The Most Perfect Stranger

"I heard an investor pulled out."

The Emperor had waited over two hours into their meeting before broaching the reason for it. Siena had drained her cup four times in the interim.

"The sea route project is to be expanded into a national enterprise. It would be rather inconvenient if trouble were already brewing."

On whose authority does he call it a national enterprise?

Siena had indeed needed power, and had put the imperial family forward to secure it — but every grueling step, from shaping the project out of a mere concept to gathering investors and securing verification from experts, along with all the capital involved, had been borne by Victe alone.

"How does this sound? Receiving investment from Duke Marcel?"

An investment from Marcel, of all things, out of nowhere.

Siena, who had barely managed to talk the Emperor out of arranging a seat for her personally, offered her parting courtesies while struggling to keep the corners of her mouth from trembling.

Amusingly enough, though he had been the nervous one, the Emperor never once mentioned what had happened in Gaverum. He'd gone so far as to attach operatives from the Intelligence Bureau to investigate — yet showed not a flicker of it in her presence.

Whatever the case, it was ominous and dangerous.

In the carriage carrying her away from the palace, Siena emptied everything churning in her stomach, then let her head fall back against the seat.

For the entire ride, ferried along with her face drained of color, Siena ached for last week. For Gaverum, where — however anxious she'd been, however much the ground trembled beneath her feet — she had at least someone unmistakably on her side.

The moment Siena returned to the estate, she summoned Hannah and John to deal with the matter of securing new investors.

"Marcel is the only option."

It was John's opening word. Hannah, standing beside him, gave a small nod. Siena pressed a hand to her forehead and let out a low groan.

"How did we arrive at that conclusion?"

"Countess Hughes's contribution was substantial, my lady. Factoring in Viscount Bernard's share as well, Marcel is the only house capable of moving that much capital on such short notice."

"What about the other houses? No — trading companies would do, at this point."

"There are roughly three candidate families, but none of them are favorably inclined. One would need five days or more to recover their funds. Another demands the entire sea route project be re-verified from the ground up. The last said it would decide after seeing the results of the vote. Marcel is the only one who can fill the shortfall."

It was staggering.

The moment her uncle dangled Marcel's name, the only remaining card turned out to be Marcel itself.

"And what guarantee do we have that Marcel will accept the proposal?"

"His Majesty raised the matter first. Surely that counts as a guarantee of sorts?"

Having finished, John and Hannah waited tensely for Siena's reaction.

The late afternoon sun caught the tips of Siena's fingers. As if lost in thought, she was slowly rubbing the edge of the desk with her thumb.

It struck Hannah, just then, how pale her lady looked today.

"Hannah."

"Yes, my lady."

"It's impossible to tell who's behind this. It could be His Majesty. It could be Marcel. It could even be Count Lumos. The risk of accepting is far too great."

"Aside from that, the timing will be difficult to meet."

Siena let out a long sigh. Hannah said nothing more and quietly withdrew a step.

"We'll speak again tomorrow morning. You're dismissed."

Hannah left the office, leaving Siena behind with her eyes closed. After seeing John out first, she stood by the window and turned the matter over in her mind for a while.

She's far too shaken.

Her lady had just had an audience with the Emperor, and something serious had happened in Gaverum — and yet…

Judging by past experience, the tenor of it was different from usual.

Whenever political pressures had to be weighed, her lady had always been swift and decisive.

Having endured plenty of situations with ample time, trusted people at her side, and no shortage of options, the young lady had always judged matters quickly — coldly so, even.

She must surely know that Marcel's investment is the most stable solution in our present circumstances…

What on earth happened in Gaverum?

Hannah had risen to the post of chief secretary after the late Emperor's passing — nearly five years ago now.

Much had happened in that time. Lady Victe's treason scare, Lord Hassar's sudden decision to enlist, even the young lady becoming Acting Count.

There had been an incident in her first year, too.

"What is this seating arrangement? This won't do at all."

"The others aren't of a rank to sit beside the young lady, my lady. I thought only the Young Duke of Marcel would suffice, so I adjusted it accordingly."

"Hannah, you still don't understand, do you?"

Understand? Understand what?

Newly appointed and living each day in a state of constant tension, Hannah had frozen stiff. Had she made some blunder?

