3. Silver bell flower
Even with the swarm of people before him, Bjorn showed no signs of nervousness. Having lived under the scrutiny of the entire kingdom since birth, it was as familiar as breathing. The slight discomfort that accompanied it was no different.
“Step back! Everyone, step back!”
The bellowing cries of the attendants echoed through the crowded platform. Amidst the chaos, the onlookers gradually retreated, clearing the way for the Prince's procession.
Bjorn walked briskly, his back and neck straight, his steps brisk and refreshing. He exchanged a quick glance with those who caught his eye. It was a habit, ingrained through years of repetition.
That woman, too, was nothing more than a crowd sharing such meaningless glances.
Hos gaze lingered a little longer, thanks to the small woman's astonishing demeanor. Dressed in a rustic, old-fashioned dress draped in lace and ribbons, she looked as if she had lived alone in a past century. As if the flower-patterned dress weren't enough, her hat was also adorned with a dangling bouquet of artificial flowers.
Bjorn brushed past the woman and glanced back at the man, this time with a flushed face. The man, who had been vehemently criticizing the royal prodigal son, flinched and backed away, but Bjorn offered him a fair smile. Amidst the chaotic atmosphere of criticism and admiration, he seemed as relaxed as someone out for an afternoon stroll.
Bjorn walked leisurely towards the train that had just entered the platform, taking in and letting go of the meaningless faces.
Knowing the address didn't help much. Unfortunately, Erna realized this only after she was completely lost and exhausted from wandering. The sun had already set, and a clear darkness was slowly descending upon the city.
Erna staggered toward the fountain in the center of the square on Tarra Avenue. She felt as if she could collapse, but she didn't forget to unfold her handkerchief before sitting on the railing.
For today, Erna chose her favorite outfit. It was a muslin dress her grandmother had made her for her birthday last year. She had no desire to impress her father, but she needed to maintain proper ladylike manners and dignity. She couldn't afford to soil such a dress.
Calm and elegant. Like a lady, anytime, anywhere.
It was a lifelong creed her grandmother had upheld, and it was a legacy she desperately wanted to pass on to her granddaughter. Although she inherited the Hardy family name, Erna Hardy, as a true lady of the House of Baden, had a duty to uphold its values.
While Erna carefully adjusted her clothes, the gas lamps in the square lit up. Having completed his task, the lamplighter rode off again on his bicycle, heading to the next district.
For a moment, Erna was lost in this bizarre sight, a sight she'd never seen before, before she got up again and packed her bags. The pain in her swollen feet and legs vanished as she thought about finding a home before night fell.
Erna walked along the street bathed in gaslight, her footsteps clacking and clacking. The night streets, with petals fluttering like snow in the wind, were beautiful enough to momentarily make her forget her fearful and desolate state.
“Wow...”
Erna lifted her head, letting out a childlike, innocent exclamation. A full white moon appeared between the branches laden with blossoms. It was the same moon she had seen floating in the night sky the previous night, when she had opened the window and looked out, unable to sleep. The relief this obvious fact brought was surprisingly profound.
Erna, catching her breath, began walking with a slightly more brisk pace. And soon, she found the house she'd been repeating, like a fervent prayer. A quaint mansion at the western end of Tarra Avenue, the very same Hardy mansion that had once been her home.
Before ringing the doorbell, Erna adjusted her dress once more. She straightened her posture and wore the gentlest, most sociable smile possible. It might not be obvious how it would be perceived, but at least by Erna's standards, it was.
"It's okay."
Erna, fooling herself with lies she already knew were lies, reached out her trembling hand toward the doorbell.
“I really can’t understand you, brother.”
A woman's clear voice cut through the lively melody of chamber music.
Only then did Bjorn open his tightly shut eyes. He tilted his head up and saw Louise, who had already approached him. Unlike Louise, who was excited, Bjorn's gaze was dry as he looked at his sister.
“They said Gladys was coming back. Don’t you know what that means?”
"Well."
Bjorn's gaze, which was slowly wandering through the hall filled with the dazzling light of the chandelier, stopped again on Louise's face.
“I guess it means that it’s going to be a pretty unlucky summer.”
The indifferent reply, given with a faint smile, sounded even more poignant because of the slow, sleepy tone.
"Oh my goodness. How could you speak to Gladys like that? The very Gladys you hurt and abandoned!"
Louise was furious, as if she were the one being insulted. Even with his sister by his side, Bjorn calmly picked up his glass. The water droplets clung to the glass's surface and ran down his long, smooth fingers.
The charity party was a success.
As news spread of the Queen's arrival, admired and loved by the entire kingdom, high society ladies flocked to Schwerin. The director of the Royal Hospital, deeply moved by the generosity demonstrated by their donations, showed no sign of slowing down.
