Archive of Our Own

"Please put delicate clothing into the laundry net in the basket. Adding more detergent will not make it work better. One cup is enough."

"Tch..."

The first thing she thought was that it was an infuriating scrap of paper.

She did not know who had written it. The handwriting, however, was strangely composed, free of waste, and oddly easy to read. Yet though it looked neat at a glance, here and there the strokes slackened, as if meticulousness and carelessness were somehow cohabiting in the same hand. It grated on her nerves.

More than anything, what angered her was not the contents. It was that whenever one of these appeared, it did so at the exact moment she was struggling with that particular problem. For instance, there it was the instant her hand stopped in front of the washing machine. Immediately after she hesitated, even slightly, over how much detergent to use. As if someone had seen right through her, only the necessary information would be written down and placed somewhere her eyes were sure to find it.

And it had not happened once or twice. When she felt the faintest uncertainty about where something belonged. When it came to folding clothes or operating household appliances. Only at those tiny moments—not quite troublesome, but enough to snag on her—would she discover one of these papers. Then, once it had served its purpose, it would be gone before she knew it. She had no memory of throwing it away. No memory of putting it somewhere else.

The correct reaction, perhaps, was to find it creepy. Yet it was not something she could dismiss with that alone. Everything written on the notes was precise. There was no needless ornamentation, only the required amount arranged concisely. It was irritating, but if she obediently followed the instructions, things did indeed go well. In fact, they had gone well.

Without intending to, she—of all people—was being made to obey. It was not pleasant. If this had been malicious interference, she could still have cut it away. But from these papers, she sensed nothing of the sort. They simply, impassively, offered only what was necessary, as though supplementing her imperfections.

It behaved as if it knew everything about her circumstances. Yet it never allowed her to touch its identity. It was certainly there, and yet it was like grasping at clouds. It was involved, but it had no outline.

Every time she woke, there would be a memo she had no memory of writing. She had already spent many days in this strange shared life with these mysterious notes.

"Welcome home. Your room is on the left after you enter. There may be things you are not used to, but everyone loves you. Please don't hesitate to ask for help."

"So. Do you remember what happened when you fell down the stairs and were injured, Or?"

The voice fell quietly into the hospital room, which was filled with the smell of disinfectant. It was soft and calm, a gentle question like a warm wind in May.

Orfevre moved her gaze slightly. From the window to the side of the bed. She caught the figure of her elder sister sitting there, then immediately looked away.

"...I do not remember."

Her answer was concise, with no hesitation. It was not a lie. Before she could even try to remember it, the event did not catch anywhere within her, as if it had never existed in the first place. It was not even a blank. It was simply absent.

Orfevre's elder sister—Dream Journey—did not rebuke her. She only nodded faintly.

"I see. ...Does anything hurt?"

"No."

Saying only that, Orfevre lowered her gaze a little. Her fingertips lay quietly folded atop her knees. Apparently, she had fallen down a staircase and injured her head. Fortunately, she had not bled, but a large bump had formed near her temple. The doctor's diagnosis was that it would disappear with time, yet the sight of her own head wrapped in bandages still felt far too unsightly.

Silence descended again. It was not oppressive, but neither was it light. For a commoner, it would have been the sort of quiet that demanded the utmost care.

"...The doctor said you must have hit a bad spot."

"I see."

"Your body was not seriously harmed, but... there may be a little confusion in your memory."

The explanation was brief and uncolored by excess emotion. A simple report, laying out only the facts. Yet Orfevre did not miss the faint tremor at the back of Dream Journey's voice.

She traced what she had heard through her mind. Strangely, however, she felt no sense of wrongness. She had no real feeling that she had lost something, nor could she find any inconvenience. She knew herself. She knew the people around her. The things she had built up until now were not missing.

And that was precisely why.

"...How strange."

There was no other way to put it. Dream Journey raised her face.

"...Strange?"

The voice that asked back was gentle, but it held a faint edge. After a brief pause, Orfevre returned her gaze to the ceiling.

"I have no sense that anything is missing. Yet if I am told that something is m-i-s-s-i-n-g, then I suppose that must be so."

She spoke as though it concerned someone else. In truth, that was the only way she could feel it. If there were a blank within her, then it should have shown itself more clearly, as some sort of discomfort. But in reality, nothing caught.

Everything was far too natural. Too orderly.

Too orderly.

Hearing those words, Dream Journey narrowed her eyes by the slightest degree.

"...Yes."

It was an ambiguous murmur, neither affirmation nor reservation. Then she looked away once, and soon looked back.

