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“Please don’t be too disappointed.”
Speaking in a reluctant voice, Rose walked toward the piano as if she were being sent to her death.
Ray felt he understood why a woman who had desperately avoided the piano would eventually stand up with such a look on her face.
From the moment the bill was nearly tabled, from the day she came to his bedroom to apologize, the woman had been actively erasing her own thoughts and will.
Not only had she accepted Ray's request to stay quiet, but she now accepted everything people demanded of her without a word of complaint.
It was merely a request to play the piano. A request she could have easily refused.
Yet she was afraid of even such a request.
Clearly terrified that the Boltonians would suffer again if she refused, the woman slowly approached the piano.
Suddenly, the wound on her arm and the bandages became terribly distracting. He felt as if he were a debtor with several pages of outstanding accounts.
Placing both hands on the keys, the woman exhaled a very deep breath, as if taking a deep breath before a plunge. Her demeanor was as if she were about to fight a war.
Soon, a soft first note rang out, contrasting with her hesitant movements.
The piece Rose played was a famous nocturne from Antaka. Ray had heard the Royal Palace pianists—the women—play this piece several times.
An elegant and delicate melody flowed incessantly from the woman's slender fingers gliding over the keys. Just as Ray had thought last night, the image of her playing the piano suited her well.
As the music reached its climax and the volume grew noticeably louder, it remained elegant and soft despite the intensity.
A quiet gasp of admiration escaped the Ambassador's wife as she listened to the syncopations interlocking beautifully without a single mistake.
As the piano music gradually grew softer and slower, finally reaching its end, Ambassador Antaka began to clap loudly.
“Mr. Garnier was not lying after all! That was a beautiful performance, Madame.”
Although Antakans were prone to lies and exaggeration, Ray thought the Ambassador's praise was genuine.
Ray was no music critic, but he had ears. He could distinguish between someone who played well and someone who didn't.
Rose's skill was top-tier. Especially considering that Orturan nobles only learned the piano as a hobby, her skill was even more striking.
It was a level of talent that made him wonder why she had avoided the piano so much.
On the other hand, the woman's face as she stepped down from the stool was utterly dark. Looking at that awkward and gloomy smile, she looked like someone who had made a huge mistake during an orchestral performance.
Ray's gaze slowly shifted to the man who was said to be her teacher.
Marcel Garnier was clapping, but he was looking at Rose with pity.
A gaze of deep compassion.
Why?
A brief question filled Ray's mind.
The man, who had been looking at his former student with endless heartache, quickly erased that expression from his face and flashed his characteristic smile the moment his eyes met Ray's.
That naturalness revealed that this pianist had been staying in Orturan for quite some time.
Returning to the table, Rose looked at Marcel, and for a while, their gazes locked. It was as if they were the only two people in their own world.
There was clearly something that only Ray did not understand, something he could not read between them.
Something he could not figure out.
It was incredibly irritating. As irritating as the wound on her arm.
* * *
After the meal, during tea time, the Ambassador and his wife showed consideration by sitting a bit away from them to let them catch up.
While the couple engaged Ray in a conversation about politics at the drawing room table, Rose looked at the artworks placed there with Marcel.
“You were surprised, weren't you? I didn't expect to see you here like this either.”
Marcel spoke to her in the Antaka language. His characteristically gentle voice gave the illusion that time had been turned back to the past.
To a time when Rose's hands were intact, when she was her teacher's proud student.
Only the subtle pain that persisted even after the performance informed her that it was already a past that had slipped away.
“I... I heard about your mother late. I hope she is at peace there.”
“...Thank you.”
Even though her mother hadn't liked him.
Her mother used to consider Marcel the culprit who filled Rose's head with delusions.
“The pain seems to have worsened.”
As expected, one could not deceive the ears of a former teacher. Even though she had intentionally chosen a piece with a slow tempo and easy chords.
“Are you not composing anymore?”
Marcel asked with a cautious attitude.
“You were the one who told me it would be better not to, Teacher.”
Rose was momentarily flustered, surprised by her own response, which came out colder than she intended.
