The temperature in the hall dropped a notch.
It was around the time the musicians shifted to a slower piece. Through the great windows of the balcony, the night air slid in low. In the corners of the hall, young ladies had begun quietly drawing their shawls tighter around their shoulders.
Rosalind stood by the wall, toying with the glass a server had handed her.
Tonight was the first time she had worn a dress that bared so much skin. —As far as she herself was concerned, it was nothing more than "formal business attire."
Her shoulders gave the faintest shiver.
Before she could even think cold, the skin along her silver hairline had prickled into gooseflesh.
She did notice the footsteps approaching.
She could sense, too, that every gaze in the hall had gathered on the owner of those footsteps.
Rosalind started to turn, and in the instant before she could—
Onto her shoulders, fabric, fell.
Standing half a step behind her, Lucas had silently unfastened his own cloak and laid it across her shoulders.
That was all.
Their eyes met, once. Lucas said nothing.
He simply resettled himself half a step away.
The hall caught its breath.
A musician's bow fell behind the beat, for the briefest instant.
The whispers behind the fans stopped dead.
"...Did His Grace just—"
"His own cloak?"
"That man?"
The whispers rippled outward, all the way to the far edges of the hall.
Beatrice nearly dropped her fan and caught it again just in time. The blood had drained from Clarissa's cheeks. Ophelia, for some reason, wrapped her arms around her own shoulders.
Lucas was looking at no one.
He did not meet the gaze of a single other woman in the hall. He told a server, briefly, "Water," and that was the end of it.
Rosalind drew the cloak a little closer around her shoulders.
It was heavy, and warm.
(Managing exposure to cold is part of labor management.)
Ritsuko Tanaka's voice was translating on its own.
(My boss in my past life was the type who said "Don't overdo it" only after his subordinate had collapsed. A superior who physically corrects the temperature before anyone collapses is far more competent. —His Grace has exceptionally keen risk-hedging instincts.)
Fine-quality wool. Weight distribution, flawless. Not a spare kept on hand for others, but one meant for His Grace's own protection against the cold. —In other words, he had reallocated his personal cold-weather budget to his subordinate's operational efficiency.
(Rational.)
Rosalind nodded deeply.
(Tomorrow I'll bring an extra shawl. When it comes to optimizing operational efficiency, the subordinate ought to meet her superior halfway.)
The murmuring in the hall did not die down.
Rosalind had grasped absolutely none of what it meant.
—Elsewhere.
In the shadow of a pillar, in a blind spot off the servers' routes, stood the aide known as a taciturn master of the sword, holding a bundle of papers.
Lucas tilted his head slightly and came to stand beside him.
"Your Grace."
The aide's voice was low enough to be lost beneath the music.
"The documents regarding the marriage proposal from House Heinrich have arrived. As for the proposals concerning Lady Clarissa and Lady Ophelia, messengers have come from their families seeking reconfirmation."
Lucas raised his glass to his lips before answering, briefly.
"As they are."
"...Understood."
The aide asked nothing more.
What "as they are" meant: papers that would not move, messengers who would return empty-handed, proposals fading away one after another—that whole future had been compressed into those few words.
Lucas let his gaze drift once more to the edge of the hall.
Rosalind was carelessly readjusting the cloak on her shoulders.
"...She looked cold."
In a voice only the aide could hear, Lucas added that, and only that.
The aide lowered his eyes to the papers and did not reply. In his long years of service, the one thing he had mastered better than anyone was judging when it was best not to reply.
As Rosalind was making her way back to the wall, a young serving girl approached her, cheeks flushed.
"Um... madam, may I bring you something warm to drink?"
"Thank you. Herbal tea, if you have it."
"Y-yes, right away!"
Watching the girl hurry off, Rosalind drew the cloak closer once more.
—The Grand Duchy's servants really are attentive.
(Proof that their performance review system is running soundly.)
She savored the thought, with deep and thoroughly professional appreciation.
As the evening drew to a close.
In the corridor leading back to the carriages, Rosalind bowed politely to Lucas.
"Your Grace. Allow me to return your cloak. I accepted your kindness with gratitude."
"Keep it."
A short reply.
"Hold on to it until tomorrow."
"...Your Grace?"
Rosalind thought for three seconds, then nodded.
"I gratefully accept."
What "until tomorrow" meant in business terms—her translation hadn't caught up. For now, she would respect the priority of the directive. This, too, was part of labor management.
Lucas walked on down the corridor without another word.
Inside the cloak, Rosalind realized her fingertips were no longer cold.
In the carriage, Rosalind absently traced the hem of the cloak draped over her knees.
Fine-quality wool. Tailored in a Grand Duchy workshop. —Occupational hazard: she couldn't help estimating the place of manufacture and the cost price.
(I must have it cleaned and returned tomorrow.)
With that thought, she happened to draw the edge of the fabric closer.
There was a faint scent of someone.
She tried to identify it by perfume brand, and couldn't.
It wasn't perfume.
It was simply the lingering warmth of someone's body.
Rosalind's fingers stopped, for half a second.
And then, as always, they started moving again.
(...Tomorrow, before giving the laundry instructions, I should air it out once so the scent doesn't transfer.)
Ritsuko Tanaka's voice was translating it into a household task on its own.
Beyond the carriage window, the Grand Duchy's streetlamps drifted slowly past.
What the weight left on her shoulders meant, Rosalind did not yet properly understand.
—The following Monday.
One after another, notices would arrive at the clerks of the Grand Ducal palace stating that the marriage proposals of the trio of snide young ladies had been "withdrawn at the other party's convenience."
By then, in every corner of high society, a different rumor would already be making the rounds.
"There's a woman who melted the Ice Grand Duke, they say—"