Her last three years had been filed away at the back of a drawer, in someone else's handwriting.
—She found out purely by chance.
The second drawer of her desk. Reaching for some old documents, her fingertips brushed a bundle of papers shoved deep at the back. It was tied up roughly with hemp twine.
No seal. No label.
Only the knot in the twine was far too meticulous.
Rosalind drew the bundle out and set it on the desk. She moved her teacup aside and slid the plate of baked sweets to the edge. As on every other morning, it was the little morning plate someone had left for her.
—One of those "people who look out for you," I suppose.
Having dismissed the thought that lightly, she untied the twine.
The first sheet.
Abel Territory, Northern Pastures: revenue 1.4 times the previous year / Implemented by: R.E.
...R.E. The northern pasture policy I implemented.
Rosalind's breathing grew slightly shallow.
The second sheet.
Abel Territory, Southern Irrigation Overhaul: Phase Two complete / No budget overrun / Implemented by: R.E.
The third sheet.
Kingdom of Albert Assembly, November 3: Crown Prince's statement "reduction of southern tariffs" corrected; correction read aloud in plenary session by R.E. (recorded in the minutes under the Crown Prince's name)
...What is this?
Rosalind straightened in her chair.
The fourth sheet, the fifth, the sixth—the bundle was thick. The dates ran from three years ago, not a single one skipped, lined up with meticulous care. The Abel territory accounts, records of the Crown Prince's duties she had shouldered for him, summaries of her remarks at social gatherings. All of it summarized neatly by a third party.
She recognized the handwriting.
It was the hand of a man who usually scrawled nothing on approval documents but "Approved."
"...Your Grace."
Her own voice dropped into the empty office.
So he's been running my employment assessment since three years ago.
In terms from her past life, it was long-term talent lock-in recruitment. Accumulate a strong candidate's track record year after year, then poach them when the timing is right—the method of foreign headhunters.
I see. Rational. Extremely rational.
Rosalind had almost accepted it when her eyes caught on the very last sheet in the bundle.
The handwriting seemed, ever so slightly, different.
January 14. Evening party. Settee by the wall. Economics text, likely Fischer's treatise on trade. No one spoke to her until she finished it. Left without taking leave.
...January 14.
Three years ago.
Rosalind traced back through her memory. —Ah, that party. Alfred had gotten drunk and danced like a madman, and she had excused herself early to read by the wall. There had indeed been a night like that.
A night when it was cold, when she hadn't wanted to speak to anyone, when only her book had been kind.
Someone had been watching that?
If it had only noted that she was reading Fischer, it would still count as assessment material. Aptitude for an Economic Advisor, say. But this sheet recorded even that no one had spoken to her, and that she had gone home without taking leave.
"This part has nothing to do with work."
Rosalind murmured it aloud.
After she said it, she realized her voice had come out lower than she'd expected.
Her fingertip, tracing over the paper, had for some reason stopped and stayed still.
Two knocks at the door.
It opened before she could answer.
"Rosalind."
Lucas stood there, a sheaf of documents in one hand. His gaze flowed to the desk in an instant. Hemp twine, summary sheets, handwriting. —He saw all of it.
And then he went still.
Rosalind laid a hand lightly on top of the bundle.
"Your Grace."
"...Yes."
"Since when have these materials been compiled?"
She set the question down, flat.
Lucas did not look away. Without looking away, he let half a breath pass.
On an ordinary day, he was a man who answered at once. "It was operationally necessary."
Today was different.
"For about three years."
"Three years."
Rosalind squared the edges of the bundle with her fingers.
"In that case—your plan to employ me predates the broken engagement by a good while, doesn't it?"
"..."
"Your Grace?"
Lucas set his documents on the corner of the desk. As he did, he aligned the corners of the pages with a little extra care.
Then he answered, low and short.
"This is a work matter."
Something inside Rosalind snagged, for an instant.
Oh?
Ordinarily, this man said, "It was operationally necessary." He said, "It's a rational decision." He said, "It pays off."
"A work matter" was a phrase she had never heard from him.
It sounded like the voice people used when they were covering something.
—She had almost thought that much, then pushed the snag back to the far end of the drawer.
Reading too much into things is a bad habit from my corporate-slave days.
Ritsuko Tanaka, you died from reading your boss's moods too closely. In this life, stop it.
Having told herself so, Rosalind gathered the bundle back together.
"Very well."
She nodded, businesslike.
"If you have had me under consideration for talent acquisition since three years ago, then I am honored. And that you were aware even of the matter of the Albert Assembly minutes speaks to the precision of your intelligence network."
"...I see."
"There is just one thing."
Rosalind plucked out the bottom sheet. January 14, by the wall, Fischer's treatise on trade, left without taking leave—that one.
"This has nothing to do with my accomplishments, does it."
Lucas's shoulders shifted, by no more than a few millimeters.
Rosalind went on.
"In that case, may I take it to be a record for assessing the character of a prospective hire?"
"........."
"Your Grace."
"...That will do."
"Is that so."
Lifting the corners of her mouth—not quite a smile, more a professional courtesy—Rosalind returned the bundle to the drawer.
To think he's been monitoring even my reading habits for three years. Truly a thorough man. —Not that I'd call that any kind of comfort.
She dismissed it lightly in her heart.
The moment she did, for some reason, the hand holding her teacup felt just a little warm.
After Lucas left the room, all that remained in the office were the baked sweets, the unopened approval documents, and the bundle just returned to the back of the drawer.
Rosalind turned back to her projections and began copying a twenty-year table of tariff trends onto a fresh sheet.
Right then. Work, work.
At the corner of the desk, the tea was slowly going cold.
—Meanwhile, in the office down the corridor.
His aide, Sir Dieter, the moment he had closed the door, put a reserved question to his lord.
"Your Grace. That memorandum from January 14—shall I retrieve it?"
For a while, Lucas gave no answer at all.
Then, a single quiet word.
"...Leave it. I want that page to stay with her."
Sir Dieter bowed deeply.
He knew that his lord's voice was the same low pitch as the "This is a work matter" he had heard just this morning.
On Rosalind's desk, twenty years of tariff trends were beginning to line up in neat order.
The bundle at the back of the drawer was already outside her awareness.
Only—the single sheet at the very bottom, the one that had nothing to do with work, had for some reason been tucked inside a separate sheet of thin paper and moved to the very front of the drawer.
Where it would catch her eye the next time she opened it.