Chapter 8

Twice a year, in summer and winter—on Saint Michael’s Day and during the eve of the festival—the Harper Earldom, as the historic keepers of Terez, was obligated to host grand banquets.

Compared to the gentle quiet now, those times filled Fitzhend Hall with dazzling sights and vibrant festivities.

“It’s quiet now, but there are times when Fitzhend Hall is packed with people.”

“I remember hearing about it a few times.”

“They talk about it even in the North?”

“The romantic banquets of Terez are a dream for the young ladies there, too.”

Olivia asked as if surprised, but it wasn’t really unexpected.

The lavish feasts at Fitzhend Hall, held only twice a year, were famous even from afar. Nobles from neighboring regions would go to great lengths behind the scenes to receive an invitation—an open secret repeated every year.

As the night deepened and the atmosphere ripened, unmarried noble men and women would sneak out of the ballroom hand in hand. The maze garden, with benches placed here and there, was a favorite spot for young couples to whisper their love.

“But I think I was happiest during the winters in Gaether.”

Olivia murmured to herself and gently closed her eyes. The densely wooded trees and the winter sunlight filtering through the leaves. The deep, soft snow that swallowed her ankles, and the endless mountains stretching in every direction.

She remembered laughing and chatting with her younger brother, Elliott, as they rode their horses.

“You were there too, Sir Vincent.”

“…Do you remember?”

He stopped walking. Olivia, who’d been a few steps ahead, turned back.

Strangely, this knight from the bleak North never looked particularly gentle. He wasn’t rugged or rough, but rather possessed a finely sculpted, delicate beauty. Sharp eyes like a honed blade, a proud nose without a single curve, and tightly pressed lips that suggested stubbornness—all combined into a cold, striking face.

Recalling the boy from her memories, Olivia’s answer was delayed. She smiled softly and nodded.

“You were a quiet boy.”

Why had she forgotten?

She quietly remembered the silent servant boy from long ago, standing beside Vincent. He was a year younger than Elliott, meaning Vincent had been eight at the time. Back then, his hair was nearly blond, not the ashen shade it was now. He was taller than other boys his age, and rarely showed emotion. He was a calm boy, never easily shaken.

He was the one who saved Elliott from serious harm.

—Elliott……!

Though Vincent was bigger and more athletic than his peers, the cost of pushing Olivia aside to catch Elliott was steep. As they rolled down the hill, Vincent struck a large rock, leaving a deep, ugly scar near his left shoulder blade—a wound that would never fade, especially for a child.

Covered in dirt, dust, and grass, Vincent lost consciousness. Olivia, terrified by the sight of the bloodied, unconscious boy, nearly stayed up all night until he opened his eyes the next day.

—Are you… are you awake?

—…My Lady?

—Thank goodness…!

On the morning after the accident, just as the dawn light began to seep in, Vincent opened his eyes. His dark pupils widened in surprise, then he quietly reassured Olivia at her sobs.

—How’s your body? Are you alright?

—I’m… fine.

—Do you want anything? I’ll do anything for you…!

Vincent stifled a groan and sat up in bed. As soon as he coughed, Olivia clasped his small hand tightly. She truly meant to do anything.

Money? Rest? Food? She could beg Nurse Rose for anything. Whatever he wanted—he’d saved her and Elliott.

—If… you really want to do something for me.

His small voice followed, and Olivia looked up.

—A poem.

—…….

—Could you read me a poem every night?

She was stunned, not expecting such a request. Perhaps misunderstanding her silence, Vincent added with a sullen voice,

—It’s alright if it’s too much.

He looked as pitiful as a puppy drenched in rain.

—Too much? Not at all.

The words slipped out before she realized.

—Alright. I’ll do it.

At Olivia’s cool acceptance, Vincent’s eyes sparkled.

For a week, until Vincent recovered enough to get up, Olivia visited him almost every day to read poems. From epic tales of heroes to lyrical ballads, the type didn’t matter.

It wasn’t a long time. A month passed quickly after Vincent left his sickbed, and soon it was time for him to depart. On the last day, Olivia sneaked into his room and tucked a handkerchief into his luggage. It was her first embroidery, crude and clumsy, but the only one she’d made, pricking her fingers many times in the process.

The very handkerchief Vincent later returned to her in the Glass Garden.

As the buried memories resurfaced, Olivia felt a warm sensation rising from her chest.

“Sir Vincent.”

