Aisha was a remarkably clever child.
She had chosen the drainage passage precisely because she knew it was too filthy and too cramped for anyone to think of entering.
But Calypse bent at the waist without a moment’s hesitation.
The fine fabric of his trousers and the polish of his shoes were immediately ruined by the mud and grime— but it didn’t matter.
“Aisha.”
He would gladly endure far worse.
“Take my hand. It isn’t safe in there.”
This child’s hope rested entirely on him.
“And don’t even think about doing anything foolish.”
The irony did not escape him— that he, of all people, who had been wishing for death, was saying this.
“I can’t die on you either, thanks to the trouble you’ve caused.”
At his warning, the small golden head flinched and lifted.
She had been crying only moments ago. The skin around her oversized eyes was red and swollen.
The child stared at the hand being held out to her, lips parting slightly in surprise.
Then, as if something had clicked into place, she shook her head slowly from side to side.
“…If you help me, you’ll be in trouble too.”
Even now, she was worrying about him. A hopeless little soul.
This was not the child’s fault to begin with.
A considerable amount of time had passed since she had told him what she knew. Anything could have happened to the young lady in that time— and for all he knew, House Foss had moved her deliberately.
Even if the whole thing had been a lie from the start, this child had had her reasons for it.
“It is the adults who bear the responsibility. The wretched adults who drove a child into a situation like this— the fault lies with them.”
His voice, raw with pleading, split into two registers.
It was a distance of just inches— if he reached, he could almost touch her. But the passage was too narrow. He could go no further.
“So take my hand, Aisha.”
His breath was becoming ragged with the effort of stretching forward when—
Rustle.
Something moved inside.
Calypse, unable to see below with his arm extended, went still. That suspended moment stretched out like a lifetime.
Please. Please.
He mouthed the words silently—
And then something small wrapped itself around his thumb.
“Don’t let go. Hold on tight.”
There was no pause.
He pulled the small body free in one swift motion and gathered Aisha into his arms with everything he had.
“!”
At that, the child’s fingers spread wide in a startled reflex— but he had no attention to spare for that just now.
If he had been even a little slower, he might never have heard that small heartbeat.
He might never have heard the sound of her crying alone, with no one to come.
‘…Your Grace is my salvation.’
The words she had confessed to him came back without warning.
But holding her here now, feeling that small heart beating against him, he understood.
She had been wrong.
He was not her salvation.
It was her small, desperate desire to live that had saved him.
The one who had been saved was him.
________________________________________
A short while later.
The horizon had turned deep red as the last of the sun bled below it.
“Aisha!”
“Aisha, where are you?!”
The knights were still searching outside the castle walls, having never thought to look inside the garden.
Knox, who had been making rounds with them, let out a sigh.
“…We should have sent her away when we had the chance.”
And now it had come to this.
The child’s claim that the young lady could be found in the Foss territory had been exposed as false, and the child had fled.
Of course she ran. She’d signed a contract stating that failure to deliver the young lady would result in execution.
Frankly, he’d never believed her from the start.
What kind of sound judgment could a five-year-old have, with a brain barely half-formed?
Calypse had let his emotions get the better of him, and Knox had failed to advise him properly.
“…Your Grace?”
At that moment, a knight combing through the undergrowth spoke under his breath— just barely loud enough to carry.
Knox surfaced from his thoughts.
“Did you say His Grace?”
He followed the direction of the knight’s gaze.
At the garden entrance, a tall figure was walking toward them, carrying something.
Surely not.
Knox raised his monocle, squinting in apprehension— and his mouth fell open.
The small something was Aisha.
Eyes closed, still as death.
“Your Grace!”
Knox shoved through the assembled knights and broke into a run.
“Don’t tell me you’ve already carried out the execution? I understand there was a contract, but she’s just a child. If word gets out that House Krost executed a child— the family’s reputation—”
“Shh.”
Calypse’s blood-red eyes— the only part of his face not hidden by the mask— rose to meet Knox’s.
“You’ll wake her.”
“What?”
“And execution, of all things. What if she’s startled and starts crying?”
“I— what—”
Knox stood there, utterly at a loss.
“Your Grace— may I remind you that the person who first brought up the matter of an execution was, in fact, yourself—”
“You’re using that word again.”
“I— what?”
Knox had only been pointing out the obvious— a self-inflicted wound from the past— and somehow Calypse had turned it back on him.
“There’s no need to open old wounds in front of a child who’s already been through enough. Do you really need to wake her over it?”
He had even added a mild rebuke.
This from the very man who had written it into the contract and pressed his seal to the page.
“Your Grace. Have you gone completely mad?”
Knox asked flatly, and Calypse simply walked past him with Aisha in his arms.
“Is that… Aisha that His Grace is carrying?”