"There's no need to be so tense. You'll learn as we go. Why, surely even you know this? Before the late Emperor's passing, the young lady's star blazed across the entire empire. And back then, the Young Duke of Marcel was practically the young lady's doll."

The one who'd delivered that remark to Hannah resigned a few days later. Word filtered back through the grapevine that she'd gone home to her hometown, but whether that was the truth, Hannah could never say.

From that day forward, Hannah kept her guard razor-sharp at every meeting, event, and party connected to House Marcel.

The young lady never once let it show, but Hannah had decided it was better for the staff to quietly smooth away anything that might grate on her lady's nerves. Which was why the Gaverum holiday schedule had caught her entirely off guard.

Just as much as Siena, Hannah had gone rigid at the sight of Claude Marcel, materializing in the neighboring compartment. To think she had made such a mistake.

Bearing the title of chief secretary, it was an error that should have been impossible. Yet as if that had been merely the beginning, misfortune spread rapidly around her lady, trapped in Gaverum.

The Siena she saw again on the train had changed in some way over the past two weeks. Setting aside the conspicuous fatigue, she seemed on edge, restless.

Hannah didn't know what the documents rushed to the capital had contained, but she was certain something grave had befallen the family.

And then it happened — the very moment Hannah's instincts foretold that her senses had been wrong.

Arriving in the capital, just as they were about to step down from the train, the Young Duke of Marcel and Siena exchanged formal greetings with one another. As they always did.

Hannah had merely turned her head, meaning to pass along a word to Ebony.

That was when, at the edge of her vision, she saw the Young Duke of Marcel standing rooted to the spot. It wasn't long. Two beats of a pause, at most.

That subtle discord unsettled her. And when she glimpsed his face again, brushing past as they descended into the carriage, she found a strange emotion settled there.

If that gaze had held tenderness, or wistful affection, she would have recognized it at once. It was the look she could not name that left Hannah uneasy.

A cold sweat trickled down the back of Hannah's neck, she who had only ever seen the Young Duke of Marcel's withered, ink-black eyes.

"Lady Hannah!"

From the far end of the corridor, a secretary came running, calling her name. Having been lost in her own thoughts, stopped midway down the hall, Hannah forced her feet to move again.

Somehow, one corner of her heart was uneasy with the worry that Siena, too, might have seen that look.

On the morning of the vote, Siena's spirits were lower than usual.

She had worked herself half to death for three days straight. Wooing those lined up on the opposing side, bolstering the funding herself — knocking on doors across her own territories and at salon after salon, wearing a smile unlike any she'd worn before.

The fruits of that effort had, in the end, left her with just enough support to push the vote through.

She complained constantly that life was too hard, but the past few days had been genuinely enough to make her sick, enough to make her want to die.

The poison the Emperor had fed her hadn't fully run its course either, and that played its part.

"Ebony — that suit I picked out last time, please."

Anywhere else, she would have layered on a lavish gown and eye-catching makeup, but the assembly hall was the exception.

Having chosen a tailored suit in a shade darker than usual, Siena studied herself in the mirror with a satisfied smile. She looked haggard, true — but no one would be examining her that closely anyway.

The assembly hall, reached after a ride through the dim streets, was busier than usual.

Siena caught the reason for it the moment she stepped inside. The gallery behind the chairman's seat was in an uproar.

And yet it was seating reserved for outside observers, not members of the assembly.

"……"

As Siena walked toward the front row, ushered along by the other members, her smile slowly drained away.

The man surrounded by elderly nobles was Claude.

He was fielding the questions of nobles seeking his opinion with a perfectly courteous expression.

Why on earth is he here…

By the time Siena was seated in her assigned place, a single envelope, placed atop the dais beside the chairman's seat, caught her eye.

An envelope?

What in the world, all of a sudden?

The mysterious envelope — and Claude Marcel's presence in the gallery. Alarm bells went off in Siena's head.

"My lady, shall we have a drink prepared for you?"

"No, thank you. I'm quite all right. It's before the opening session — please have a seat, my lord."

Siena exchanged a glance of thanks with the noble fawning over her, straining to keep her composure.

Convincing herself, firmly, that it must be nothing.

But immediately after the session opened, the situation changed when the chairman unfolded the mysterious envelope and began to read.

In that instant, two gazes collided in midair.