She paused, then raised her head and smiled as she requested,

“Would you tell me about the North?”

“What would you like to know?”

“Barbarians beyond the Empire, giant beasts, things like that.”

“I’m not much of a storyteller, so you might find it boring.”

Olivia smiled at his reply. Even in the carriage, she could see what he wanted. That hadn’t changed.

“Not at all. If you tell me a story, I should give something in return.”

Pretending to think deeply, Olivia closed her mouth, then answered,

“There’s only one thing I’m good at.”

It felt like meeting an old friend she’d missed for a long time. She didn’t mention the past, but that was enough. Now she remembered clearly—the young boy who quietly closed his eyes as Olivia softly recited poems at his bedside late at night.

Suddenly, she regretted that Vincent would leave the next morning.

“I’ll read you a poem.”

* * *

Vincent’s stories were more enjoyable than expected.

He claimed he wasn’t much of a talker, but his descriptions made Olivia feel as if she’d seen a part of the North herself. Endless snowy plains of a single color, coniferous forests thick with darkness even at midday, and all sorts of wild beasts lurking within. One night, when everyone was asleep, a barbarian raiding party scaled the fortress walls—ending in a gruesome defeat, their leader’s head hung from the watchtower.

“Madam.”

It was midday, as Olivia returned from her walk. Someone was waiting in her room.

“Annie?”

As soon as Annie stood up, Olivia’s eyes fell on the silver tray and its contents on the table.

“…What’s that?”

Olivia asked, and Annie silently handed her the letter and paper knife from the tray. The envelope bore a seal she’d never seen before. It wasn’t from her cousin Cecile, with whom she often exchanged letters, nor from any of her usual contacts.

Suppressing a growing sense of foreboding, Olivia took the paper knife and slit the envelope open, unfolding the letter. In elegant, old-fashioned script, a brief note was written.

[Dearest Olivia Harper, Countess,

I apologize for sending such a sudden letter.

Forgive me for sending a telegram in haste.

If you receive this letter, I will be alone in the carriage returning to Terez.

If you allow, I would like to visit the main house tomorrow evening.

It’s fine if you refuse.

It’s very urgent.

I await your reply.

Heather Genoa

P.S. Please give your reply directly to the servant who delivered this letter.

Tomorrow morning, I will be in the annex.]

As Olivia read each line, she felt her breath catch.

“Madam?”

Perhaps her strength had left her, as Annie supported Olivia and helped her to a chair.

“Is it really from that woman?”

Olivia handed Annie the letter instead of answering. Her head spun. She pressed her temples with both hands. Lady Greta’s words overlapped with those in the letter—adoption, mistress, that woman… Had Heather Genoa heard the news as well? Was she reaching out before a decision was made, to plead or negotiate?

No, that wasn’t it.

Olivia shook her head. Heather wasn’t the type to act ashamed or guilty in front of Olivia, but she also wasn’t brazen enough to openly propose a deal to the legitimate wife.

Taking up her quill, Olivia dipped it in ink and wrote briefly on fresh paper.

[No need to come to the main house.

I’ll go to you.]

* * *

At the edge of Fitzhend Hall’s first floor, the corridor lined with portraits of successive Earls and Countesses was the oldest and most historic part of the mansion. The butler and head housemaid paid special attention to it.

A red wool carpet ran the length of the corridor over the white floor mixed with coral stone. That meant footsteps made no sound, even when someone approached.

Only when someone was right beside her did Olivia turn her head.

“Countess.”

“Aunt.”

“The maid said you were here.”

“…….”

The elderly lady gazed at Olivia, then turned toward the portrait she’d been looking at earlier. Olivia also shifted her gaze back to the portrait of the former Earl and Countess. A lady sat in a rosewood chair trimmed with crimson silk, and behind her, a young husband rested his hand gently on her slender shoulder.

The artist had painted the newlywed couple with a soft touch—full of life and harmony. The lady’s lively blush and the young Earl’s proud face drew Olivia’s attention.

Jet-black hair, flawless amber eyes.

Olivia always thought Lenahan resembled his father. He lost both parents at fourteen, while studying abroad. He inherited the title in haste after arranging their funerals. Relatives swarmed like wild dogs but soon faded away. As he dealt with them one by one, Lenahan performed his father’s role perfectly, without a single mistake.

Perhaps the child Olivia lost long ago would have resembled his grandfather and Lenahan—black hair, golden eyes like agate.