or other, the corners of his mouth lifting. At his fleeting smile, the whole street seemed to brighten in an instant.
When the escort knight addressed the man as my lord, the stall owner decided he wanted no further part of them, turning his entire body pointedly away. He wouldn't so much as glance in their direction, as if he'd sooner let them steal every flower than say a word.
The man, who had been gleefully brandishing his flower, suddenly drooped his head and grew sullen. The escort knight studied his master's face and could not hold back an inward sigh. He had a fairly good idea of what was on his mind.
Gazing down at the flower, the man wore a wistful expression.
"This was our Bia's favorite flower."
"...My lord."
"How could she go off on such a long journey, leaving the kiddo and me behind? George. Do you think Bia still misses the kiddo and me, up there in heaven?"
"Of course she does, my lord. Her Ladyship misses you and longs to see you both more than anyone else in this world. I would stake my life on it."
"Tch. I only asked. Why would you go staking your life on it? Honestly, George, you're a strange one."
Watching his escort knight lay it on thick, the man's gloomy expression gradually began to lift. Clicking his tongue, he was soon back to his usual self, and the escort knight breathed a sigh of relief.
Seeing the sun slowly sinking toward the west, the knight frowned. They had been out far longer than he'd anticipated. Since he'd assumed they would return early, he had told no one of their whereabouts, and now a thread of worry crept in. People would certainly be out searching for them by now.
The escort knight studied the man and asked, "My lord. Don't you miss the Young Lord?"
"Hmm... it's been about half a day, so I suppose I do. But I can't very well interrupt him while he's playing at a friend's house, can I? Whew. Is this what it's like for all parents, George? Ah, right—you're not married, so you wouldn't know."
"Ah. Yes. Right. I really couldn't say."
"Listen well, George. Marriage isn't the end of it. The moment you have a child, the worries never stop."
"Understood, my lord."
"There, there. See? George really is a good boy."
When George nodded along dutifully, the man beamed, looking thoroughly satisfied. But as the man turned his head back to admire his flowers, George quietly exhaled. His lord might claim he'd never married—yet in truth, he was not only married but already the father of two children.
His lord. Marquis Berihmen had changed a little over ten years ago, because of the affair surrounding the Late Marquis Berihmen. That shocking event had robbed his lord of his sanity. Struck by the blow, the Marquis had overnight become as pure and innocent as a young child. The physicians dared not venture any confident hope of recovery.
And so more than a decade had slipped by. No one in House Berihmen believed he would ever return to his former self—not even the Young Marquis, whom his lord had just been calling kiddo.
Glancing at the street as the crowds thickened, George bent down to his lord, whose attention was still lost in the flowers.
"My lord. Shall we head back now?"
"Hm? Already?"
"Yes. It's nearly lunchtime, so the Young Lord will have returned by now."
At the mention of his son, Marquis Berihmen whipped his head around. Not a trace of suspicion showed on his utterly guileless face.
"Really?"
"Of course, my lord. Oh! And the Young Lord says he'd like tomato beef stew for dinner this evening."
The Marquis had slyly asked what his lord thought of making that for dinner—and at the suggestion, Marquis Berihmen's mouth curved upward. But he promptly shook his head with mock sternness.
"Whew. Why is that kiddo so obsessed with stew? Making his own father suffer like this."
"If it's too much trouble for you, my lord, the head chef could—"
"Ahem. When did I ever say it was trouble? The boy's just being fussy, that's all. What kind of father can't manage that much?"
"Of course, my lord. You're absolutely right in every way."
"Is that flattery, George?"
"Not at all—"
Where on earth did he learn to say things like that? George resolved to remind the manor staff to mind their words around his lord.
George called over the stall owner, who had been turned away from them the whole time, too frightened to risk their eyes meeting. The owner spun around with a start. George pointed to the Silgerbera the Marquis was holding and each of the flowers his lord had been eyeing. The owner, moving as though someone were chasing him, hastily bundled together a bouquet and handed it to the Marquis.
Watching the Marquis accept the bouquet with a childlike grin, George drew coins from inside his coat and offered them to the owner. Startled, the man waved his hands in refusal again and again, but faced with the knight's immovable expression, he finally relented and took them. Something told him that if he refused, he'd end up buried somewhere for his trouble.