"The woman who was here earlier is the person you saved. Do you have no memory of her either?"

A brief interval followed the quietly offered question.

In Orfevre's mind, the scene just after she woke surfaced. A white ceiling. Her blurred vision. At its edge, the figure of a woman. When Orfevre asked who she was, the woman had seemed about to say something, then swallowed it before it could become words. Only that expression had remained oddly vivid.

Beyond that, however, there was nothing.

"N-o. She is merely one of the common folk the king chose, on a whim, to save."

The reply was flat, her tone declaring that she had not the slightest shred of interest. Dream Journey received those words head-on.

"...I see."

A short answer. After that, no more words followed. Silence fell over the hospital room once more. It should have been the same silence as before, and yet now it felt just a little heavier.

Dream Journey lowered her gaze and pressed her folded fingertips together with faint force.

At length, she breathed out softly.

"...There is no problem. You do not need to force yourself to remember."

Her voice was gentle. Yet there was a little more caution mingled in it than before.

"The doctor said so as well. Given time, some things may return."

She continued slowly, as if choosing each word. There was no need to hurry. It sounded like encouragement, and also like confirmation. Orfevre did not answer. She simply watched her sister's fine-featured face.

It was unbecoming conduct for a king, but she had been injured while shielding an innocent subject. That act itself was nothing shameful. Therefore, there was no reason to gnash her teeth over not remembering it.

That should have been enough to cut the matter away.

Yet for some reason, a small snag remained deep in her chest.

Dream Journey exhaled quietly. Dream Journey loved Orfevre. If Orfevre asked, she would surely give her an answer. But Orfevre knew that answer would not necessarily be the entirety of the truth.

That was why she chose silence. Only the quiet operating sounds of the machines remained in the hospital room. Orfevre looked up at the ceiling and listened to them vaguely.

Regular, monotonous, unchanging. And within that rhythm, suddenly, a nameless snag remained in the depths of her chest.

"For tea, use water that has just boiled. If you warm the pot beforehand, the fragrance will not fade as easily. One heaping teaspoon of leaves. Once you've added them, put the lid on at once and leave it untouched for three minutes."

"I never thought the day would come when Or would personally brew tea for me!"

Several days after Orfevre was discharged. The person before her—Stay Gold—tilted her cup and took a sip of tea. Beyond the steam, her eyes narrowed faintly. Her words sounded like teasing, and yet there was a note of genuine admiration mixed in. She took another sip, this time slowly, as though confirming the taste.

"Oh, this is good. I was worried you'd bring out something a lot more bizarre."

"What do you take me for?"

"No, no. I'm simply moved..."

She let the honest impression slip out, then reached for the tea sweets on the table. With no ceremony, she picked one up from the opened wrapping and carried it to her mouth, washing it down with tea. The gesture was natural, accustomed—and precisely because of that, it blended into this room.

Serving tea to a guest. The guest accepting it and drinking without much thought. A perfectly ordinary scene that could exist anywhere.

"..."

A quiet stretch of time passed. Stay Gold did not seem to mind in particular and tilted her cup again. Not to savor the aroma, but simply to wet her throat. Somehow, even that looked fitting on her.

"I'm glad your injury wasn't too bad. Lala and Marche and the others were terribly worried too, so you should let them know once things settle down."

"Yes."

The reply fell softly while Orfevre's eyes remained on the inside of her cup. There was no gravity in Stay Gold's words. It was a light tone, merely checking in.

Without waiting for a response, Stay Gold took another sweet. The smell of sugar and tea spread gently through the room. Watching her, Orfevre brought her own cup to her lips.

The temperature was right. The taste was right.

There was no problem with how it had been brewed. At the very least, it had reached a level where she could judge that much.

And yet.

There was a faint wrongness in the sensation left after it passed down her throat. It was not limited to the tea. Her gaze unconsciously traced the room. Ever since she returned to this apartment, where she had supposedly lived alone, an unfathomable discomfort had been tormenting her.

It was orderly. Everything necessary was present.

But there was something disjointed about that order. The arrangement of the kitchen. Where tools were placed. The flow of movement through the space. It was not unusable. But her body did not remember it. As though it had not been arranged for her.

And yet traces of life remained. In this room, which was strangely spacious for someone who lived alone.

The layout was the same. The room next door had hardly been touched; only a bed sat there by itself. There were few signs it had been used, but neither had it been abandoned.

And more than anything, what tormented her most was this.

