Chapter 45
Flita, flustered, set down her fork and opened her mouth to speak. But Adela cut her off and apologized instead. As a result, it was Flita who ended up in an awkward position.
Honestly, the child didn’t understand why dropping pudding on the table warranted such an apology. She almost turned her head toward Roze to seek reassurance.
Just then, the Countess clicked her tongue softly and scolded Adela.
“How can you be so clumsy? Is this how you’ll ever become a lady?”
“Tch… but I’m still just a child, Mother.”
“A child? You’ll soon be making your debut in society.”
Even though her words were a rebuke, warmth and affection laced the Countess’s voice. So much so that even Roze could sense it.
Naturally, Flita sensed it as well. She had been about to pick her fork back up, but her eyes widened as she looked at the mother and daughter. Then her shoulders sagged.
It was the first time she had ever seen a mother gaze at her daughter with such affection.
…Mother.
A wave of envy washed over her. But Flita forced herself to act as though nothing was wrong and picked up her fork again. Her pale green eyes fell to the table.
The table was laden with sweet desserts, but none of it looked delicious anymore—not the apricot jam cake she loved, not the crispy cookies, not even the strawberry juice with bits of fruit.
Clink.
She put her fork down again.
…I wish I had a mother, too.
It was a wish she always carried in her heart, though she never expressed it. She told herself it was fine—she had her father. No, it wasn’t really fine, but she endured. And now that she had Roze, she thought things had finally become okay.
But still… she was envious.
Of the girl who had a mother. Of the girl who had someone she could call “Mom.”
“Does the dessert not suit your taste, young lady? Then perhaps you might try this instead?”
At that moment, Roze stepped closer and spoke gently.
When Flita turned her head toward her, Roze’s soft gaze was full of concern.
“…Hng.”
That kindness broke through the emotions she had been suppressing. The tears she had been holding back spilled all at once, and her sobs only made her feel sadder.
“Young lady?”
Startled, Roze crouched quickly before her. The Countess and her daughter were equally taken aback, staring in confusion.
“Young lady, what’s wrong?”
“….”
Flita only shook her head, tears hanging from her lashes, lips pressed tightly shut as though she didn’t want to answer.
“Young lady, are you perhaps uncomfortable in some way? If so, you should say so—”
The Countess interrupted, clicking her tongue as if dealing with a foolish child. Flita rubbed at her eyes with both hands, trying in vain to stop the tears—when the sound of steady footsteps approached.
“Oh my! Your Grace the Archduke.”
The Countess and her daughter shot up to their feet in a hurry. Heivan cast them a glance as they bowed, then turned his eyes to Flita. His brow furrowed at the sight of his daughter’s tears. But instead of asking her directly why she was crying, he looked at Roze, who was still crouched beside her, silently demanding an explanation.
Roze could only shake her head slowly. Finally, Heivan spoke.
“Flita, why are you crying?”
“….”
The girl looked at her father and shook her head.
“I’m sorry… hic, I’m sorry.”
She couldn’t stop crying, no matter how hard she tried. Watching her try to suppress her sobs only made the scene more pitiful.
“…Haa.”
Heivan sighed and turned his gaze to the Countess. She stood frozen, pale and flustered, clutching and releasing her skirt hem over and over.
Since this happened during tea after inviting the young lady, she must have thought it her fault. And now, before she could even make amends, the Archduke had witnessed everything.
“I must ask for your pardon, Countess.”
“…Pardon?”
“May I take Flita inside first?”
“O-Oh! Yes, of course, Your Grace!”
The Countess blinked in confusion before understanding his meaning and hurriedly agreed. Heivan gave her a polite nod, then extended his hand toward Flita.
“Let’s go inside, Flita.”
“Uu… Is it really okay?”
Sniffling, Flita glanced at Heivan, then turned to look at the Countess. The Countess quickly nodded.
“Of course, young lady. You may do as you wish.”
At that, Flita let out a sigh of relief and bowed her head slightly. But her expression remained clouded. Heivan looked down at her, then turned to Roze.
“Bring the child along.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Roze followed after Heivan with Flita, entering the mansion. A heavy silence accompanied them all the way to his guest room. None of them spoke—not Heivan, not Flita, not even Roze. Each was caught in their own tangle of thoughts.
Why did she suddenly start crying?
Roze looked down at Flita’s small head as the girl trudged along, holding her hand. She had thought they had grown closer, but this time she could not understand her heart at all.
Surely she didn’t cry just because the Count’s daughter wouldn’t play with her…
Though only five years old, Flita was far more mature than her age. If that had been the reason, it would have been easier to accept. But knowing it wasn’t made her even more concerned.
At last, the three arrived at Heivan’s room. He opened the door first, and as Roze led Flita inside, she stopped short in surprise.
The administrative officers who had followed Heivan here were scattered around the room, buried in documents, but they all lifted their heads at once.
“Gasp!”
Flita, startled by their sunken eyes, clutched Roze’s hand tightly. Heivan clicked his tongue and addressed the men.
“Take a break.”
“…What?”
“Pardon?”
They looked around in shock. Instead of repeating himself, Heivan jerked his chin toward the door. The men scrambled out in a hurry, as though afraid that if they lingered they’d be forced to work harder.
As the room emptied, Roze stood dazed until Heivan spoke again.
“…I should have tidied up before.”
“Oh! I’ll take care of it—”
She rushed to gather the scattered papers, but Heivan waved her off and gestured toward the sofa.
“Just have someone clean it later.”
“But—”
“Flita, come sit here. If you sit, your maid will obey me.”
Instead of Roze, he beckoned to Flita. Hesitantly, she walked over and sat where he indicated. Roze followed, tidying the loose papers around the child and stacking them neatly on the table.
Heivan gave a faint smile at the sight, then calmly poured tea and set a cup in front of Flita.
“Drink this. It will calm you down.”
“Your Grace, tea is too strong for a child—”
Roze protested, alarmed. At tea gatherings, young girls were always given milk or cocoa instead. Tea was far too bitter for a child of five.
But before she could stop her, Flita eagerly picked up the cup with both hands. Curiosity about her first taste of tea—and the fact that her father himself had poured it—won out.
“Ugh, it’s so bitter…”
The moment the liquid touched her tongue, she grimaced and puffed her cheeks, blurting out involuntarily.
“Oh!”
She stuck out her tongue, then quickly clamped her mouth shut in embarrassment. Still, her face was scrunched up in distress from the bitter taste.
“…I made a mistake.”
Heivan finally realized his error and looked awkward.
“Wait here. I’ll have someone bring you a proper snack.”
“No, it’s okay. I don’t need snacks, Papa.”
She stopped him from calling a servant and parted her lips again. Seeing that she seemed ready to speak at last, Heivan’s expression turned serious.
“Then tell me—why were you crying earlier?”
“…Mm.”
Flita hesitated, struggling to summon her courage. But after a deep breath, she lifted her head and met his eyes. Her pale green gaze reflected him.
“…Mother.”
The word she spoke was unexpected. Roze flinched, startled by the question. But unaware of her reaction, Flita continued, taking another steadying breath before asking clearly:
“What kind of person was my mother?”
“….”
Heivan froze. He had never imagined Flita would ask about her mother. He had expected she might one day grow curious about the woman who gave birth to her—but not this soon.