With exquisite food, music, and a dazzling guest list of socialites, it was a party of such grandeur that the Queen's presence was well-deserved. The Grand Duke's sacrifice of giving up sleep to escort Her Royal Highness was also well-deserved. It was a pleasant spring weekend, if only for Princess Louise, who buzzed and buzzed like an angry bee.
“Brother, please, let’s correct this mistake now. Yes?”
Louise now began to coax him, almost as if she were a child. Louise, a friend of Gladys's, had been more fervent in her support of Bjorn's marriage than anyone else. After the tumultuous divorce, however, she had become a fierce critic.
“Of course, it’s not the kind of mistake that can be forgiven, but still, if Gladys forgives you, I think the two of you...”
“Duchess Heine.”
Bjorn, setting down his glass of water, cut off his sister. Unlike his smiling lips, his eyes and tone were calm enough to convey a sense of foreboding.
“It seems the Duke is looking for his wife. How about you return to your husband now?”
Bjorn nodded to Duke Heine, who was wandering across the hall, among the crowd of ladies. Louise, who had been quivering her lips a few times, sighed deeply to make up for the words she had been unable to say.
As Louise reluctantly left, Bjorn also rose. After a brief rest, the orchestra began playing a waltz.
Bjorn leisurely passed among the ladies, who cast glances of both wariness and anticipation. The terrace leading to the garden was crowded with men out to smoke cigars.
“Bjorn! Over here!”
Bjorn, spotting a familiar face waving, turned toward it. The group, usually abuzz with idle discussion, was silent today. Some were drinking, their faces sullen and ready to burst into tears.
“The investment failed.”
Peter held out a glass filled with amber brandy. Bjorn accepted the glass, leaning against the railing.
"Invest?"
“I invested in foreign bonds, but they said it was a scam or something.”
Peter clicked his tongue as he delivered the tragic news. Bjorn furrowed his brow slightly, showing no reaction. Apparently, the number of fools swept up in the wild investment craze that had been causing a stir in other social clubs was far greater than expected.
“Thank you, Your Highness. Thanks to you, I am alive.”
Peter approached Bjorn and whispered in a low voice.
Having received some tantalizing investment information, he headed straight to Schwerin Palace. It was a well-established social consensus that Prince Bjorn possessed a divine talent for at least two things: women and money.
That day, after listening to the excited Peter's explanation, Bjorn summarized the situation with a concise answer.
You retard.
How insulting was that single, low-pitched word, spoken in a flat voice. Peter Bergen nearly committed the grave sin of assaulting a member of the royal family. He would have done the same if he had been an opponent he might have defeated.
But anyway, what do you think?
He'd protected his fortune in exchange for a brief period of incapacitation, so it wasn't something he could tolerate. Besides, he'd even made a considerable profit by investing in a steel company with the information he'd obtained from coercing Bjorn. Just thinking about it made Peter feel like he could love that hapless Prince.
If he, who had barely tasted the bottom line, had earned that much, how much did Bjorn earn? In any case, his talent for managing money was undoubtedly something close to magic. It was one of the key reasons why he had to persevere through this friendship, even if it was dirty and deadly.
"We have to catch him at all costs, Bjorn! This is a serious crime, with more than one victim. Isn't that right?"
A Count's heir, whose eyes met Bjorn's, began to tearfully recite the names of those he had been defrauded by the conman. Most of them were children of noble families, members of a social club, but there were also a few unfamiliar names mixed in.
"Victor Hardy has lost almost all his fortune. He's probably on the verge of committing suicide with a pistol right now."
Hardy. The tedious, drawn-out grumbling finally ended with the unfamiliar name, perhaps the most serious of all.
Licking a cigar, Bjorn turned toward the garden beyond the railing. Beyond the wispy smoke, colorful spring flowers bloomed in full bloom.
As Bjorn leisurely admired the scenery, his gaze suddenly stopped on a flower bed filled with small, white flowers.
Lily of the valley.
Bjorn's eyes narrowed as he remembered the name of the flower. It was the bouquet Gladys had held at her wedding. Thanks to this, the lilies of the valley, nicknamed the "Crown Princess's flower," were so beloved that they were in short supply for a while. Of course, their popularity waned in less than a year.
Come to think of it, that flower was also decorating the hat of that old-fashioned woman he saw at the station. It was that very same bell-shaped flower, long since out of style.
Bjorn hummed the melody of the waltz coming from the hall and exhaled another long puff of smoke from his cigarette.
Somehow.
His gaze, which had left the silver bell flower bed without any regrets, was now turned towards the white moon hanging across the night sky.
Even a fleeting glance would be unlucky.
