OY 22

Chapter : 22

“Don’t be too disappointed.”

With a reluctant tone, Rose spoke and walked toward the piano as if she were being sent to her execution.

Ray could understand why the woman—who had desperately avoided the piano until now—still got up despite making such an expression.

Ever since the moment the bill had almost been stalled, ever since the day she had come to Ray’s bedroom to apologize, she had begun actively suppressing her own thoughts and will.

Not only had she accepted Ray’s request to stay still, she had also begun accepting everything others demanded of her without a word of protest.

It had only been a request to play the piano. Something she could have refused without consequence.

And yet even such a request seemed frightening to her.

Clearly afraid that if she refused, the Bolton people might suffer again, the woman slowly approached the piano.

For a moment, the wound on her arm—her bandage—felt unbearably irritating. It was as if she had become a debtor with pages upon pages of injury recorded against her.

She placed both hands on the keys and exhaled deeply, as if taking a breath before a battle. It truly looked like she was going to war.

Then, a soft first note sounded—one that did not match her hesitant movements at all.

The piece Rose played was Antaka’s famous nocturne. Ray had heard the palace pianist perform it several times, played by women in the royal court.

From her slender fingers gliding over the keys, an elegant and delicate melody flowed without pause. As Ray had thought the night before, the sight of her playing suited her well.

As the music reached its climax, the piano grew louder, yet remained elegant and gentle.

From Madame Dea, who listened as the irregular rhythms interlocked perfectly without a single mistake, came a quiet murmur of admiration.

When the sound gradually softened and slowed before finally ending, the Antaka ambassador began applauding loudly.

“Truly, what Monsieur Garnier said was not a lie! A beautiful performance, madam!”

Antakans were often prone to exaggeration or flattery, but Ray thought the ambassador’s praise was sincere.

Ray was no music critic, but he had an ear. He could tell the difference between good and bad playing.

Rose’s skill was exceptional—among the finest. Especially considering that Ortruran nobles usually only learned piano as a hobby, her level stood out even more.

It was hard to understand why she had avoided the piano so much, given her talent.

In contrast, the woman who stepped down from the chair looked utterly dark. Her awkward, gloomy smile made her seem like someone who had made a grave mistake during an orchestra performance.

Ray’s gaze slowly shifted to the man who had once been her teacher.

Marcel Garnier was clapping, but he was looking at Rose with pity.

A deep look of compassion.

Why?

A brief question filled Ray’s mind.

The man, who had been gazing sadly at his former student, quickly erased that expression the moment his eyes met Ray’s and instead put on his usual smile.

That effortless change revealed he had been staying in Ortruran for quite some time.

Rose returned to the table and looked at Marcel. For a while, their eyes remained locked. It felt as though they were in a world of their own.

Something between them—something Ray could not understand, could not read—was clearly there.

Something beyond his reach.

And that bothered him greatly. Just like the wound on his arm.

After the meal, during tea time, the ambassador couple kindly excused themselves and gave them space, saying they should catch up.

While the couple discussed politics with Ray at a reception table, Rose and Marcel walked around the room looking at the artworks.

“You must be surprised. I didn’t expect to see you here like this either.”

Marcel spoke in Antakan, his gentle voice creating the illusion of time rewinding.

To when Rose’s hands were still whole, when she had been her teacher’s proud student.

Only the lingering pain that remained even after the performance reminded her that those days were already gone.

“I heard about your mother only later. I hope she is at peace there.”

“…Thank you.”

Even though her mother had never liked him.

Her mother had considered Marcel the source of all illusions that led Rose astray.

“Your pain must have worsened.”

As expected of her former teacher, he could not be deceived. Even though she had chosen an easier, slower piece with simple harmonies.

“Do you not compose anymore?”

Marcel asked carefully.

“You were the one who told me it was better not to.”

Rose was surprised by her own cold tone after speaking.

She had once sent him several pieces, asking for advice.

“Your chances of success as a composer are not high. It would be better to give it up.”

After receiving that blunt reply, Rose never wrote to him again.

“I did say that. But I didn’t think you would simply give up because of my words.”

He truly understood his student well.

Rose had been angry then, but she hadn’t given up. However, after ten different publishers rejected all her compositions, she eventually did.

She wasn’t foolish—just not talented in composition.

“But things turned out well, didn’t they?”

Marcel asked cautiously.

“You became the Duchess of Crawford. I was quite shocked when I read the newspaper.”

To someone who knew how much she wanted to live as a musician, this might have sounded like things had worked out.

Rose was the only one who had to accept that fact—and it left a bitter taste.

She suddenly felt a gaze and looked toward the table, but Ray’s eyes were fixed on the ambassador couple. It must have been her imagination.

Marcel, who had followed her glance, hesitated before speaking.

“…About the ambassador thinking I’m Antakan—”

“I won’t tell him.”

At Rose’s quick answer, Marcel sighed in relief.

Marcel’s mother was Bolton, and he himself had been born and raised there. Yet to the ambassador, he was now treated as Antakan, someone who had only briefly stayed in Bolton.

But it was understandable. His name had been given according to his Antakan father, so erasing Bolton from his identity would not be obvious to others.

“You would’ve looked better as Antakan too. But your father is too famous for that, I suppose.”

Marcel said this with regret.

They continued walking slowly through the reception room, now standing before beautifully crafted glass ornaments. Rose’s gaze lingered on familiar pieces, and Marcel nodded.

“You noticed, didn’t you? These glass crafts are all from Bolton. They’re extremely popular in Ortruran too. Though they don’t admit they’re Bolton-made.”

“Can they just refuse to acknowledge what’s already been made?”

“They don’t really import Bolton goods directly. They bring them through Antaka, sell them as Antakan crafts, and pretend that’s what they are. Antakan merchants earn commissions, Bolton can still sell them in the end.”

It was a tiring, unnecessarily complicated country.

“So I live like these crafts too. Pretending to be an Antakan import.”

Marcel gave a self-deprecating smile and stared silently at a small glass lion.

The heavy silence between them was suddenly cut by the ambassador’s sharp voice.

“I believe a war will break out soon.”

His voice was somewhat loud, perhaps because he was excited, but it also carried clearly as Marcel and Rose had moved closer to the table.

“The situation in our ally, Radan, is not good. They are asking us to mobilize troops together. Antaka will likely have to respond soon…”

Rose thought she must have misheard. How could they talk about war again so soon after the last one ended?

“What is Ortruran’s position? Minister Everly of the Interior seems strongly in favor of war—is that the Conservative Party’s official stance? The Prime Minister, of course, is always reluctant to voice opinions.”

Now Marcel was listening too. His face still turned toward the ornaments, but his eyes shifted sideways.

“The Interior Ministry will handle its own affairs. However, war is not something that can be reduced to internal matters. I absolutely cannot agree to war, and as long as I remain in office, that cannot become the official stance of Ortruran or the Conservative Party.”

Rose looked at Ray in surprise.

She had never seen him speak so firmly, so directly. He wasn’t even wearing his polite smile.

He had done so with her a few times—but never in front of others.

“Minister Everly is hoping that Lord Crawford will support the campaign. Since you were a major figure in the last war, your endorsement would help. It could resolve many domestic difficulties, couldn’t it?”

“Believing that war solves anything is an illusion. My position will not change under any circumstances.”

For a man who had gained his popularity through war, his stance was surprisingly negative. Rose knew how proud most Ortrurans were of their long military history.

She remembered Ray’s unusually defensive behavior from the previous night.