"Off you go."
—That was what her father said.
Not "goodbye."
On the morning of her departure, before the gate of the Abel ducal residence where a thin mist still lingered, Rosalind blinked once.
The urge to answer See you later gave a small leap somewhere in her throat.
But what she offered instead was a bow in keeping with a lady's manners, only a little deeper than usual.
"I shall be on my way, Father."
He was not the sort to come all the way out to the gate on a cold morning.
And yet, this morning, he had. Without even a coat.
Outside the gate stood a single unremarkable carriage of dark brown, the crest of the Grand Duchy of Vernant carved discreetly along the bottom edge of its door. The driver's uniform bore no embroidered house emblem either.
A courtesy, to keep the news of a duke's daughter leaving her homeland from the curious eyes of the city.
(Ritsuko Tanaka would have rated them a client who's good at laying the groundwork.)
Rosalind settled her navy cloak back over her traveling clothes and walked toward the carriage.
Behind her, she did not hear the gate close. Because her father was still standing there.
She didn't turn around for that, either.
He wasn't even wearing a coat.
He was not the sort to come all the way out to the gate on a cold morning.
And yet, this morning, he had.
The carriage door opened from the inside.
(The driver—from inside?)
Rosalind raised an eyebrow at almost the same moment her gaze met the pale blue eyes of the man seated in the back.
Black hair. Tall. Jet-black traveling clothes. Ornamentation kept to a minimum.
Grand Duke Vernant, Lucas Vernant. The employer himself had come to collect her.
"Your Grace."
"Get in."
Short. Low.
(...So a considerate employer also falls within the scope of the contract terms, I suppose.)
Having explained it to herself in all earnestness, Rosalind took the seat across from him.
That the man in the carriage had not slept for three days, she naturally did not notice.
Without a word, Lucas took a leather-bound booklet from the small table in the carriage and held it out to her.
"A copy of the contract."
"Received with thanks."
"The terms can be revisited later. If anything concerns you, say so. Anytime."
Rosalind opened the booklet. It matched, word for word, the copy that had already spent last night under her pillow.
Except in one place. In the margin of the non-extradition clause, a new note had been scrawled.
"Rescission of this clause requires that the intent to rescind be expressed by the employer or the employee in person."
In short—even if her homeland fabricated "Rosalind's wishes" and demanded she be handed over, nothing would take effect unless the words came from her own mouth. A safeguard.
Her person would be held by the Grand Duchy. And in a structure that nothing but her own will could pry loose.
Rosalind closed the booklet and returned the signed copy.
"Thank you for your thoroughness. I find no issues."
"I see."
Lucas tucked the booklet inside his coat and set another document, a thin one, on the table.
"A memorandum with your country as well. Arranged separately."
"...A memorandum?"
"They'll waive any demand for your return. As a matter of procedure. In exchange—preferential terms, and a right of inquiry."
"A right of inquiry."
"Any official inquiry from your royal court to you is received by our Foreign Office first. Once it's delivered, whether you answer, and what you return, is entirely your decision. It is not an order."
"..."
"One more thing. Should your country violate this memorandum, interfere with your employment contract, and cause us damages—the compensation is structured to come entirely out of your country's purse."
Rosalind's fingers, having touched the edge of the document, stopped for a single beat.
(...Oh my. That far.)
In the margin, a single line: the calculated sum.
There was no need even to lift a quill. In Rosalind's head, the figure was placed side by side with her homeland's budget.
(—An amount the homeland's finances could never possibly pay.)
(Set right at the water line where the moment they tried to pay it, the country itself would go under.)
It was too well made to call a coincidence.
(My employment contract, as an individual agreement, is six months of annual salary. This one is designed as a slugfest of national endurance.)
(The employer's taste in contract drafting, I see.)
Get the homeland to sign in advance, and wrap up all the international cleanup from this side while at it. And rigged so that the moment the homeland made a move, its wallet would be empty.
(Would it be appropriate to say "as expected of you"?)
Rosalind carefully slipped the copy of the document between the lining layers of her traveling bag.
"I am deeply grateful for your consideration."
"It's nothing you need concern yourself with."
That was the whole of the exchange.
A long silence fell between the two of them, sitting face-to-face.
The sound of the carriage wheels and the mist-laden morning air swayed beyond the glass.
(...His Grace is not one for small talk.)
She recalled, just a little, the feeling of being assigned a new boss in her past life.
There was no need to force him to talk. A boss who wasn't pained by silence was usually a capable one.
It was shortly before noon when the carriage neared the border.
The mist had cleared, and the woods along the highway were dyed in the reds and golds of late autumn.
Gazing out the window, Rosalind gave a single, brief nod inside her chest.
—She was, right now, stepping down off the deck of a sinking ship.
That was all it was.
The border checkpoint came into view.
The rattle of the carriage changed to the light sound of crossing a bridge. Beyond the bridge lay the Grand Duchy of Vernant.
In that moment.
In the seat across from her, Lucas suddenly turned his gaze toward the window.
And murmured low, in a tone not directed at anyone.
"It was the same season three years ago, too."
Rosalind looked up from the booklet.
"Your Grace?"
Lucas kept his eyes on the window and did not look at her.
"No. Just talking to myself."
(Talking to himself, hm.)
The same season three years ago. For the Grand Duchy, that was the busy season for trade.
As the side receiving a new advisor, he was probably comparing it against that period's workload in his head.
—So Rosalind processed it, instantly.
"Is that so. I would appreciate the trend in this term's trade surplus as well, in figures, at your convenience."
A model answer, if she did say so herself.
Lucas looked, for just a single beat, at his own faint reflection in the carriage window.
The corner of his mouth lifted, ever so slightly.
Then he returned to his expressionless face.
"...Right. I'll have them prepared."
Rosalind thought no more of it.
The moment they finished crossing the border bridge.
The morning sounds and smells of the town on the other side seeped faintly through the carriage window.
The smell of fresh-baked bread. The savory smell of broth from great steaming pots. Merchants calling out to passersby. The light footsteps of running children.
A morning market was open.
Rosalind let her gaze drift idly out the window—and the motion stopped, for just an instant.
One of the stalls they passed. In a steaming bamboo basket sat a row of small, round, white sweets.
They looked like dango.
Like the shape of the sweets Ritsuko, in her past life, would sometimes buy a single bag of at a shop she stopped by on her way home on the last train, and eat in the office kitchenette when no one was looking.
The corners of Rosalind's mouth lifted, by a margin so slight that even she didn't notice.
In the seat across from her, Lucas was watching that expression.
He said nothing.
He only took a leather-bound notebook from inside his coat and jotted down a single line.
—The first line of what would, some days later, start baked sweets and black tea appearing on her office desk.
Rosalind, of course, did not notice.
The sounds of the morning market flowed away behind the carriage. It was the smell of the first morning in a new country.
Lucas closed his notebook and, without looking at Rosalind, said quietly:
"—Welcome to the Grand Duchy of Vernant, Economic Advisor."
That Rosalind would realize this form of address meant she was being called by her own name would come the next morning, when she saw the nameplate on her desk.