“From the way the wire is woven and the layered vines draped over the flower like this lacework, this is roughly the style that was fashionable about five years ago.”

Isabelle paused briefly and turned the hairpin over to examine the back.

“This is most likely a piece by Edgar Rowen, a craftsman who worked in the shadows. He was quite well known for his skill. The problem is… he has already passed away.”

Luna’s heart sank in an instant.

She steadied her expression and carefully opened her mouth.

“How unfortunate……. Was it old age?”

“He wasn’t all that old, apparently. From what I’ve heard, it was likely an accident. Because of that, the price of the jewelry he made during his lifetime shot up considerably. Now the only way to get one is to track down the black market or a collector and pay a premium……”

“I see. Then, if possible… would you happen to know anything about his family, or the area where he lived?”

“I do know the location of the shop he used to run. But I can’t say whether the shop is still there, and since it won’t be operating anyway, you probably won’t get much out of it.”

Luna did not back down. It was disappointing, but she couldn’t let go of the only lead she had managed to find.

“This truly means a great deal to me. Please.”

“Then… I’ll tell you what I know.”

“Thank you so much.”

The two of them talked for quite a while longer after that. The lights of the salon dimmed, and the sound of footsteps gradually thinned.

* * *

Demian climbed into the carriage today as well, medical bag in hand.

His schedule had grown noticeably packed of late, and he had already made consecutive calls at several noblewomen’s residences.

At the tail end of a day spent rushing from place to place, the last stop was Marchioness Rosfeld’s manor.

“She mentioned having symptoms of anemia lately.”

Recalling the marchioness’s condition, Demian muttered briefly to himself inside the carriage and opened his bag.

Medicinal herbs for iron supplementation, a restorative decoction to bolster her energy.

And a simple set of emergency supplies, just in case.

Once he delivered these, the day’s schedule would be done.

Finish up quickly and get back to the manor for some rest.

Demian lifted his head and let his gaze drift to the window. The scenery passing by felt somehow blurred.

He had been unusually tired lately, with too many things weighing on his mind. Whether it was from skipping meals, his face had grown noticeably thinner than before.

But he could not afford to lie around at ease.

Luna had disappeared without a trace, her fate unknown.

If no one else was going to look for her, then at the very least he had to be the one to remember her and keep searching to the end.

The carriage rattled and slowed. It seemed they had arrived at Marchioness Rosfeld’s manor.

Demian stepped inside as though nothing were the matter, his stride no different from any other day.

“The marchioness is still in the studio.”

Hearing that Marchioness Rosfeld was still in the studio, Demian headed straight there.

It seemed today was a day for picking up the brush herself, not merely appreciating others’ work.

The moment he stepped into the spacious studio, a faint smell of paint reached him first. The distinctive scent of oil and pigment mingled together, the soft air warmed by sunlight, the smell of varnish.

Perhaps it called to mind the sight of Luna painting. Every time he set foot in the marchioness’s manor, the air here touched something in his senses in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

Paintings the noblewomen had done that day were drying along the walls and by the windows.

Meanwhile, even though the lesson had ended quite some time ago, the noblewomen gathered in one corner of the studio showed no sign of leaving.

They seemed to be exchanging opinions over a single painting, their voices growing louder by degrees.

At the center of it all was Marchioness Rosfeld, standing a step ahead of the others, taking in the work with unmistakable excitement.

Spotting her from a distance, Demian watched for a moment as though gauging the situation, then took a few broad strides forward.

His plan was to hand over the prescription quickly and slip out quietly.

“Look at this technique. This isn’t simply layering paint over paint; the colors are built up in strata. It looks as though the light is spreading from within.”

“The brushwork is this bold, and yet the lines are remarkably delicate.”

“To blend two techniques together so seamlessly… in a way, you could say the Grand Duchess was born with this sensibility.”

He waited for the noblewomen’s review to wrap up, thinking it would end soon enough, but the atmosphere showed no sign of winding down. Demian exhaled briefly and called out to Camilla.

“Marchioness.”

She turned her head.

