"Prince Wilhelm, Second Prince of the Kingdom of Clarc, is to visit—officially as head of a trade inspection delegation, I'm told."
That morning, at the sound of Anna reading the report aloud, Rosalind's quill stopped.
(So he came after all.)
She recalled the one seal Lucas had paused over in front of the fireplace yesterday. That had been the crest of Clarc.
"How shall we arrange the seating for the welcome banquet?"
"I shall defer to His Grace's judgment."
Rosalind turned her eyes back to her balance sheet. The tariff estimates for the new shipping route were due today. These came before entertaining guests.
And yet, for some reason, Anna did not leave her seat.
"Um, Lady Rosalind. Prince Wilhelm has specifically requested the seat beside yours."
"Oh my."
Rosalind raised her brows, just slightly.
(Wanting to sit next to the Economic Advisor—so he means to open investment negotiations right there at the table? How very eager.)
"Understood. I'll have the balance sheet finished before the banquet."
At the far end of the room, the sound of Lucas turning pages faltered, ever so slightly.
The banquet hall was in the south wing of Vernant Castle. Silverware lined the long table, candles flickered, and the strings of the orchestra played softly.
Prince Wilhelm took the seat beside Rosalind and spent five minutes talking about his family lineage.
Going back to his great-grandfather: the royal bloodline, the mines on his lands, the record of victories in battle, and then his hobby of horseback riding.
(In that time I could have drawn up three tariff tables.)
Rosalind sighed inwardly. The sense, from her past life, of time whittled away by pointless monologues came back to her here of all places.
"—However, Lady Rosalind."
The prince tilted his wineglass and leaned toward her.
"For a woman of your talents to be buried in bookkeeping in some northern country is truly a waste."
Rosalind neatly folded the napkin at her lips before answering.
"I don't consider myself buried. My salary is ten times what it was back home."
The prince failed to grasp her meaning and smiled, showing white teeth.
"There's no need for modesty. In my country, you would be given a far more fitting place—as a countess."
(A countess. In other words, a title for erasing one's own name.)
Rosalind's expression did not change. The structure was the same as words she had been showered with time and again in her past life. That stock line that went from "Our company can offer you better terms" to "Why not just come be my wife?"
"How kind of you. However, my employment contract—"
Just then, the prince's finger rose.
It reached for a stray lock of Rosalind's hair.
A bare instant before his fingertip reached that silver strand—
A palm of a different temperature came to rest on Rosalind's shoulder.
Through the fabric, she felt its coolness.
She didn't need to turn around to know whose hand it was.
"Your Grace."
"Advisor Rosalind." Lucas's voice came down from just behind her. "I want to review those estimates tonight."
A work directive. Rosalind pushed back her chair at once.
"Understood."
As she rose, the hand left her shoulder slowly, almost reluctantly. —No, that was not how Rosalind felt it. What had moved away had simply moved away.
The prince's finger, left with nowhere to go in midair, took hold of the stem of his wineglass again.
"Please excuse me, Prince Wilhelm. Perhaps we might continue—"
"There will be no continuing."
Lucas took the words from Rosalind's mouth. Extremely short, extremely flat.
The prince's cheek stiffened, just slightly.
Rosalind, not noticing, curtsied and withdrew.
The corridor was quiet.
When Rosalind matched her pace to his, Lucas was walking half a step ahead.
"Your Grace, I'm sorry to trouble you when you're so busy, but I actually finished the balance sheet last week. If it's only a matter of reconciling it with today's figures, tomorrow morning would do—"
"No."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I want to review it tonight."
Short. Short, but without his usual preface of "as a matter of business necessity."
Rosalind thought for a moment, then was satisfied.
(Ah, so His Grace is quite the slave driver too. Still, the pay justifies it, so I've no complaints.)
They turned a corner.
Lucas clenched his right hand—the one he had placed on Rosalind's shoulder—once, and opened it again.
The feel of it still lingered on his fingertips.
(—That was close.)
Within him, a single line of narration fell into place.
(One second later, and that man's finger would have touched her.)
Half a step behind him, Rosalind had already reopened the balance sheet in her head.
The office door closed.
A single candle flickered in its holder.
"Well then, let me bring up today's figures."
Rosalind sat down at the desk. She took up her quill, spread out the paper, and set to work without the slightest doubt.
Lucas watched her back for a beat, then called for Anna in the adjoining room.
A low voice slipped through the gap in the door.
"Anna."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Check the Second Prince of Clarc's itinerary for his stay."
His voice was lower than usual—by just a semitone.
Anna nodded without a word and withdrew, muffling her footsteps.
Rosalind was lining up meticulous figures in the corner of the page.
As for the warmth lingering on her shoulder, she had already—as a workplace signal—completely processed it and filed it away.
(Tomorrow, reconciling tariffs from first thing in the morning. Far more constructive than sitting through the rest of that banquet.)
Outside the office window, snow had begun to fall, just a little.