A faint, lingering scent she did not know. It was neither detergent nor fragrance. Something more indistinct. Like ordinary soap one might find anywhere, and yet like some unknown someone standing beneath the spring sun—

Just as her thoughts reached that point, the small sound of a cup being set down rang out.

"...Stay Gold. There is something I wish to ask you."

"Hm? What is it?"

"Was there someone e-l-s-e living here besides me?"

The question was abrupt. Without pausing, Stay Gold carried a sweet to her mouth. She chewed, swallowed, and only then raised her gaze.

"...Who knows? Maybe Journey? I hear she comes by to check on you regularly. Yes, I'm sure that's it."

She gave a light shrug. As if to say she had no intention of saying more, Stay Gold returned her attention to the sweets. Beyond the tea's steam, her attitude was far too normal. It did not even look like she was trying to smooth anything over.

But that very ambiguity was familiar.

Orfevre had already asked the same question once. The person she asked had been her elder sister, Dream Journey.

There had been a similar pause then. After a silence in which she seemed to think for a moment and choose her words, the answer that came back had been terribly reasonable.

She sometimes stayed over to check on Orfevre. It was an explanation that should have been satisfying. In fact, Orfevre was convinced that her sister would indeed do such a thing.

And yet.

Every time she remembered those words, there remained a wrongness she could not wipe away.

The scent drifting through the room.

A faint trace that was neither detergent nor fabric softener. She could tell it was certainly someone's, and yet it did not match the scent Dream Journey wore.

Her sister used perfume. A heavy, memorable fragrance like smoke. The remnant lingering in this room was clearly different. It was softer, more ambiguous. The explanation and reality did not quite mesh.

Stay Gold, before her, said nothing. She only drank tea and nibbled sweets with that same airy unconcern. That indifference, if anything, made Orfevre think all the more.

Then whose is this?

The question floated in the air, having lost its destination.

She did not even know whether anyone possessed the answer.

"The plates for guests are on the right side of the upper shelf. The forks are in the second drawer. They're all together so you won't have to search for them. If you warm the knife slightly before using it, it will cut cleanly. Be careful not to rush, or it will fall apart."

"Hey, congrats on getting out of the hospital in one piece!"

The moment the door opened, the air changed. Footsteps and voices that seemed to have forgotten the concept of restraint rushed in all at once, disturbing the temperature of the silent room.

The gray-haired Umamusume at the front—Gold Ship—held up a box she had produced from who knew where. Her tone was too rough for a celebration, but for that very reason, there was no reserve in it either.

"Gold Ship-san, Orfe-san is technically still recovering! Please be quiet!!"

Fenomeno warned her over her shoulder. Her own voice was louder.

"C'mon, things like this are better lively. Here, souvenir. You don't hate sweet stuff, do you?"

"Hmph, such cheap goods..."

"Oi, did this one just insult G--zy C--ner?"

"Think of it as a blessing it isn't homemade by Golshi-chan."

Three different presences filled the room in no time. The three visitors stepped in without hesitation and set the box on the table. Gold Ship opened it with exaggerated ceremony, revealing a simple but neatly arranged cake.

"C'mon, get out some plates at least. Eating it straight from the box is boring."

"...Very well."

Gold Ship said it as though it were obvious and jerked her chin toward the kitchen. As if obeying those words, Orfevre stood. She opened the cupboard. There was no hesitation in her hand. She took out the necessary number of plates, carried them to the table, and lined them up. That was all the action should have been.

"...Hey. Hey, hey, hey, hey?"

Gold Ship's voice dropped in a strangely foolish tone. Fenomeno and Nakayama Festa both stared with their mouths slightly open. The three of them were gazing intently at the plates and forks Orfevre had merely arranged in orderly fashion.

"What?"

"No..."

Searching for words, Gold Ship scratched her head.

"I feel like this is the first time I've ever seen His Majesty do s-o-m-e-t-h-i-n-g like that."

Her voice held no teasing. She sounded genuinely puzzled. Fenomeno blinked faintly as well.

"...Now that you mention it, this is the first time I've seen it too."

"Right?"

Having received agreement, Gold Ship nodded several times. Orfevre flicked her tail hard once, as if driving away a horsefly. Their attitude was irritating her in a peculiar way.

"...First that fellow, and now all of you. What exactly do you think I—"

"I mean, that's the kind of thing your trainer would—"

"Gold Ship-san!"

Without a breath between them, Fenomeno called her name in a panic. Her intent to stop her was obvious. Gold Ship's mouth halted as if she wanted to say, "Ah." But it was too late. The air changed, just a little.