“Oh my? It’s already this late… just a moment, please.”

Camilla stepped away briefly, then came to him and smiled warmly as she offered her apologies.

“I’m sorry. Something quite interesting happened today.”

Demian nodded without a word and handed her the paper bag of prepared medicine.

“The enthusiasm is remarkable. Someone with considerable skill must have appeared.”

“Not at all. It was the Grand Duchess, if you can believe it. Everyone was astonished by talent no one had expected.”

The only Grand Duchess he knew of was one person in the entire empire.

Lady Adelia, who had recently married into House Valenstein.

Demian’s brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. A sense of wrongness he couldn’t quite name passed through him, the same as the day he had seen Adelia’s letter not long ago.

Camilla, unaware of his reaction, hurried on.

“Ah, and I’ve already spoken to the butler about this month’s fee, so if you could collect it on your way out……”

Before she could finish, Demian moved toward where Camilla had been standing. He needed to see Adelia’s painting for himself.

He walked over without hesitation and looked at the painting. In that instant, his eyes went wide.

“This is……”

The texture of colors built up in layers, the traces of lines drawn over and over with meticulous care; it was unmistakably Luna’s work, without any need for explanation.

The little boat bobbing on the waves. The painting he had seen at the manor not long ago had been done in exactly the same technique, so there was no mistaking it.

Demian’s eyes shook without restraint.

He stood rooted to the spot as though nailed there, unable to move a single step, frozen like someone held captive by the painting before him.

Camilla, following behind him, spoke in a quiet, suggestive tone.

“Come to think of it, your father served as the personal physician at the Lutenberg manor, didn’t he? Skill like this isn’t built overnight, so perhaps you already knew of the Grand Duchess’s abilities.”

That was precisely what made it stranger.

The Adelia he remembered painted in a way that was the complete opposite of what stood before him now.

Flat colors, forms that were somewhat abstract, and no depth of feeling whatsoever.

That Adelia had followed Luna’s lead in painting was impossible given her nature; she would lose interest and give up before ever going deep enough.

Demian’s mouth opened slowly, as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“This… was this truly painted by Lady Adelia, that is, Her Highness the Grand Duchess Adelia?”

The marchioness shrugged and laughed lightly.

“That’s what I’m saying. I always thought she was a young lady who only cared for amusement, so I wonder when on earth she developed skill like this… ahem, ah, that was a joke.”

First the handwriting, and now the painting style. Could someone really come to resemble another this closely in such a short time?

As far as Demian could reason, it was impossible unless they were the same person.

And yet that painting…

The next moment, Demian turned almost on reflex.

“Doctor! Today’s fee―!”

There was no time for the eyes around him to follow. Demian walked out of the studio at a swift pace.

* * *

After hearing from Isabelle about the maker of the hairpin, Luna set off toward the shop he had reportedly run. But with each step she took, her feet felt heavier.

When she arrived, an unfamiliar sign already hung in its place, and almost nothing remained of what had been there before.

Fortunately, however, the trip was not entirely wasted.

Asking after his whereabouts, she learned that his home was not far away, and she had gone and met the family he left behind.

Edgar Rowen.

A master of filigree, the craft of twisting and bending fine metal wire to weave intricate patterns.

Luna carefully showed Adelia’s hairpin to his surviving family. They nodded at once, confirming it was indeed Edgar’s work, and told her with regret that Edgar had already passed.

The pieces of jewelry he had made in his lifetime were countless, as were the people who had purchased them, so there was no way to know how Adelia had come to have the hairpin.

But she heard something unsettling from Edgar’s family as they examined the bent section.

“This didn’t happen from ordinary use.”

Edgar’s craft was renowned for being both delicate and durable, they said; everyday wear alone could never have deformed it.

Their conclusion was that it could only have happened if strong physical force had been applied from outside.

Luna had come hoping to resolve her doubts, but left with nothing but a greater tangle of questions.

She had believed she would at least come away with one small but certain clue.

Would she never know what had happened to Adelia? A hollow, deflated feeling seeped out from somewhere deep in her chest.