RS 04

Chapter 4

Because the monarchy of Bellov recognized the titles of nobles who had fled their countries and sought refuge there, Bellov had a unique social class known as “immigrant nobles.”

Dolores’s family was part of this group. In Aquine, however, rather than using the common term “immigrant nobles,” people mockingly referred to them with the more elegant euphemism “the transferred.”

People generally left their homeland when it became difficult to live there. Thus, immigrant nobles were essentially living proof that conditions in their homeland had deteriorated to the point where they had no choice but to leave. In other words, they were people who had been transferred rather than people who had chosen to move of their own free will.

“The theft that happened two months ago, too… The Coclain royal family cannot simply stand by and watch the problems caused by these immigrants.”

“These days, I often see Samins and people from Sholotera. According to what Mr. Clemont told me, he apparently fathered a child abroad. And would you believe it? The child was born to a Samin woman. I can only imagine how devastated Mrs. Elize must have been…”

“You mean Mr. Clemont, the textile merchant? His business has been closed lately. Surely that isn’t why…”

It was strange.

She hadn’t done anything wrong, yet she suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to hide herself in a mouse hole.

“We’ve accepted far too many immigrants, and even the word ‘tolerance’ has become corrupted. Just look at Lenore. It’s strict and elegant there. There isn’t room for immigrants to set foot in the place. Everyone is steeped in culture and refinement. …Honestly, in this day and age, can you really call every person who claims to be a noble a noble? …But they’re different, I tell you.”

“Oh my, really? Have you ever been to Lenore?”

“My closest friend holds a position in the Lenore Police Bureau…”

Then.

“‘If he’s your friend’s friend, is he just some low-ranking protest guard or patrol officer?’”

A clear voice, like magic, locked the throats of every adult in the room.

Dolores, who had been shrinking into herself, slowly raised her head.

Beside the sofa where the adults had gathered, two boys sat on stools. One was around her age, while the other was a little older.

Here we go again.

What a nuisance.

The boy who immediately caught her attention was in his mid-teens. He wore a navy jacket decorated with silver embroidery and white gloves.

Just like the description in a textbook, his upper garment was buttoned neatly all the way to the collar and was perfectly smooth, without a single wrinkle.

His eyes had a gentle, somewhat languid shape, and his complexion was healthy, giving him a warm and comforting appearance. Dolores, who had always harbored a romantic fascination with having an older brother, felt her heart flutter for no reason.

“‘You said it was annoying to listen to this, too, didn’t you, Brother?’”

The other boy, who appeared to be around Dolores’s age, was delicate and somewhat nervous-looking.

He wore a dark-gray children’s suit beneath a black velvet cloak that fell all the way to his waist, with pearlescent buttons adorning the waist. A small golden brooch loosely fastened his high collar.

His light-brown hair was similar to his brother’s, making it seem as though they were brothers, but their atmospheres were completely different.

The taller boy pressed down firmly on the back of the smaller boy’s head with an exasperated expression.

But the smaller boy stubbornly twisted his head free.

“‘Mister, seriously, have you actually been to that cesspit called Lenore before talking about it?’”

“‘…What, uh…?’”

“‘In this case, I think “so-called” would be the appropriate expression. You don’t seem to realize how obnoxious those “so-called elegant people” are. Those people wouldn’t even look at people of our class. They’re the “real nobles,” after all.’”

His manner of speaking was impossible to imagine coming from someone his age.

“‘What does a little brat like you know to be talking, talking like this?’”

“‘I don’t know what I know, but I do know that you don’t know much.’”

“‘What?’”

“‘Is there any prominent family in our country’s economic or media circles that hasn’t been influenced by foreign countries? I heard even Sir Albert Chopard studied abroad for a year at the Bloomer Academy in Hennessy when he was young. And that famous Buchanan was probably a foreigner two hundred years ago. Oh, do you read the Romerto Journal? Mr. Romuald Ancel is also one of the “transferred,” yet he publishes a newspaper filled with contaminated ideas. Is he insane? Is it propaganda to incite the black radicals? Oh, Uncle, you don’t read the Romerto Journal, do you? The one you’ve put down beneath your hat. Huh, the Romerto Journal is—’”

“Mm!”

The taller boy finally pushed away his chair, stood up, and clamped a hand over the smaller boy’s mouth, abruptly silencing his relentless stream of insults.

Judging by his expression alone, one might have expected him to be deeply apologetic, but his apology was surprisingly half-hearted.

“‘I’ll apologize on my brother’s behalf. Please don’t take offense. My brother is rather sensitive when it comes to noisy things.’”

Dolores felt a strange sense of satisfaction.

