Chapter 11
“Luirene, was it?”
Hitaon crossed the bedroom now. He called her name so naturally it startled her, but she didn’t show it, quickly settling into a servant’s posture.
“I don’t believe I’ve had the chance to introduce myself.”
“No. I heard from Nanny. She said you’re Grandmother’s new caretaker.”
“Yes. I’m grateful for the position.”
“I’m the one who should be grateful.”
He tossed the used towel carelessly over a chair and turned from the window.
“Do you know my name?”
“You’re the young master of Glair.”
“That’s my family’s name.”
He leaned against the windowsill. His silver hair, already dry, stirred in the gentle breeze drifting in.
“Hitaon Glair.”
He was a beautiful man. Though he had come of age, his frame hadn’t yet broadened—he gave less the impression of handsomeness than of beauty. Fitting for the son of the Marchioness of Glair, once called the flower of society, he’d inherited the fullness of her looks from that era.
“We’ll be seeing each other often, Luirene.”
“Pardon?”
“The spot where you spilled the tea—it’s where I often come to rest.”
“Ah… that place?”
The Glair Marquisate had a beautifully decorated garden pavilion, a glass greenhouse where flowers bloomed even in winter, a study where even footsteps were forbidden, a music room where the master could play piano at will, and a recreation room with its own leisure amenities. Yet he chose this place as his sanctuary?
‘Why here of all places?’
“You’re wondering why here?”
“……”
“Because it makes people wonder. It’s not easy to predict.”
He smiled like a villain with a secret and brought his index finger to his lips.
“I’d like you to keep seeing me here a secret.”
“……”
“Then I’ll keep quiet about you spilling tea on me.”
It wasn’t a threatening tone. His voice carried a light playfulness, as if suggesting they share a secret just between them. Luirene nodded, captivated by his demeanor.
He vaulted back through the window just as he’d entered. Even after he disappeared, the image of his silver hair lingered before her eyes.
Starting the next day, a new task was added to Luirene’s already uncomplicated routine.
She began preparing a third cup of tea—one for the old lady, one for herself, and one for him.
Hitaon appeared quietly, like a shadow, around two or three in the afternoon when the former Marchioness would drift off in the warm sunlight. He never announced his arrival. When she’d steal a glance outside the window—
He’d be sitting there, silent.
Whether his purpose was truly rest varied by day: sometimes he’d have undone his sword strap and be cooling down from sweat, other times he’d bring paper and a quill and scribble something. When he was there, Luirene would watch him for a moment, set the tea on the windowsill, and turn away.
Hidden by the window frame, his movements were barely perceptible, but when she checked later, the cup was always empty. Perhaps because of that, she began to suspect he was listening to her voice.
She became certain of it in early summer, when the sunlight had begun to grow warmer.
“Do you know much about 『The Phantom City of Milfiguer』?”
Today’s tea, chosen for the former Marchioness, was jasmine. She set his cup on the ledge and was about to quietly withdraw when a voice carried over the window frame, catching her ankle. The young master was speaking to her for the first time.
“Pardon?”
“『The Phantom City of Milfiguer』. You were reading it to Grandmother the other day.”
The book he mentioned was one of the three great tragedies passed down through noble society—a tragic love story the old lady favored strangely.
“I wouldn’t say I know it well. I simply chose it because it’s to Her Ladyship’s taste.”
“Grandmother’s tastes seem rather eclectic.”
She understood which passage he was referring to and simply smiled instead of replying. Now that she looked, Hitaon held a notebook in his hand. It was filled with dense writing—scrawled words, lines scratched out in the corners.
“Still, you must know it decently. Would you mind helping me?”
“With what?”
He waved the notebook in his hand.
“The topic for my next rhetoric class. ‘Analyze the ethics of loss and memory in 『The Phantom City of Milfiguer』.’”
He’d been at it for a while, apparently, but it wasn’t coming together. His expression was vexed.
“I remembered you reading it, and I thought I’d ask for some help.”
“Would I be of use?”
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