Burn the Signal

“…….”

Her clenched fist tightened.

Nothing could be read on his face. His eyes gave away no intent whatsoever.

House Marcel channeling funds into Victe was no simple decision to begin with. And a unanimous approval from the council of elders, of all things.

How on earth did he manage it?

Marcel stood at the Emperor's right hand now, but only a few years ago the family had recoiled from anything that touched the imperial family—and even more so from anything involving Princess Perensa. And yet the elders of the Ducal House of Marcel had cast their votes in favor of investing in a venture led by the County of Victe. It was a result she could scarcely believe.

Just as she sat stunned, the hall around her erupted in murmurs. The noble seated beside Count Lumos was covering his mouth with one hand, whispering something at a rapid clip.

“—The details of the ballot will be announced separately in accordance with the vote. Now, we will move to the next agenda item.”

Rap, rap. The crisp crack of the gavel spread through the chamber like a bell clearing the air.

The result of the vote had been overwhelming.

Seventy-nine in favor. Sixteen opposed. Two abstentions.

At long last, the venture she had begun while preparing to rebuild her family was receiving its official seal.

Even after finishing her round of congratulations and thanks, Siena stayed seated a while longer.

The corridor across from her had already emptied.

She let her gaze rest on those vacant chairs for a moment before withdrawing it.

A strange languor washed over her. It was a good thing, the venture being settled. With this, one of the businesses the Emperor had swept away four years ago—one led by her family—had finally found its footing.

This venture would allow the Victe household, its cadet branches, retainers, and townspeople alike to live in stability. It had only been possible because everyone had held on so tenaciously through those four years.

Which meant that today, of all days, ought to have been a day to forget every exhausting thing and celebrate together.

And yet—

Claude Marcel.

Because of that one man barging in out of nowhere, Siena's mood had soured completely. An uninvited guest.

There was no question this crushing margin had come from Marcel. As of the day before, the yes votes had barely crept past sixty.

Nearly twenty votes had swung her way immediately after the statement was read.

Her fingers tightened around the armrest of her chair.

I thought the impact would be negligible.

Until now, she had courted the moderates, setting aside the ducal house and its faction from consideration as investors.

She had only learned today, in this very hall, that nobles disguised as moderates numbered close to twenty.

“Hah.”

Not that she had ever wanted to finalize the venture with her enemy's money, of all things.

Rising from her seat, Siena smoothed her attire and stepped away.

Two things, then, had been made certain.

Claude Marcel was moving the moderates—and that movement was a matter separate from the ducal house itself.

“The statement arrived twelve minutes before the session opened. It wasn't a last-minute delivery—more like it was timed to arrive when it did.”

John watched Siena smoking in silence before venturing carefully on.

“Also... around noon today, something arrived at the residence. The sender was difficult to trace.”

Hannah took the envelope and checked its contents. A small box, and a single slip of paper.

“Shall we open it?”

Siena nodded, exhaling a slow curl of smoke, and Hannah carefully lifted the lid.

“It's a—a brooch.”

It was the kind of brooch that would suit the suits Siena favored—a fine golden hue, set with a jewel of the same tone.

Siena dropped a hand over the chair's armrest and tilted her head, studying the brooch through half-lidded eyes.

Rudeness in Gaverum, is it.

Aside from the two intelligence operatives who had burst into her room under false identities, nothing came to mind. And that suspicious letter was hardly the sort of thing one sent to offer an apology.

“Did something happen, perchance?”

She hadn't breathed a word of the operatives to her aides, so her bewilderment was genuine.

Siena, slouched and staring at the jewel, let out a soft laugh.

“Hannah.”

“Yes, Lady Siena.”

Siena hauled up her heavy body and beckoned. When Hannah drew close and held the brooch out for closer inspection, she felt a sudden impulse.

How very convenient for them.

It wasn't an apology. It was a signal. A token meant to say that the Intelligence Bureau—operating apart from the Emperor—wished to open a line with her.

Siena drew long on the cigarette filter. Then she pressed the burning ember firmly down against the jewel.

Sparks leapt across the surface, and black ash drifted down. Hannah's face, looking down at the brooch, filled with alarm.

Siena gave her a bright smile and gave the order.

“Burn it to nothing.”

After clearing everyone out, Siena lay on her bed with her eyes closed. Her eyelids felt raw and gritty, and a throbbing ache ran from her brow to her temple and up through her skull.

She had swaggered about throwing a party the moment the vote passed—laughable, given that she'd gone and fallen ill instead.

Through the gap in the window drifted the raucous laughter of her aides.

“Good. Those kids need the rest.”

For the past few months they'd kept to her exact schedule, likely without a proper night's sleep. When it was time to unwind, you had to let them unwind properly—otherwise you couldn't expect them to work hard when you pushed them.

“Good grief, I'm dying.”

She was pressing a hand to her forehead, rolling over, when she heard another kind of noise.

Propping herself at an angle, she turned her head toward the door. Beneath the crack, she caught the shadow of someone pacing back and forth.

“Someone out there?”

“It's John.”

“Come in.”

Sitting up, Siena gave John a reproachful look as he eased his way into the room.

“Why are you hovering out there?”

“I was worried I'd be disturbing your rest for no good reason...”

“If you've come all the way here, it can't be a trivial matter. What is it?”

“The Marcel ducal investment—part of its source has been identified. I've come to report.”

“Sit.”

John settled into the side chair by the bed and began, a faint edge of anxiety in his expression.

“The House of Marcel's contribution this time was not venture capital. It is registered as assets under the personal name of the Young Duke of Marcel.”

“What does that mean? Personal assets?”

“It takes the form of official family funds, but traced back to its origins, the bulk is personal wealth. What's more, the image of a unanimous council vote is nothing but packaging—on a practical level, this was almost certainly the Young Duke's decision alone.”

The headache that had been stabbing at her eyes grew worse.

Ever since Claude Marcel had butted in. The culprit was him, of course.

That man was splashing muddy water all over the path she had worked so hard to pave.

Hand pressed to her forehead, Siena closed her eyes tightly, measuring her options as though counting coins, then opened them again.

“John.”

“Yes.”

“Keep this between you and me. No one else hears a word.”

“Understood.”

“One more thing. We'll be sending out invitations for the investor meeting within the week. On the Marcel side, send it to Claude.”

“Not the Duke?”

The end of John's sentence lifted in surprise.

“You said he invested personal assets. The Duke won't be moving anyway, and it'll be Claude Marcel who comes—so I may as well show him I know. It would be discourteous to pretend ignorance after such a grand sacrifice on his part, wouldn't it?”

With that barbed remark, Siena sank back onto the bed.

“Let's leave it at that for now.”

She had quite forgotten.

Just how small the capital's high society really was.

Siena savored this belated realization deep in her bones as she straightened her spine.

With the Grand Festival a mere two days away, the Abena Salon was twice as bustling as usual.

Fine salons released their seasonal collections at this time every year, and with nobles streaming in for their final fittings before the Grand Festival, people flowed without pause from the first-floor reception room all the way up to the fitting chambers on the second.

Siena had come to collect the suit she had commissioned two months prior. Her gown for the Grand Festival ball arrived from the palace every year, but this was a formal suit to wear at briefings and gatherings of investors.

The vote was behind her now, and she thought that even amid the chaos, a bit of shopping might lift her spirits—a rare visit after so long. And yet—

“Oh! Siena!”