"Lady Rosalind, it's time..."
The maid's voice came from somewhere far away.
Rosalind's cheek was still pressed to the desk. For half a second, she couldn't remember where she was.
At the edge of her vision lay the projection sheets for the silver recoinage she had spread out the night before.
A faint smudge of ink had transferred to her cheek.
"...Huh?"
She sat up. Outside the window, the sky was already pale.
"Ah... oh, yes, right away. Um, is it that late already..."
For a moment, even she couldn't tell whose words those were.
She was fairly sure she had muttered something in that same tone on some morning in her past life. At her desk, the morning after catching the last train home.
The maid let out a small giggle through the gap in the door.
"Um, Lady Rosalind. If you like, I could bring your breakfast to the office."
"Yes, please. —Thank you."
It came out naturally. In her past life, there had never been anyone to thank in the first place.
It was the fifth day of full-scale projections for the currency reform.
Purity, stamping, and the withdrawal phases for the silver coin. She had run projections on all three pillars at once, calculated the volume of old coin in circulation for the withdrawal phase overnight, and even finished the fair copy for approval—or so she thought.
She entered the office and sat at her desk. The usual tea. The usual white parcel.
"(...As usual.)"
Murmuring it briefly, Rosalind brought the cup to her lips.
The tea was at just the right temperature, brewed fresh to match the hour she reported for duty. She had been wondering about that for a while.
Then, the instant she looked down at the file copy of her work report, her hand stopped.
"..."
From the fair copy to the file copy. From the file copy to the original projections. She traced the figures with her finger. The second period of the withdrawal phase—the circulating volume was off by one digit.
Rosalind quietly set her teacup down on the desk.
(I've done it now.)
She did not say it aloud.
She had known sleep deprivation since her past life. But because it had been the norm, mistakes had been the norm too. And just as normally, her boss had thrown her documents back at her.
"Even a new hire wouldn't get a number like this wrong."
The sound of papers slammed onto the desk, and the white, merciless fluorescent lights. The two always came as a set.
—The moment she realized she was remembering, Rosalind let out a small breath.
(Calm down. First, prepare a corrected version and obtain approval again. I'll take it to His Grace's office personally, apologize in person, and report the cause and preventive measures all at once. That should—)
In her head, the work procedures lined up one after another.
This place was different from her past life. It should be a workplace where doing things properly got you treated properly in return.
—It should be. Even as she thought so, her fingertips had gone slightly cold.
"Pardon me."
Oswald the secretary came in.
In his arms he carried the very projection report Rosalind had submitted the night before.
"Returned to you by His Grace. —Have you already seen this?"
"No, not yet."
Rosalind took the bundle he held out and opened it.
It bore the seal of approval. The vermilion was still fresh.
The problem spot—the circulating volume for the second period of the withdrawal phase. There, in a different hand, a short line had been drawn.
Corrected. The logic of the original draft holds. Confirmation only.
It was Lucas's handwriting. Spare, barely slanted strokes she had seen several times in the margins of meeting minutes.
Rosalind looked at that single line for a while.
Then she lowered her gaze one line further.
Beside the seal, there was another note.
You may take a day off from the projections this week.
"..."
Rosalind did not move, the document still in her hands.
Oswald bowed his leave, then paused in the doorway and looked back.
"Lady Rosalind. His Grace said, just to be safe—you should have a physician look you over."
"His Grace said that?"
"Just to be safe."
That was all Oswald said before he left.
Rosalind settled back deep into her chair.
The tea at the corner of the desk was still warm.
The wrapping on the baked sweets was not yesterday's; it had been replaced with fresh white paper.
She set the document gently on the desk.
(—I wasn't scolded.)
That one short line echoed in her chest, and nothing else.
(Far from it—I was told to rest.)
She did not say it aloud.
She only looked at her own palms for a while.
The white glare of the fluorescent lights in her past life's accounting department had vanished from her head.
Instead, the Grand Duchy's morning light streamed in through the window, slowly stretching toward the corner of her desk.
"(...I must thank His Grace.)"
Rosalind truly meant it.
And then, as a matter of course, her mind began working out the most rational way to deliver that "thanks."
She drew a fresh sheet of paper toward her.
At the top, she wrote this title:
"Re: Proposed Improvements to the Projection Process and Review of Task Allocation"
His Grace had written that she could take a day off. In that case, the proper course was to redirect the man-hours that day would free up to another pending matter. Thanks were something you repaid with results. Without hesitation, Rosalind filled two sheets, then three.
Oswald came in at the bell and looked down at the stack piling up on the tray.
This was her reply to His Grace, who had so considerately written that she should rest.
Oswald exchanged a glance with the attendant waiting in the corridor and silently looked up at the ceiling.
—She never does notice. That much was nothing new.
Through the corridor window came the footsteps of craftsmen heading to the foundry for the morning, waiting on the silver recoinage trial.