He hesitated for a moment, then finally opened his mouth, but what came out struck even him as awkward.

“Is there anything else you need?”

“You already give me more than enough. What I have is sufficient.”

The personal allowance Caesar had set aside for the Grand Duchess alone was already a considerable sum. Thanks to it, she had been able to donate from what was left over and even extend her reach to expanding the facilities at the orphanage.

He was a remarkably generous person. Luna had nothing more to ask of him.

Luna sat lost in thought for a moment, then seemed to remember something and looked up at Caesar, speaking with care.

“Oh, rather than anything I want… I’ve been meaning to attend an art salon. I’ve just sent a reply to an invitation from the Marchioness of Rosfeld’s studio.”

“An art salon?”

“Yes. I’ve always enjoyed painting from time to time, and I thought this would be a good opportunity to keep it up as a hobby.”

“That sounds like a fine idea. Go and enjoy yourself.”

“I will.”

Caesar looked steadily at Luna as she ate without much appetite. She seemed unusually drained today, more so than usual.

His gaze lingered for a long time, but in the end he said nothing. A quiet, prolonged silence settled over their dinner.

* * *

Demian walked with heavy, dragging steps.

Every time word came that an unidentified body had been found near the Astrael mountain range, he went without hesitation to look at the face.

If she had lost her life in some unforeseen accident, he hoped at least to find some trace of her.

And yet at the same time, he felt the contradictory wish that the body found would not be her.

Today’s body was the same. The age was roughly similar, but one look at the face made it clear it was someone else entirely.

The moment he confirmed it, a breath of relief escaped him first. And then he felt angry at himself for feeling relief that it was not Luna.

Luna had not been found anywhere, and it was possible she was no longer of this world.

Even so, the hope that she was alive somewhere refused to leave him.

But if she truly was alive, where on earth was she?

Whether she could not come because she was wanted as a criminal. Whether she had hidden herself away of her own choosing. There was no way to know.

And so time slipped away without mercy, while he kept turning away from the worst possibility.

Having ridden out to the Astrael mountain range since before dawn, Demian came to a stop in front of the Marchioness of Rosfeld’s manor.

It was the most talked-about destination among noblewomen these days.

The art salon run by the Marchioness of Rosfeld was a place only those with the proper standing could enter, open by invitation only to women of distinguished family name and reputation.

Rumors even circulated that considerable sums of money changed hands in secret just to gain entry.

Demian had graduated at the top of his class from the national academy’s medical program at the youngest age on record, and his exceptional skill had earned him a practice making house calls to the manors of noblewomen.

The Marchioness of Rosfeld, whose name had been growing all the more prominent of late, was no exception. Worn out from the unending succession of gatherings and receiving guests, she had sent a request for a restorative tonic, and he had come with a prepared remedy brewed from herbs he had selected himself.

As Demian stepped through the entrance of the manor, he came across a messenger moving briskly with a letter in hand. The man, who had to visit several manors every day, looked just as busy as ever today.

“It’s been a while, Doctor.”

“Good day.”

“You’re looking well as always.”

There was a reason Demian was particularly popular among noblewomen. His record of graduating top of the national academy at a young age and his outstanding medical skill played a part, but what carried even more weight was his appearance.

Light brown hair and sharp, intelligent eyes.

A tall, upright frame and a neat, gentle manner. The impression he gave at a glance, of someone honest and diligent, drew people’s goodwill toward him naturally.

Any mother with a daughter would have been tempted at least once to consider him as a match.

In fact, he had received no small number of offers to introduce him to women of quite favorable circumstances, but Demian had never once accepted.

His heart had been settled on one person alone for a long time.

That was how unwavering Demian’s feelings had been, fixed on a single person since childhood.

Though now those feelings had nowhere left to go.

The messenger, who had greeted him warmly, turned to him with a troubled expression and pressed a letter urgently into his hand with a request.

“Doctor, I’m afraid nature is calling rather urgently. I’m terribly sorry, but since you’re heading in anyway, would you mind delivering this letter for me?”

“Of course.”

