Chapter 33
The garden was empty.
He’d gotten a bit lost on his way here, but the weather was pleasant, so it hadn’t been tiring.
Listening to the birds, he sat down on a white bench. The breeze stirred his hair gently.
He closed his eyes and soaked in the sunlight. Even with his eyes shut, he could still see brightness behind his lids.
The warmth of the sun pressed softly against his face.
‘It’s quiet… and peaceful.’
A tranquility he could never feel back at his family’s estate.
He let his body relax, sinking into the bench. The thick shrubs around him hid him from easy view.
He could just stay here a while and slip back into the playroom unnoticed later.
‘I think I understand now why the fruit here tastes so good.’
He liked the Sardena estate’s garden. He liked its fruits, too.
Whenever a banquet reached its peak, the Marquis of Sardena would send sweet fruits and ice cream to the children in the playroom.
Among the servants handing out the desserts, there was always one who secretly gave him a few extra cherries on his sherbet.
They had never spoken, but everyone remembered him—he came almost as often as Alina did.
Even so, they never showed it outwardly. The people of Sardena were kind to him—
unlike the nobles from the capital or other regions.
He was basking in the sunlight when—
Rustle.
The bushes nearby shook. His shoulders stiffened, but thankfully, the sound wasn’t too close. He only opened his eyes slightly.
He didn’t want to run away. If it were just a servant, maybe they’d let him stay here.
It would be troublesome if it were another noble child who’d gotten lost, but really, who would wander the garden in the middle of a banquet?
He looked toward where the sound came from. The bush went still again. No more noise.
‘A bird, maybe.’
He relaxed again—
Rustle.
The bush much closer to him shook this time, and suddenly, a small arm popped out.
Smaller and whiter than his own—and a little chubby.
There were red scratches all over it. Not old wounds—fresh ones, likely from reaching through stiff branches.
The arm groped around as if searching for something. Instinctively, Damian scooted back, pressing himself against the bench.
‘What the…?’
His heart pounded in shock. The hand brushed against the grass and plucked out a handful.
Now the perfectly manicured lawn that the Marquis of Sardena cared for so deeply had an ugly dent in it.
Damian slowly drew his legs up onto the bench. Then came a small, disappointed sigh from beyond the bushes.
<Oh no…>
It was a young voice. Damian hoped the child would go away soon.
A kid who would stick her hand through thick bushes like that—scratching her arm without a care, plucking grass from someone else’s garden—
He didn’t want to be friends with someone like that.
But the bushes rustled again.
With his legs pulled up, he couldn’t jump down quickly. Damian frowned—
<Oh?>
A young girl’s voice rang out.
She was looking right at him.
Honey-colored hair spilled down like golden syrup, a small and delicate face, red eyes that sparkled with curiosity.
Her pink dress was covered in frills like a layered cake.
If you only looked at her outfit, she could have passed for a fairy.
But the ribbon on her head was crooked, her arms were full of red scratches, and her hands were still clutching grass.
<A guest! There’s a guest here!>
She shouted cheerfully.
For the first time, Damian regretted coming to the garden. He turned his gaze away, pretending not to hear.
But the girl kept talking, voice bright and familiar.
<What are you doing here? The playroom’s that way.>
She was obviously younger than he was, yet she spoke casually, without any hesitation—like it was natural for her to do so.
Despite her lack of manners, everything she wore—from her ribbon to her dress—was high quality.
‘She must be from a noble family… though probably not higher than mine.’
Either way, he didn’t want to deal with her.
Children could hurt you easily—even when they didn’t mean to.
So many of them had laughed and played with him once,
only to say “Mother told me not to play with you anymore” the next time they met.
Damian hummed a little tune and pretended not to notice her.
But the girl didn’t leave.
Instead, she stepped closer—and placed her hand right on his head.
With the same grass-stained hand that had been pulling up weeds!
<You look like a crow!>
She giggled.
Heat rushed to Damian’s face.
<How dare you! Do you even know who I am?!>
He snapped at her. The girl blinked innocently, then tilted her head.
<What’s your name?> she asked, as if she’d forgotten something obvious.
Damian’s chest ached with indignation. Black hair, purple eyes, fine clothes—surely those were enough to tell who he was!
Of course, she was probably too young to understand what that meant.
“…Damian.”
You’ll regret it later when you find out who I am, he thought, trying to sound dignified.
He even mimicked his uncle, the current emperor’s, tone of voice.
But it didn’t work.
The girl just rounded her lips in a little “o,” then smiled sweetly.
<So you’re that boy?>
That tone—like she already knew who he was but didn’t care—sent a chill through him, like cold water poured over his heart.
She must be mocking him.
Just as darkness started to creep up in his chest, the girl pressed her small hand over her heart.
<I’m Rosaline. But my mother and nanny call me Rose.>
Rosaline?
Damian remembered—Duchess Moore had a daughter by that name.
‘I heard she was too young to attend the previous banquets…’
He’d also heard she stayed mostly at the Moore estate, a dark building made of black stone.
If he recalled correctly, she was two years younger than him.
He looked her over. She did look about six.
Strangely, when he realized she was from Sardena, her earlier words—“You’re that boy”—sounded less threatening.
‘Sardena people are kind, after all…’
If she’d heard bad rumors, she wouldn’t have introduced herself so casually like that.
Damian stared at her. Rosaline’s round cheeks and gentle smile made her look like a porcelain doll.
‘If I get close to her… maybe my parents would praise me.’
She still had her hand resting on his head. It wasn’t very comfortable, but Damian smiled anyway.
<That’s a pretty name. Can I call you Rose too?>
Rosaline tilted her head in thought.
<But my name is Rosaline…>
<It’s because you’re as lovely as a rose. And you even smell nice.>
(Though the “scent” was really just the green smell of grass on her hands.)
Smiling brightly, Damian gently lowered her hand from his head and clasped it in his own.
<Let’s go see a servant later to get medicine for your arm. It’d be a shame if you got scars on such pretty skin.>
“Rose, wake up.”
I must have dozed off without realizing.
When I blinked my eyes open, Damian was still sitting upright across from me.
He met my gaze, smiled faintly, then turned to look out the window.
The sky outside was now tinged with violet.
Our carriage had passed through two villages, stopping briefly for food and rest, and was just arriving at the city where we’d spend the night.
‘They said the whole trip would take about a week.’
Luckily, since we were traveling in a carriage bearing the imperial crest, we didn’t have to worry about blocked roads.
If all went smoothly, we’d reach our destination in five days’ time, by evening.
I stretched my arms and yawned. Sitting for so long made my back ache.
When we stepped out of the carriage, the air was cool and crisp—it was fully autumn now.
Behind us stood an elegant mansion backed by towering cliffs of gray stone.
This wasn’t an imperial villa—the imperial family rarely visited this region—
but rather the estate of a local lord who had offered his home for our stay.
“I’m Hans, the steward of this estate. Please allow me to guide you to the dining hall.”
The lord himself was in the capital, so his steward greeted us instead.
We were led straight to dinner.
The dining hall was built entirely of glass walls, so it felt as though we were eating in the heart of a mountain.
A light appetizer, mountain goat steak seasoned with rock salt and grilled with mushrooms,
raspberry mousse cake with a hint of rum, and wine made from highland grapes—
We remembered our lesson from before and drank only a little.
After the meal, attendants showed us to our rooms.
The suite we were given had once been the master and mistress’s chambers,
recently renovated from floor to ceiling just a month prior.
As we walked through the halls, chatting softly, I murmured,
“Did they… expect us to come?”
