13 Episode
Along the Leuze River promenade, between two stone bridges, stood a restaurant marked by a signboard on which the words mode baie were written with a hint of cynicism.
Its night view was so renowned that the place swelled with visitors every evening; dining without a reservation was nearly impossible.
Ah, and the reason Annette had arrived alone was simply part of the compromise: she agreed to dine, but only if she were excused from the nuisance of greeting the actors. Besides, she did want a moment of quiet before the others returned.
Passing under an entrance lit by an elegant chandelier, Annette gave the name “Letitia” to the front-desk attendant. Fortunately, Letitia truly had made a reservation, and Annette was led in without waiting.
The restaurant’s classic interior, draped in soft navy curtains and adorned here and there with calf sculptures, caught her eye. A savory, enticing aroma drifted through the air.
Beyond a window neither too large nor too small, a whale-like sightseeing boat slid across the current. Violet dusk washed over the sky; lights along the riverbank flickered where horizon and water met. The flow of people seemed endless.
Not bad.
Annette laced her gloved fingers together and propped her chin upon them.
With those two noisy companions gone, serenity returned, and all the postponed tasks resurfaced in her mind. How should she resolve the matter concerning Baron Cobain? What approach ought she take regarding the plot of land on Solz Street whose owner remained unknown? And surely the detective agency she had hired should have reported back by now…
A chair of bronze legs tracing a gentle curve scraped across marble as it moved back from the table.
“Are you alone this evening?”
Across from her, in the once-empty seat, sat a gentleman in a low black top hat and a fine brown frock coat. Every gesture expressed poise and restraint—an aura unlike anyone else.
“A beautiful evening, isn’t it?”
Facing the gentleman, Annette offered a faint smile. The man whose sweet smile and honeyed voice greeted her was one of the very few who could ruin her day completely.
A man once voted the most handsome in all of Veloff by reputable papers like the Buchanan Times and the Romerto Journal. A man also praised for kindness and unimpeachable character—though that second virtue was an outrageous lie.
No matter how she blinked or shifted her gaze, it was unmistakably Lionel Yorkshire.
Though he had pulled his hat low, as if trying to dim his presence, he still looked the most dignified man in the entire restaurant. His coat was from Litter, his hat from her beloved Witencourt, his shoes from Della–Luipimo, his watch from Belecs… but then, brands meant little to a man like him.
“I hope I’m not intruding. I’d just finished my business and was out for a stroll when I noticed a familiar lady. I realized I hadn’t properly greeted you last time, so I thought I’d remedy that.”
“Ah.”
She had not even managed to lift herself from her seat in an attempt to leave.
“To prevent any unnecessary commotion, I should tell you: at both the entrance and exit, a few… cooperative acquaintances of mine are waiting. Truthfully, I would prefer a quieter place for our talk, but alas.”
Reclining slightly, Lionel radiated the arrogance of someone declaring, You are now a mouse in a jar. Yet his face wore the warmest smile in the world. How grotesque.
Annette slowly released her clasped hands and gathered them neatly, asking with caution:
“Do you… know me?”
A feeble lie, embarrassing even to utter—but what else could she do?
Lionel laughed softly, as if incredulous, lifted the brim of his hat, and brushed back his pomaded hair. In the slanted angle of his profile, Annette’s gaze was briefly drawn to the line of his brow and nose; when their eyes met, she gave a thin, polite smile.
Lionel narrowed his eyes with a smile of his own.
“I’m not the sort of man one forgets easily.”
His hand circled idly above the tableware—above the knife, of all things. It had to be coincidence… surely? His fingers were ridiculously long.
“My memory isn’t very good,” she answered.
“Mine is excellent. Especially when it comes to people.”
He lifted the knife by its handle, then set it down again—just fidgeting, perhaps.
“Lenore seems wide, but it’s small. Everyone who lives here long enough becomes an acquaintance of someone. There are so many parties and gatherings that we all eventually learn each other’s faces. Yet strangely, I have no memory of you. Quite refreshing.”
Steering away from his bait, Annette replied lightly:
“I read in last year’s census that Lenore has a population of nine hundred seventy thousand.”
“Not all nine hundred seventy thousand receive invitations to Chebotette’s parties.”
“No party is perfectly controlled by anyone. A flawless gathering isn’t always the most enjoyable. Running into unfamiliar faces is natural—perhaps even part of the charm.”
“They say around twenty thousand migrants pass through Lenore every year. Did you come up from the West?”
Did I slip into an accent?
Though his guess surprised her, Annette regained her composure. Accents did vary by region, but hers was far better polished than Benedict’s.
“Perhaps I did, perhaps not.”
“So, not originally from Lenore, then.”
Lionel declared his conclusion as if fact. It happened to be true, though she could not imagine how he knew.
When she stared at him, he smirked faintly, lifting one corner of his mouth, and added—like a teacher correcting a child:
“People of Lenore take offense quickly when you question their origins. Still, for a captivating woman, maintaining a little mystery can be its own strategy.”
“Oh? I didn’t know. Thank you for the lesson.”
Annette accepted it calmly. It hardly mattered. What did matter was that Lionel had not identified her true identity—he had not sought her out with intent. If he had followed her simply by chance, then the best course was to escape swiftly.
The question was how.
“I can hear everything, you know.”
“Pardon?”
“And see everything.”
Pointing at his own eyes with his index finger, he traced the movement of her shifting gaze. His smile brimmed with mockery.
“If your party has arrived, shall we order?”
A waiter approached then, menu in hand, interrupting them. Annette opened her mouth to protest that Lionel was not her companion, but Lionel answered first—“We’ll order”—and shamelessly unfolded the menu. He barely glanced before ordering a chickpea salad heavy with olives, a clam chowder, brisket, and a bottle of wine.
“This place is famous for its brisket. Much appreciated.”
He closed the menu with an elegant snap and smiled. The waiter nodded, dazed, before retreating—indeed, the waiter was a man.
Fantastic…
“I’ve only visited a few times, but the food suits my taste. For its price, the restaurant achieves a respectable level of refinement, and critics praise it for recreating the quintessential ‘grandmother’s brisket.’”
Arrogant and insufferable. Annette finally straightened her posture and asked bluntly:
“Are you planning to stay? Your friends will be startled if they see you here.”
Lionel slipped the knife between his index and middle fingers, spinning it. Behind the gentleness in his blue eyes lurked something predatory. Annette met his gaze unflinchingly.
“Whether this lasts a while or ends quickly depends entirely on your demeanor.”
“I truly have no idea why you’re behaving like this.”
“If you’re worried your companions might see us, we can step outside. Frankly… conversations in public require too much caution.”
If she followed him out, it would be her life hanging by a thread.
“No.”