At his simple agreement, the man bowed repeatedly in thanks and left at once. His face had gone pale and was beaded with cold sweat, so it seemed he was genuinely in a desperate state.

Since Demian was already planning to see the Marchioness of Rosfeld, he took the letter without giving it much thought and walked on.

Then he turned the letter over idly in his hand.

[- Adelia Valenstein]

The moment he saw the name written on the outside of the letter, Demian’s steps stopped for just an instant.

At the familiar name, he dropped his gaze and studied the handwriting closely. And then he could not help but be even more startled.

Adelia’s handwriting bore a striking resemblance to Luna’s.

Unsettled, Demian opened the letter as carefully as he could.

‘I’ll have to tell the Marchioness I spilled something on it.’

Inside was a brief reply from Adelia accepting the invitation to the art salon.

The content itself was not strange. Adelia and Luna had often painted together.

The problem was the handwriting and the phrasing. Looking more closely, it reminded him of Luna even more strongly. It was not simply the shape of the letters but the very way the sentences were constructed that was nearly identical.

The small habit at the end of a sentence, for instance, and the tendency to lift the last word of a line ever so slightly upward and to the right when finishing a line.

‘How can it be this identical?’

The handwriting Demian remembered of Adelia had been closer to a loose, flowing cursive. It had not looked this neat and composed. He had always thought her dislike of studying showed directly in her penmanship.

Adelia. Now the Grand Duchess. Demian thought of her name.

Could a person change this much in such a short time?

The handwriting was so identical to Luna’s, too identical, that he stood staring at the words on the letter for a long while. His eyes wavered faintly.

At last Demian folded the letter as though nothing had happened and walked slowly into the manor.

* * *

Today was the day the art salon was being held at the Marchioness of Rosfeld’s manor.

Luna arrived at the Marchioness’s manor and stepped carefully down from the carriage.

Unlike her usual style of dressing in the elaborate fashion that suited Adelia’s taste, today she had chosen something neat and understated.

To make a good impression from the very first meeting, excessive ornamentation or an overt display of wealth could easily work against her.

Rather than opulence, the dress had been chosen for its fine-textured material, which carried only a natural, subtle sheen.

Her hair was loosely pinned up, with nothing at the center but the single silver hairpin Adelia had left behind, worn neatly in place.

Luna had not come to the art salon out of simple curiosity.

Her purpose was to mingle naturally with the noblewomen inside, build a rapport with them, and from there find some clue about the hairpin.

The craftsmanship and the luster were not the kind one came across easily, so she had come with the hope that someone with a keen interest in jewelry might know something.

That was why Luna had sought out this exclusive salon.

Luna paused for a moment and looked at her reflection.

She had pinned the distinctively shaped hairpin where it would be clearly visible, so it ought to draw the eye and hold the attention of those who noticed it.

She gave her appearance one last check and adjusted herself, then moved forward at a measured pace.

The servant keeping the door checked her invitation and opened the way at once.

“Your Highness, the Grand Duchess of Valenstein. Allow me to show you inside.”

As she stepped into the manor, a breeze drifting in from the garden carried with it the scent of flowers mingled with the faint smell of oil paint.

This art salon was to be held in the garden rather than indoors.

Among the easels and chairs arranged across the green lawn, noblewomen had already gathered in small clusters, exchanging conversation.

As Luna drew slowly closer among them, the Marchioness of Rosfeld came forward and greeted her warmly.

“Welcome, Your Highness.”

“Thank you for the invitation, Marchioness.”

“The honor is entirely mine that you came. We have some particularly special works prepared today, so please enjoy yourself to your heart’s content.”

The Marchioness of Rosfeld smiled and guided her naturally into the gathering.

Before long the noblewomen nearby recognized her and began approaching one by one to offer their greetings.

Luna received each of them with a composed manner, exchanging pleasantries in turn, a gentle smile kept at the corners of her lips throughout.

Taking in the dress of the other women and the atmosphere of the salon, the thought passed through her naturally that she had been right to choose something neat rather than excessive.