A breathless knight came running over.
“That child— Aisha,” Knox muttered, as though reciting something to himself.
“Is she perhaps His Grace’s own daughter, by blood? Something like that?”
“…Pardon?”
The knight who had been staring blankly at Calypse’s retreating back turned to look at Knox.
Is he genuinely asking?
Whatever was happening here, Advisor Knox was not the type to say foolish things without reason.
“Can men… actually give birth?”
The knight scratched the back of his neck and asked with complete sincerity.
Knox didn’t answer. He was still standing there, looking thoroughly dazed.
________________________________________
That night, I had a good dream.
My parents— who should have died in an accident— recovered miraculously. A dream.
I hadn’t been handed over to distant relatives. I had grown up in a small, warm home, loved and wanted.
A simple, unremarkable fairy tale.
The best part— if I’m honest— was the bed.
I had never slept in a real bed in my entire life.
But now—
Now that would never be true again.
Because—
Because—
…
“Mmm.”
My eyes opened.
In a bed.
“……?”
On instinct, I reached out— and something soft and thick stopped my arm.
When I came back to myself fully, I realized I couldn’t move my legs or my body properly.
“What is this…”
I was wrapped in a white blanket, cocooned like a silkworm.
Only my face and eyes were peeking out.
“…Wait. Did I get kidnapped?”
Flutter flutter.
A burst of sharp footwork would have gotten me out of this blanket cocoon in no time.
But the problem came after.
Is this a noble’s bedchamber?
A ceiling painted with lavish religious frescos. White pillars.
Over the king-sized bed, a heavy violet canopy was hung, and the gold tassels at its edges swayed in some imperceptible breeze.
It didn’t look like a kidnapping, at any rate.
If it were a kidnapping, they’d have bound me in rope, not wrapped me in a blanket.
“Kiddo. Are you awake?”
Then came the sound of a door opening, followed by a familiar deep voice.
The garden-man.
“Sir?”
But when I turned my head—
“…Who are you?”
There was an unfamiliar man standing there.
Not the dim, shapeless robe I was used to. A crisp white shirt, clothes that actually fit the shape of a person.
Broad shoulders built by years of physical training, a torso that tapered to a trim waist— a reverse triangle frame. Dark hair, abundant and full.
Skin like pale marble, smooth and cool. Eyes that carried a red gaze— unhurried and unreadable.
The kind of face that looked carved out of a classical painting.
“Who else would I be? The garden-man you’ve been calling for constantly.”
He said it as if my question were barely worth addressing.
…That strikingly handsome man is the garden-man?
Was everyone in this world born beautiful? No— that couldn’t be right. The knight uncles weren’t anything like this.
I blinked slowly, once, twice, and looked at him again.
Well. Whatever was going on— receiving a gift of beauty for the eyes was always welcome.
Just then, he carried a tray with a prepared sandwich over and sat down at the tea table.
“Time for breakfast. Come sit.”
Tap tap.
He knocked the table with his index finger. An unmistakable come here.
Right— I had hidden in the drainage passage and been found by the garden-man.
But—
How am I still alive?
I was a spy.
More than that— a spy who had failed to keep the contract promising the young lady’s location, and who should have been executed for it.
The garden-man had found me, which meant my existence had certainly reached the ears of Duke Calypse as well.
So why was I alive?
And why was the garden-man’s bedchamber decked out like a noble’s?
And why was the garden-man so impossibly handsome?
I sat with several mounting questions and slid down from the bed.
“Sir.”
“What.”
I settled into the chair, fidgeting, and was about to launch into my questions in earnest—
“First, eat.”
A sandwich was inserted directly into my mouth before I could get a word out.
Fine. Fair enough. A person should eat.
Chew chew.
I swallowed a bite.
“I ate— now can you tell me—”
“You ate, so now you should wipe your mouth.”
But this time, a handkerchief cut me off.
He focused with slightly furrowed brows as he dabbed the bread crumbs from around my mouth, and then— only then— he broke into a small, satisfied smile.
“There. Now you can talk.”
This man is going to be the death of me.
I released the question I’d been holding in.
“When do I get executed?!”
“That’s not happening. I tore the contract up.”
“What? WHAT?!”
Shock left my jaw on the floor, but the garden-man’s expression was serene.
So when he said an adult would take responsibility, this was what he meant.
He’d simply ripped up the contract and run.
“Sir! What in the world—”
I grabbed his collar and shook.
Or tried to. He didn’t move.
“How could you tear up a contract with the Duke of Krost’s seal on it?! Did you run away from Krost Castle— for my sake?!”
“…Quite the imagination you have.”
He sighed.
And then— with my hands still at his collar— he produced something and held it out.
“Calm down. Read this.”
“……?”
“It’s the adoption application you wanted.”
________________________________________