Even with the swarm of people before him, Bjorn showed no signs of nervousness. Having lived under the scrutiny of the entire kingdom since birth, it was as familiar as breathing. The slight discomfort that accompanied it was no different.
“Step back! Everyone, step back!”
The bellowing cries of the attendants echoed through the crowded platform. Amidst the chaos, the onlookers gradually retreated, clearing the way for the Prince's procession.
Bjorn walked briskly, his back and neck straight, his steps brisk and refreshing. He exchanged a quick glance with those who caught his eye. It was a habit, ingrained through years of repetition.
That woman, too, was nothing more than a crowd sharing such meaningless glances.
Hos gaze lingered a little longer, thanks to the small woman's astonishing demeanor. Dressed in a rustic, old-fashioned dress draped in lace and ribbons, she looked as if she had lived alone in a past century. As if the flower-patterned dress weren't enough, her hat was also adorned with a dangling bouquet of artificial flowers.
Bjorn brushed past the woman and glanced back at the man, this time with a flushed face. The man, who had been vehemently criticizing the royal prodigal son, flinched and backed away, but Bjorn offered him a fair smile. Amidst the chaotic atmosphere of criticism and admiration, he seemed as relaxed as someone out for an afternoon stroll.
Bjorn walked leisurely towards the train that had just entered the platform, taking in and letting go of the meaningless faces.
***
Knowing the address didn't help much. Unfortunately, Erna realized this only after she was completely lost and exhausted from wandering. The sun had already set, and a clear darkness was slowly descending upon the city.
Erna staggered toward the fountain in the center of the square on Tarra Avenue. She felt as if she could collapse, but she didn't forget to unfold her handkerchief before sitting on the railing.
For today, Erna chose her favorite outfit. It was a muslin dress her grandmother had made her for her birthday last year. She had no desire to impress her father, but she needed to maintain proper ladylike manners and dignity. She couldn't afford to soil such a dress.
Calm and elegant. Like a lady, anytime, anywhere.
It was a lifelong creed her grandmother had upheld, and it was a legacy she desperately wanted to pass on to her granddaughter. Although she inherited the Hardy family name, Erna Hardy, as a true lady of the House of Baden, had a duty to uphold its values.
While Erna carefully adjusted her clothes, the gas lamps in the square lit up. Having completed his task, the lamplighter rode off again on his bicycle, heading to the next district.
For a moment, Erna was lost in this bizarre sight, a sight she'd never seen before, before she got up again and packed her bags. The pain in her swollen feet and legs vanished as she thought about finding a home before night fell.
Erna walked along the street bathed in gaslight, her footsteps clacking and clacking. The night streets, with petals fluttering like snow in the wind, were beautiful enough to momentarily make her forget her fearful and desolate state.
“Wow...”
Erna lifted her head, letting out a childlike, innocent exclamation. A full white moon appeared between the branches laden with blossoms. It was the same moon she had seen floating in the night sky the previous night, when she had opened the window and looked out, unable to sleep. The relief this obvious fact brought was surprisingly profound.
Erna, catching her breath, began walking with a slightly more brisk pace. And soon, she found the house she'd been repeating, like a fervent prayer. A quaint mansion at the western end of Tarra Avenue, the very same Hardy mansion that had once been her home.
Before ringing the doorbell, Erna adjusted her dress once more. She straightened her posture and wore the gentlest, most sociable smile possible. It might not be obvious how it would be perceived, but at least by Erna's standards, it was.
"It's okay."
Erna, fooling herself with lies she already knew were lies, reached out her trembling hand toward the doorbell.
***
“I really can’t understand you, brother.”
A woman's clear voice cut through the lively melody of chamber music.
Only then did Bjorn open his tightly shut eyes. He tilted his head up and saw Louise, who had already approached him. Unlike Louise, who was excited, Bjorn's gaze was dry as he looked at his sister.
“They said Gladys was coming back. Don’t you know what that means?”
"Well."
Bjorn's gaze, which was slowly wandering through the hall filled with the dazzling light of the chandelier, stopped again on Louise's face.
“I guess it means that it’s going to be a pretty unlucky summer.”
The indifferent reply, given with a faint smile, sounded even more poignant because of the slow, sleepy tone.
"Oh my goodness. How could you speak to Gladys like that? The very Gladys you hurt and abandoned!"
Louise was furious, as if she were the one being insulted. Even with his sister by his side, Bjorn calmly picked up his glass. The water droplets clung to the glass's surface and ran down his long, smooth fingers.
The charity party was a success.
As news spread of the Queen's arrival, admired and loved by the entire kingdom, high society ladies flocked to Schwerin. The director of the Royal Hospital, deeply moved by the generosity demonstrated by their donations, showed no sign of slowing down.