The adults were flustered and completely focused on the boys. Every unpleasant word they had been saying just moments ago had suddenly become utterly meaningless.

The pompous gentleman—Dolores decided that was what she would call him—had turned bright red and was about to rise threateningly when an elderly gentleman standing on the opposite side stopped him with a laugh.

“‘These boys are precious children Lady Rou takes great care of. It would be better to let this pass quietly, wouldn’t you say, Sir Jerome?’”

“‘…Lady Rou?’”

The name Lady Rou carried enough power all on its own.

“‘Then how do you suppose those children came to be sitting here without a guardian?’”

“‘Just what kind of children are they to behave like that…?’”

“‘They are the precious sons of an old friend of mine, but they do have a prickly side, rather like roses covered in thorns.’”

Just then, Lady Anne Rou returned to the drawing room. Snow had accumulated on her hood, as though she had just been outside.

“‘My lady. I wondered where you had gone.’”

“‘I went to see off a guest who had to leave early. Even Sir Jerome can’t handle this child, can he? I had hoped there would be someone in Aquine capable of placating him.’”

“‘…Lady Rou, forgive me for speaking out of turn, but children should be taught proper manners from a young age…’”

“‘Of course they should. I’ll pass your words on to their parents. I only hope they’ll at least pretend to listen. Isn’t that right, Xavier?’”

Lady Anne Rou bent down with a smile before the boy called Xavier and met his eyes.

There was something strangely overwhelming about the sight of a child and an adult simply looking at one another.

It remained etched into Dolores’s mind like a subject in a painting that had been painted over with another dark layer.

The boy standing beside Xavier spoke.

“‘My lady, the gentleman does have a point. Excessive favoritism can spoil a child.’”

“‘Luca, don’t I dote on you equally?’”

“‘What I want is for you to scold me more harshly than him.’”

Lady Anne Rou laughed.

Lady Anne Rou was a witch who could make every incident of that night seem like nothing at all.

The boy who had been standing there with a dissatisfied expression turned his head.

As though he had noticed the persistent gaze of a certain girl, he looked straight at Dolores.

Between the neatly combed strands of his thin brown hair were long, striking green eyes.

There was no warmth or softness in them, yet somehow they seemed remarkably mature.

Since arriving at this salon as Marguerite’s companion, Dolores had been treated almost as though she did not exist. The boy’s direct gaze suddenly made her shrink back.

If it became even a little harsher, she felt as though he might actually lunge at her.

“‘Xavier, you knew that you shouldn’t be rude to adults, yet you did it anyway. As an apology, why don’t you play something for us?’”

“‘…’”

“‘Xavier?’”

Lady Anne Rou followed Xavier’s gaze and looked toward Dolores.

Under the sensation of everyone’s attention turning toward her, Dolores’s heart began to beat softly.

“‘…You’re asking me to do that?’”

“‘Why not? Surely you can show this much kindness.’”

“‘…If you insist, my lady, I suppose I have no choice.’”

The boy named Xavier turned his head away haughtily and opened an instrument case that had been placed against one wall.

Inside was a violin with a smooth, gleaming body.

The reddish-brown grain of the wood looked like the inner flesh of a tree deep within a dark forest.

Rosewood? Mahogany? Which one could it be?

When the four strings were brushed by the bow, they trembled with a thin, delicate sound.

The boy did not smile or bow like an ordinary performer. He simply rested the violin beneath his chin.

Relaxing his shoulders, he positioned the bow diagonally across the four strings.

His expression became serious in an instant, and the room fell silent.

The performance of Camille Ravel’s Moonlight at Lady Anne Rou’s salon opened the door to an unfamiliar world as if by magic.

The little boy’s bow danced across the violin strings as freely as an adult’s, moving unbelievably fast, then passionately slow, sometimes trembling delicately at his fingertips and sending shivers through everyone who listened.

All without changing his expression even once, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

The boy was like a cold flame and a scorching storm.

Restraint and overwhelming exhilaration became tangled together at once, leaving Dolores utterly incapable of describing what she herself was feeling.

The boy occasionally looked at her—or at least, she thought he did—and there was something strangely penetrating about his gaze.

It was as though he were looking at a mysterious outsider who had wandered into the center of his world.

Surrounded by music approaching from every direction, Dolores was caught like a fish in a net.

After the performance ended, Lady Anne Rou spoke to the guests with an air of self-satisfaction.

“‘If you all heard this child’s performance, I’m sure you’ll agree that the rudeness from earlier is nothing worth making an issue of. Don’t you think?’”

Lady Rou was absolutely right.

The boy was a genius.