On a winter morning, the doors of the Grand Duchy of Vernant's archive opened earlier than usual.
"Your Grace! ...No, Lady Abel, good morning!"
Owen, the Chief Archivist, set the leather-bound manuscript he'd been hugging in both arms down on the desk with a thud. The scent of dry parchment mingled with the steam of the tea.
Rosalind slowly raised her face from the tariff schedule and blinked once.
"Good morning. ...Owen, your hair is a mess."
"Y-yes, my apologies... No, this is no time for that."
"Calm yourself. Deep breaths. Breathing comes before labor."
Owen drew in a great breath, then let it all out at once.
"The signs. The signs of the True Saint."
"...I beg your pardon?"
The pen in Rosalind's right hand stopped on the page.
It was a morning when the Crown Prince's groveling and Miria's clinging still lingered, like dust on ice.
"This is a manuscript the Mother Church has kept buried for years," Owen said.
Unable to contain his excitement, he spoke faster and faster as he opened it.
"It records three signs of the true Saint."
"Three."
"The first: silver hair, close to moonlight."
"I see."
"The second: eyes holding the blue of the deep sea."
"I see."
"The third: a magical wavelength that responds only at the hour of the new moon. —In all recorded history, only one Saint has ever fulfilled all three."
"Only one."
"The first Saint, Seraphina. The Saint of the Lamp, she was called. Today's magical instruments, the communication towers that link the continent... The Mother Church's manuscript says she left them to the world through knowledge from a foreign land. And in the centuries since, not one person has matched. Not a single one."
"And?"
"This time, two of them have been matched."
"And the revisions to the tariff schedule—there are still three pages left, are there not?"
Owen's mouth stopped, half open.
Rosalind lowered her long lashes once and returned her eyes to the figures on the tariff schedule.
—In my past life, this was the kind of workload you couldn't finish without overtime until the last train.
"Um, Lady Abel."
"Yes."
"I said someone has matched."
"Yes, I heard you."
"The one who matched is, well..."
A young assistant archivist, looking ready to faint, pointed to a page of the manuscript.
Owen cleared his throat and, with trembling fingers, laid a miniature painting beside the manuscript.
It was a portrait of Rosalind. The court painter had done it last month, in honor of her achievements in the currency reform.
Silver hair. Blue eyes.
The Chief Archivist, it seemed, had run out of voice.
"..."
For a while, Rosalind compared the manuscript's text with the portrait.
Then she took a sip of tea and spoke.
"Return this manuscript to its original shelf. Humidity will damage it, so put it on a front shelf rather than at the back."
"Y-yes."
Owen bowed so hard he nearly struck his forehead on the desk.
"I simply thought that Your Grace, of all people, ought to be told first!"
"Not 'Your Grace.' I am the Economic Advisor."
"...Y-yes!"
"Then, send a formal inquiry to the Mother Church. Through the usual procedures. And thank you for your hard work. I'll have sweets sent to the archivists. The archive must be cold."
The archivists bowed deeply in unison, then took the manuscript and withdrew.
The door closed.
Rosalind picked up her pen again and set to work on the third page of the tariff revisions.
A few seconds later, the door at the back of the office opened without a sound.
"...Ro— No. Rosalind."
Lucas swallowed the sound halfway out. He had been waiting in the adjoining room, and now he pushed the door open and came in. He had apparently heard the report from the start.
Rosalind didn't look up. Her pen kept moving as she answered.
"Your Grace. From where were you listening?"
"Around 'silver hair, close to moonlight.'"
"So, from the beginning."
"Yeah."
Lucas came to the side of the desk and touched the cover of the manuscript, just once.
Deep in his pale blue eyes, something had loosened, just slightly.
"The Mother Church will send an envoy."
"Indeed."
"Is that all right with you?"
"I have no taste for being displayed on an altar and worshipped. The Saint's seat is—let me see—worth less than the third page of the tariff schedule."
"...Heh."
Lucas raised the corners of his mouth, just slightly.
It was his true smile, the one no one had ever seen in public.
Rosalind didn't lift her eyes. She didn't notice.
At some point, a fresh cup of tea and a plate of baked sweets had appeared on the desk.
Her pen stopped.
"...Oh my. Since when has this been here?"
"Just now."
"Oh my."
Rosalind picked up one of the sweets and put it in her mouth.
It tasted the way it always did on a winter morning.
Outside the window, the snow had begun to fall in earnest.
The Crown Prince's groveling, Miria's clinging—they were far away now.
But from beyond the snow, one more thing was trying to make its way toward them.
The Mother Church's silver envoys.
Rosalind took the fourth page of the tariff schedule out of the drawer.
"Your Grace. The final check on this afternoon's trade agreement revisions—may we proceed?"
"Sure."
"Then I shall continue."
Lucas said nothing and sat down in the chair beside her.
"Rosalind."
"Yes."
"Tomorrow, you'll be made to stand at the center of the world."
"Is that so."
Rosalind added one neat circle to the fourth page of the tariff schedule.
She took "the center of the world" as nothing more than a figure of speech about work.
Lucas said nothing more.
The snow was still falling.