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In the distance, a train was curving in along a parabolic track.
It was a steam locomotive that had departed from Yukon, the capital, with Emerville as its final stop.
Humphrey disliked locomotives. They looked like black serpents, spewing white steam from their heads, and their whistles were annoyingly shrill. And now, starting this year, those machines that had only carried cargo would also be transporting people—what an absurd development. He could never understand why people kept inventing such dreadful contraptions and unleashing them upon the world, when the old ways were so much more beautiful and elegant.
The train came to a complete stop, and passengers began to disembark. Seeing the crowd surge out, Humphrey frowned and stepped aside to avoid having the travelers’ luggage brush against him.
When most people had already gotten off, a striking man appeared, stepping down onto the platform with a slight scowl. He wore a refined suit, a neat hat, and tapped the ground with an elegant cane. His well-groomed eyebrows and sharp yet graceful eyes stood out. Underneath his chiseled nose, finely shaped lips were pressed together neatly. Humphrey, who had met many gentlemen through the prestigious Campbell family, had never encountered someone so exceptionally handsome.
“That must be him.”
Having lived long enough to read people well, Humphrey immediately recognized the man as the king’s aide. His appearance was as polished as a hothouse flower, but he carried an air like the wild wind sweeping across barren lands. A man who seemed both fastidious and dangerous.
Railway workers set several pieces of luggage at the man’s feet before disappearing. Humphrey approached him with the coachman.
“Would you happen to be Spokesman Tristan Miller?”
“That’s right.”
The man gave a short reply, as if he already knew who Humphrey was. It wasn’t dismissive, so Humphrey wasn’t offended.
“Welcome, sir. I’m the deputy butler of House Campbell, currently serving the young lady at Rosebell House. A carriage is prepared—shall we go? The coachman will handle your luggage.”
“Thank you. I’ll carry this trunk myself. It contains fragile items.”
Tristan didn’t let anyone else handle the trunk he held. Though his voice was cool, the careful and delicate way he carried it suggested he was worried someone might steal it.
Thinking the man was peculiar, Humphrey guided him to the carriage.
The carriage left the station and entered a quiet country road. Tristan leaned back properly and gazed out at the scenery. The region was famous for its beauty, and the view outside passed by like scenes from a painting.
Across from him, Humphrey frowned. He had spotted a folded newspaper on Tristan’s knee.
Libertas Newspaper. As a conservative, Humphrey despised that accursed publication, which subtly supported the Southern rebels. The fact that the royal spokesman was reading it struck him as odd.
“Any good news in there?”
“It’s the same as always,” Tristan replied casually.
“Honestly, they need to crush those Southern Elkasus bastards soon.”
“……”
“I don’t understand what’s taking so long. The Southerners are just fishermen and farmers—they can’t possibly know how to fight.”
“That’s only what you see on the surface. There are many mines in the South—plenty of resources to produce weapons. And Duke Hazelkaiser is an excellent military commander. He’s followed by many young people and scientists. If they systematically train soldiers and develop advanced weapons, we can’t be certain of victory.”
For once, Tristan answered in some detail. He was exhausted from the long journey and hadn’t intended to engage in conversation, but Humphrey’s curiosity was genuine, and cutting him off too coldly would’ve been rude.
“Still, their military power can’t compare to Estonia’s, can it?”
“Who knows? We don’t know how well prepared they are.”
Although he received steady intelligence, Tristan didn’t want to say more—otherwise, Humphrey’s questioning would never end.
Before Humphrey could open his mouth again, Tristan raised the newspaper to block his face, a clear signal that he didn’t want to talk. Fortunately, Humphrey caught on quickly and stayed silent.
The carriage eventually reached the bridge over the river leading to Rosebell House. Along the road and riverbanks, travelers in various outfits were passing by. At some point, Humphrey’s eyes widened, and he tugged on the cord leading to the coachman’s seat.
“Stop the carriage for a moment.”
