"Saint? I'm afraid I have no interest."
—That one remark, which would later travel the entire continent, was delivered on a snowy morning in the audience hall of the Grand Duchy of Vernant, in the most businesslike manner imaginable.
Let us rewind about thirty seconds.
The cardinal knelt.
His crimson vestments sank slowly onto the carpet.
The highest authority of the Mother Church was bowing his head to a silver-haired Economic Advisor.
"True Saint."
With those two words, the air went still.
The ambassadors of every nation caught their breath. An archivist dropped his pen. The ambassador from her homeland, the Kingdom of Albert, had gone past pale and turned the color of paper.
Only Rosalind wore her usual face.
The cardinal raised his head, every prayer he had gathered into his aged eyes.
"True Saint. I beg you, take the Holy Seat of the Mother Church and guide the Church as True Saint."
Rosalind tilted her head slightly.
"By 'Holy Seat,' you mean...?"
"The summit of the Mother Church. The seat that only the True Saints of ages past have ever occupied. The disgrace of having once exalted a false Saint and debased the Church's authority can be washed away only by the true Saint taking that seat. —Please, guide the continent's shaken religious order. This is for the peace of the entire continent. It is the will of God."
"The will of God."
Rosalind turned the words over on her tongue.
Lucas's gaze shifted slightly.
Apparently he had no intention of interfering with her answer. He stepped half a pace back.
Rosalind smiled.
That smile. The one high society had called the smile of a "cold, calculating villainess."
"Saint? I'm afraid I have no interest. I am the Grand Duchy's Economic Advisor, you see."
Quietly. But clearly.
A rustle of fabric spread through the audience hall. The ambassadors exchanged glances, and the ambassador from her homeland, unable to stay on his feet, put a hand to a pillar.
The cardinal's lips trembled.
"...S-surely you jest."
"Oh dear. Have I given you the wrong impression?"
Rosalind lowered her eyes to the schedule in her hand.
"Allow me to organize my points."
"Organize..."
"Yes. A professional summary. Three points."
She took up her pen and numbered the blank margin: one, two, three. The same hand she used to process paperwork.
"First—"
She lifted her face smoothly.
"Under my employment contract, I am the Economic Advisor of the Grand Duchy of Vernant. The Church may hold the right to 'recognize' a Saint, but surely it does not hold the right to 'requisition' labor already contracted to the Grand Duchy. —Unfortunately, my hands are already full."
For a moment, the cardinal searched for words.
The Church held the right to recognize a Saint, but nowhere in its canon was there a clause allowing it to seize, in God's name, labor already pledged to another nation. In the corner, the ambassador from her homeland hung his head low.
"Second."
Rosalind's voice was matter-of-fact.
"The title of Saint is not my name. My name is Rosalind Abel. That is quite sufficient. —There is no need to grant me additional titles."
—Ritsuko. It was the same for you back then, wasn't it? "The accounting person." "The admin girl." "That new hire." None of those were my name.
Somewhere deep in her chest, she felt as though someone nodded.
"Third."
Rosalind pointed the tip of her pen straight at the cardinal.
"Neither the Church's authority nor the rebuilding of the continent's religious order falls within my scope of work. Labor comes with compensation. I cannot accept duties outside my scope. —Those are my three points."
The audience hall fell utterly silent.
The cardinal clasped his hands together. It was the face of a man playing his last card.
"But, True Saint. This is—the will of God..."
Rosalind set down her pen.
And then, with the utmost elegance:
"The will of God is not written into my contract."
"..."
"On the day I signed my contract, the other party was the Grand Duchy of Vernant. —Had my employer been God, I would have obeyed, I suppose. Unfortunately, I have no recollection of entering into a contract with God."
She gave a soft smile. The cardinal's mouth slowly closed.
Behind Rosalind, Lucas stepped half a pace forward.
"This discussion is over."
Short. Low.
"As to the True Saint's investiture, she has answered for herself. There is nothing more. —Show them out."
An attendant moved at once. The cardinals rose, bowed, and withdrew.
The ambassador from her homeland, with no one to support him, staggered out last.
The doors closed.
All that remained in the audience hall were Rosalind, Lucas, and the archivist keeping the record.
Rosalind tapped the three numbers on her schedule with the back of her pen. Tap, tap.
"Your Grace. Aren't we running behind for this afternoon's tariff schedule?"
"...We are."
"Then I shall return to the office at once."
Lucas looked at her for a while.
He started to say something, then closed his mouth.
Instead, he lifted his own cloak and draped it carelessly over Rosalind's shoulders.
"The audience hall gets cold."
"Oh my. Thank you for looking after your subordinate's health as well. —Managing the cold is part of labor management, as I recall."
"Yeah. It'd be a problem if you collapsed on me."
It seemed to her that the corners of Lucas's mouth lifted, just a little.
Rosalind didn't notice. She simply accepted the weight of the cloak as "a supplementary outerwear allowance" and headed for the door to the office.
As she walked, she murmured inwardly.
—My name isn't left blank anymore.
—It's Rosalind Abel.
Outside the corridor window, snow had begun to fall.
That night, a bulletin sent from the Mother Church's magical communication tower would reach the nobles, merchants, and clergy of the entire continent at the very same hour—"True Saint Declines to Resign Post as Economic Advisor to the Grand Duchy of Vernant."
Translated, it meant this:
—"True Saint? Of course I respectfully decline."