She had once sent him several compositions and asked for his advice.
<The possibility of succeeding through composition is not high, so it would be best to give it up.>
After that cold reply arrived, Rose never sent him a letter again.
“I did say that, didn't I. But I didn't think you'd give up just because of my words.”
Indeed, he knew his student well.
Rose had been angry at the time, but she hadn't given up. However, she gave up after ten different publishers all told her they had no need for her music.
She lacked talent for composition, but she wasn't stupid.
“Still, things turned out well, didn't they?”
Marcel asked cautiously.
“You've become the Duchess of Crawford, no less. I can't tell you how surprised I was when I saw the newspaper.”
Seeing someone who knew better than anyone how much she had wanted to live as a musician say such a thing, it seemed that Rose's life had indeed turned out well.
It was simply a matter of Rose accepting this fact, yet it left a bitter taste in her mouth.
Feeling a sudden gaze, Rose looked toward the table, but Ray's eyes were fixed on the Ambassador and his wife. It seemed she had been mistaken.
Marcel, following Rose's gaze to the people at the table, hesitated before speaking.
“...Um, the fact that the Ambassador thinks I am Antakan...”
“I have no intention of telling him.”
At Rose's quick answer, Marcel let out a sigh of relief.
Marcel's mother had been Boltonian, and he himself had been born and raised in Bolton since childhood. Yet, as introduced by the Ambassador, he had suddenly become an Antakan who had merely stayed in Bolton for a short while.
But he soon understood. Since Marcel's surname and given name were taken from his Antakan father, people wouldn't notice even if he erased Bolton from his history.
“It would have been nice if you could say you were Antakan too. But your father is so famous, so I suppose that wouldn't work.”
Marcel spoke as if he were genuinely sorry.
As they walked slowly through the drawing room, they came across beautifully crafted glass artworks. Seeing Rose's gaze stop at the familiar crafts, Marcel nodded.
“You noticed, right? These glass crafts are all from Bolton. They're incredibly popular in Orturan too. Though they won't admit they're Boltonian.”
“How can they not admit something that's already been made?”
“They don't want to import Boltonian goods here. So they bring them in through Antaka, sell them as Antakan crafts, and people buy them believing that. The Antakan merchants get a commission, and Bolton can at least sell them.”
It truly was a tedious and peculiar country.
“That's why I live like these crafts. Pretending to be an Antakan import.”
Marcel laughed self-deprecatingly and stared blankly at a small glass lion statue.
The heavy silence that fell between them was suddenly sliced through by the Ambassador's voice.
“I believe war will break out soon.”
The Ambassador's voice was particularly loud, perhaps due to excitement, but it was also clearer because Marcel and Rose had moved closer to the table.
“The situation in Ladan, our ally, is not good. Ladan wants us to mobilize our military together. We in Antaka will likely have to respond soon...”
Rose doubted her ears. How long had it been since the last war ended that they were talking about war again?
“What is Orturan's position? Minister of the Interior Avery strongly desires war; that is the official position of the Conservative Party, correct? Since the Prime Minister dislikes stating his own opinion so much.”
Now Marcel was also listening to their conversation. His face was still directed toward the artworks, but his eyes shifted to the side.
“Internal affairs are for the Minister of the Interior to handle. However, war is not something to be dealt with as a mere internal matter, and I can never agree to war. As long as I am here, that cannot become the official position of Orturan or the Conservative Party.”
Rose looked at Ray in surprise.
She had never seen Ray speak so firmly and directly. He wasn't even wearing a polite smile.
He had been like that with her a few times, but he was a man who never spoke that way in front of others.
“Lord Avery was hoping Minister Crawford would advocate for it. Since you were a key figure in the last war, it would be great if you stepped forward in support. Isn't it a good opportunity to resolve various domestic difficulties?”
“The idea that war resolves anything is merely a delusion. My position will not change, no matter what.”
It was a remarkably negative attitude for a man who had gained his current popularity through war. Rose knew how proud typical Orturans were of their long history of military participation.
The image of Ray acting excessively defensive toward her last night came to mind.
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