Thump, thump, thump. He pounded on the wall, and the coachman pulled the reins, bringing the horses to a halt. Tristan lowered his newspaper and looked at Humphrey questioningly. Humphrey gave an awkward smile before speaking.
“Ah, my apologies, sir. I see an acquaintance behind us—may I step out briefly to speak with them?”
“As you wish.”
It was somewhat rude for a butler receiving a guest, but Tristan didn’t seem to mind.
No sooner had he received permission than Humphrey stepped down from the carriage and walked back down the road.
Tristan leaned slightly to watch him. Humphrey was speaking with a woman holding a parasol, walking in the opposite direction. From her shabby dress and parasol, she was likely a housemaid or a local resident.
Losing interest, Tristan returned his attention to the newspaper.
A short while later, Humphrey climbed back in, wiping sweat from his forehead. As the carriage resumed its journey, he exhaled softly, though his unease was obvious. Something had clearly unsettled him.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“It’s fine.”
Tristan didn’t ask further—he didn’t want to prolong the conversation. The scenery outside was still beautiful, but now it felt as though a scratch had been drawn across the painting.
What is this feeling?
A sudden wave of irritation crossed Tristan’s face, and he rubbed his forehead.
Rosebell House, with its orange brick walls and matching roof, had a neat, classical elegance. The three-story building had around ten rooms. The west wing on the first and second floors was for the servants, while the east wing and third floor were for the owners and guests.
Tristan should have entered in good spirits, but his face was twisted with anger.
“What did you just say?”
“The young lady has gone on a trip,” answered Dorothy Gibson, the head maid. Her graying hair and stern face made her look strict, but unlike the fidgeting Humphrey, she was calm.
“That’s impossible. She should’ve received His Majesty’s letter.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I wouldn’t know.”
“When did she leave?”
“It’s been a while.”
Her voice and eyes were cold, like someone frozen. It was strange how composed she was, considering the young mistress had left home. She clearly knew more but had no intention of explaining.
“Where did she go?”
“I don’t know.”
“When will she return?”
“She said she had no plans to return.”
Tristan clenched his cane in frustration. He was furious, but it wasn’t the old maid’s fault, so he couldn’t lash out. Turning his head, he saw Humphrey looking away stiffly. Did he know, too? No, if he had, he wouldn’t have acted so casually on the way here. Which meant that Isbella had still been at the house when Humphrey left…
“Shall I show you to your room, or would you prefer…?”
Dorothy’s eyes silently asked if he planned to leave. It felt as though she were telling him, You’ll never meet the young lady—just go back.
The irritation of the situation quickly faded; Tristan was the kind of man who could enjoy a challenge. He stared at Dorothy for a while, then gave a soft laugh and handed her his cane.
“Show me the room. I’ll be staying here until the young lady returns.”
Dorothy flinched at his confident smile, frowning. She had expected him to either storm out or brood deeply, not react with such composure. Just how much must Isbella have shown her dislike for the king for the servants to treat the king’s envoy this way?
He wasn’t angry—he was amused.
“This will be your room. Breakfast is at 7, lunch at noon, and dinner at 6. If you don’t need or need anything additional, please let us know. The library is on the first floor; feel free to use it.”
Dorothy’s voice was as stiff as a machine as she showed Tristan to his room. He silently surveyed it. The furniture wasn’t large or flashy, but it was refined, and the paintings by famous artists stood out.
“Do not go up to the third floor. That’s the young lady’s private area.”
“…Of course.”
His reply was emotionless. He intended to behave like a proper guest—for now.
“Oh, could you send a letter for me? I need to report to His Majesty that the young lady has run away.”
“…Ah, understood.”
Dorothy’s previously rigid expression faltered slightly—she was clearly worried about what would happen once the king found out.
“And please, any letters addressed to me should be brought straight to my room. There will be important matters in them, so don’t open them without permission.”
“Of course. We never open anyone’s correspon—”
“You may go.”
Tristan turned away, signaling that he didn’t need to hear the rest. A moment later, her footsteps retreated and the door closed behind her.