With exquisite food, music, and a dazzling guest list of socialites, it was a party of such grandeur that the Queen's presence was well-deserved. The Grand Duke's sacrifice of giving up sleep to escort Her Royal Highness was also well-deserved. It was a pleasant spring weekend, if only for Princess Louise, who buzzed and buzzed like an angry bee.
“Brother, please, let’s correct this mistake now. Yes?”
Louise now began to coax him, almost as if she were a child. Louise, a friend of Gladys's, had been more fervent in her support of Bjorn's marriage than anyone else. After the tumultuous divorce, however, she had become a fierce critic.
“Of course, it’s not the kind of mistake that can be forgiven, but still, if Gladys forgives you, I think the two of you...”
“Duchess Heine.”
Bjorn, setting down his glass of water, cut off his sister. Unlike his smiling lips, his eyes and tone were calm enough to convey a sense of foreboding.
“It seems the Duke is looking for his wife. How about you return to your husband now?”
Bjorn nodded to Duke Heine, who was wandering across the hall, among the crowd of ladies. Louise, who had been quivering her lips a few times, sighed deeply to make up for the words she had been unable to say.
As Louise reluctantly left, Bjorn also rose. After a brief rest, the orchestra began playing a waltz.
Bjorn leisurely passed among the ladies, who cast glances of both wariness and anticipation. The terrace leading to the garden was crowded with men out to smoke cigars.
“Bjorn! Over here!”
Bjorn, spotting a familiar face waving, turned toward it. The group, usually abuzz with idle discussion, was silent today. Some were drinking, their faces sullen and ready to burst into tears.
“The investment failed.”
Peter held out a glass filled with amber brandy. Bjorn accepted the glass, leaning against the railing.
"Invest?"
“I invested in foreign bonds, but they said it was a scam or something.”
Peter clicked his tongue as he delivered the tragic news. Bjorn furrowed his brow slightly, showing no reaction. Apparently, the number of fools swept up in the wild investment craze that had been causing a stir in other social clubs was far greater than expected.
“Thank you, Your Highness. Thanks to you, I am alive.”
Peter approached Bjorn and whispered in a low voice.
Having received some tantalizing investment information, he headed straight to Schwerin Palace. It was a well-established social consensus that Prince Bjorn possessed a divine talent for at least two things: women and money.
That day, after listening to the excited Peter's explanation, Bjorn summarized the situation with a concise answer.
You retard.
How insulting was that single, low-pitched word, spoken in a flat voice. Peter Bergen nearly committed the grave sin of assaulting a member of the royal family. He would have done the same if he had been an opponent he might have defeated.
But anyway, what do you think?
He'd protected his fortune in exchange for a brief period of incapacitation, so it wasn't something he could tolerate. Besides, he'd even made a considerable profit by investing in a steel company with the information he'd obtained from coercing Bjorn. Just thinking about it made Peter feel like he could love that hapless Prince.
If he, who had barely tasted the bottom line, had earned that much, how much did Bjorn earn? In any case, his talent for managing money was undoubtedly something close to magic. It was one of the key reasons why he had to persevere through this friendship, even if it was dirty and deadly.
"We have to catch him at all costs, Bjorn! This is a serious crime, with more than one victim. Isn't that right?"
A Count's heir, whose eyes met Bjorn's, began to tearfully recite the names of those he had been defrauded by the conman. Most of them were children of noble families, members of a social club, but there were also a few unfamiliar names mixed in.
"Victor Hardy has lost almost all his fortune. He's probably on the verge of committing suicide with a pistol right now."
Hardy. The tedious, drawn-out grumbling finally ended with the unfamiliar name, perhaps the most serious of all.
Licking a cigar, Bjorn turned toward the garden beyond the railing. Beyond the wispy smoke, colorful spring flowers bloomed in full bloom.
As Bjorn leisurely admired the scenery, his gaze suddenly stopped on a flower bed filled with small, white flowers.
Lily of the valley.
Bjorn's eyes narrowed as he remembered the name of the flower. It was the bouquet Gladys had held at her wedding. Thanks to this, the lilies of the valley, nicknamed the "Crown Princess's flower," were so beloved that they were in short supply for a while. Of course, their popularity waned in less than a year.
Come to think of it, that flower was also decorating the hat of that old-fashioned woman he saw at the station. It was that very same bell-shaped flower, long since out of style.
Bjorn hummed the melody of the waltz coming from the hall and exhaled another long puff of smoke from his cigarette.
Somehow.
His gaze, which had left the silver bell flower bed without any regrets, was now turned towards the white moon hanging across the night sky.
Even a fleeting glance would be unlucky.
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