Morning, in the anteroom adjoining the office.
The morning sun traced a faint outline around Lucas's back as he stood at the window. Anna, his secretary, hugged a bundle of documents and straightened her posture just inside the door.
The door to the next room had been left half open.
In there, Rosalind had already been absorbed in paperwork for thirty minutes. The steady scratch of her pen across paper carried all the way into the anteroom.
"Your Grace. Regarding the Second Prince of Clarc's itinerary—"
"Read it."
"Three days, following this afternoon's audience. A welcome banquet, an inspection tour, and on the final day, he wishes to sign a memorandum on the trade agreement—"
Anna's voice broke off midway.
Without turning around, her master's profile had shifted, just slightly.
"Anna."
"Y-yes."
"That man. He should go home."
Anna caught her breath.
The corners of Lucas's mouth had risen by a single millimeter. A strange, angular expression, as if he were mechanically constructing only the outline of a smile.
"—For the good of our country, you see."
His voice was lower than usual, by a semitone.
Anna let her gaze drift quietly toward the door to the next room.
The scratch of the pen had not stopped.
The same moment, in the next room.
Rosalind's pen stopped.
Not, however, because she had heard His Grace's voice. It was because the last digit of the estimate she was writing had come out right.
She added a quick note in the corner of the page.
—"Clarc: Encourage early return home."
(Exactly as His Grace says.)
Rosalind pressed a slender finger lightly to her temple.
(Clarc's new harbor is a project with no prospect of recouping its costs unless a royal with on-site decision-making authority is permanently stationed there. If we keep that very royal detained here, the delays will only pile up. Having him return home and take personal command is the rational choice for both sides.)
When she repeated rational in her head, her shoulders loosened, strangely.
While she was submerged in numbers, she never had the bandwidth to keep track of how people were moving.
In her past life—back when she was a corporate slave—that had tripped her up more times than she could count. No one ever picked up a move she'd failed to notice. In the end, only the failure remained, and the cleanup invariably landed on the desk of the person at the very bottom: her.
Now, someone was plugging the holes she'd nearly overlooked before she even reached them.
(His Grace is truly rational.)
Adjusting her grip on the pen, Rosalind moved on to the next digit.
That the master of the next room had reached the very same conclusion at an entirely different temperature—she would never know, to the very end.
Afternoon, in the audience chamber.
The Second Prince of Clarc settled deeper into his chair and began, first, to talk about his family lineage.
Lucas did not permit it.
"Forgive me, Your Highness. Today, allow me to begin with our conclusion regarding the investment proposal your country extended to us."
A single drawing was spread across the desk.
"Your country's new harbor construction plan. This is the latest progress estimate, compiled independently by our nation's intelligence network."
The prince's eyebrow twitched.
"...This is—"
"To state the conclusion first: our nation will be declining to invest in this plan."
"Wh—! Why?"
"For one reason only."
Lucas tapped the scheduled completion date on the drawing lightly with a fingertip.
"There is no royal stationed on site with the authority to make final decisions. Procurement of materials, arrangement of craftsmen—everything stalls, waiting for a ruling. Under the current chain of command, completion within three years would be difficult."
"W-wait. That is—"
"Delays translate directly into losses for the investors. Roughly 1.2 million in Clarc currency per year. Every year, for the next three years."
A thin sheen of sweat appeared on the prince's brow.
Lucas's tone remained calm throughout.
A negotiator's tone, one might say.
"Our nation cannot put funds into a project carrying such delay losses. —However."
He paused for one beat.
"Conversely, should Your Highness return home yourself and take personal command on site, the matter changes entirely. Eliminate the delays in judgment, and the losses vanish. In that case, our nation would be glad to give the investment favorable consideration."
It was perfectly rational.
There was not a single flaw to find.
The prince was silent for a while, then gave a short cough deep in his throat.
"...I shall have preparations made for my return at once."
"A wise decision, I believe."
Lucas bowed his head, the angle of his courtesy perfectly constructed.
The rise at the corners of his mouth was just a little deeper than it had been in the anteroom.
Passing down the corridor, the Prince of Clarc noticed a silver-haired woman approaching from the other direction.
Rosalind, documents in her arms, accompanied by her secretary, Anna.
The prince almost stopped on reflex. At least one last word of greeting—he began to open his mouth.
From the edge of his vision, a single document was smoothly held out.
"Your Highness. Before you depart, there are clauses in the investment agreement I would ask you to review."
It was Lucas.
Precisely between the prince and Rosalind, half a step forward. The position was for handing over a document, but as a result, the prince's path was completely blocked.
Rosalind had already walked past.
"Any message from His Grace?" Her profile as she quietly checked with Anna. Her attention had returned to the figures on her documents—she was her usual self.
The prince accepted the single sheet, bowed to no one in particular, and walked off down the corridor.
Lucas did not watch him go.
Only the fingers of the hand that had passed over the document had bent, for an instant, very hard.
Night.
The office.
Rosalind bowed lightly at the door.
"Your Grace. Your handling of Clarc today was splendid."
Lucas did not look up from his documents.
He advanced his pen by one line before finally giving a short reply.
"I merely did what was only natural."
Rosalind gave a small laugh and went back to her own desk.
Only after her retreating figure had disappeared beyond the door did Lucas finally set down his pen.
Casting his gaze out the window at the night streets of the Grand Duchy, he repeated it once, just once, under his breath.
—What was only natural.
Beyond that, he didn't let it show—not even in the narration.
The next morning, in the envoys' waiting room of the salon.
The ladies from other nations who had arrived as the prince departed were stealing glances at Lucas from behind their fans, whispering.
Three attempted to greet him.
"Your Grace, it's been so long—"
"Excuse me."
"Your Grace, at today's tea party—"
"I have plans."
"Your Grace, if you'd like—"
"Anna, the next estimate."
Three seconds, three seconds, three seconds.
Each conversation ended at exactly the same length.
Lucas walked with an unhesitating stride toward the far end of the corridor, toward the desk where Rosalind's estimate notes lay.
The ladies' fans stopped moving.
And, stopped, they did not move again for some time.
That night, in the secretaries' office, Anna closed the day's work log.
"Marriage proposals for His Grace: as of today, three outstanding."
She turned the page and added one more line.
"Marriage proposals for Lady Rosalind: as of today, five—all processed within the day."
She murmured it aloud and set down her pen.
The three addressed to His Grace sat piled up, untouched. Far from being answered, their seals hadn't even been broken. Leave them alone and the other parties would give up eventually—that was probably what he thought.
But the five addressed to Lady Rosalind were another matter entirely. Every last one had been dealt with on the very day it arrived. Some merchant house's dishonored bills, some family's cash-flow troubles, some marriage arrangement wiped clean—the reasons were always magnificently economic. Not neglect. Each one, precisely, crushed.
And Rosalind herself probably didn't even know she'd received any proposals.
Anna let out a small breath and smiled faintly.
—He won't so much as break the seals on his own proposals. But Lady Rosalind's, he handles the same day—economy and all.
She opened her desk drawer and took out tomorrow's to-do list. At the very top was a line in her own handwriting.
"Envoy from the Duchy of Northland: request to extend stay."
On the surface, an extension of business talks. But the real reason that envoy was so stubbornly eager to remain in this country, Anna had already guessed. —His target was Lady Rosalind.
Anna gazed at the line, thought for a while, then smiled once more.
—This one too, the moment it reaches His Grace's ears tomorrow morning, will probably get settled economically.
She picked up her pen again and added a small note beside the item.
"Requires: processing by economic logic."
Then she closed the log and put out the light.