Nakayama Festa frowned. Fenomeno said nothing more and merely lowered her eyes.

That silence only made it stand out all the more.

The meaning of what she had just said. That was—

Orfevre slowly lifted her gaze. The sweet smell of cake and the commotion both seemed to recede for that instant.

"...Trainer?"

A short question. Yet that single word was enough. Its resonance allowed no escape. Gold Ship scratched her cheek and very obviously looked away.

"Uh, well..."

A voice trying to dodge. But no words followed. Fenomeno shook her head faintly. Nakayama Festa, arms crossed, said nothing. A silence in which no one offered an answer. It spoke more eloquently than anything.

"...I had one?"

The words fell softly. They were closer to confirmation than a question. But a color unlike before had entered her voice.

No one answered at once.

And yet no denial came either.

That fact alone was sufficient.

There is one.

Someone not here, but someone who had left claw marks here and there throughout this home. The snag that had sunk deep in Orfevre's chest began slowly to take shape.

She could not recall the name or face.

Even so, something that must certainly have been here.

Though its form remained unseen, she felt as though she had heard its voice.

"When you cannot sleep, drink chamomile or lavender. Have it an hour before bed. If it's too hot, it will wake you up instead, so let it cool a little first. If you want it sweet, add just a little honey. Please make sure to brush your teeth properly. Good night, and sweet dreams."

That night, she dreamed.

As if something that had sunk to the bottom were slowly rising toward the surface. Slowly, and yet with a force she could not resist. Before she knew it, Orfevre's consciousness was standing there.

A room with the lights off.

Night spread beyond the window. The trees visible below were layered in autumn colors, so she understood the season must be fall. White moonlight slipped in thin lines through the gaps in the blinds, carving several stripes across the floor. The outline of the desk, the shadow of the chair, the edges of stacked documents were limned by that pale light and floated quietly in the dark.

The air was cold. A dry chill, as though the length of time the room had gone unused had become temperature itself.

Before she had to think about where this place was, she knew.

The trainer room. A place once called by that name.

And at the same time, she knew what lay sunk heavily in the depths of her chest.

I lost.

Put into words, that was all. But the things within it were not simple. The distance she somehow had not reached. The height she had believed, without doubt, she would attain. The reality that everything she had built had failed to reach by a single step.

After returning from that first expedition overseas, she had indeed been here. She had hurled her rage at the rabble like a child's tantrum and fled into this room. Her golden hair shifted faintly over her shoulders. Her breathing was shallow and rough. None of the pressure or pride she usually emitted as a king was present now. Only heat remained. Something like a flame that had not gone out, still smoldering.

Into that silence, a sound fell.

One footstep. Then, after a delay, another.

The one standing before her was a woman. That much she understood. But she had no face. More precisely, the outline that should have existed would not come together no matter what. Orfevre understood that something was there, yet the instant she tried to recognize it as a shape, it collapsed like mist. The woman was saying something. She was saying something, but Orfevre could not tell what sort of voice it was or what words they were. Every time she strained her ears, noise mingled with it, making it difficult to distinguish.

Was it the angle of the light, or something else? The details were vague, yet the existence itself was strangely vivid.

The woman smiled. Naturally, Orfevre could not see her face. Even so, she knew that was what she had done. The air, the warmth, and the resonance of the words all told her so.

Those words fell into the depths of her chest with surprising smoothness. A beat later came the sensation of something touching her heart.

Her lips moved faintly as she tried to answer, but no voice emerged. Instead, her hand had reached out, as though to close the distance.

Her fingertips reached the woman—just before they could, the sensation vanished. She grasped empty air. The warmth that should have been there disappeared, as though everything had been an illusion.

What remained to her, who had been hollowed out, was something that kept burning in the depths of her chest without going out.

She woke.

What leapt into her vision was the usual ceiling.

"Are you truly certain this is what you want?"

It was a quiet confirmation. The softly fallen voice held consideration for the other party, yet in truth it was also meant to confirm that there was no path of retreat.

The shadow standing by the window did not answer immediately. Afternoon light filtering through the white curtains illuminated the room evenly. Beside the wall, an IV stand stood quietly, and a small machine sounded with regular beeps. This place smelled clean. The scent of disinfectant was unpleasantly sharp in the nose.

The figure, backlit, had its outline blurred and dissolved. Was the light too strong, or was the existence itself uncertain? The more one tried to focus, the more that shape escaped like bubbles slipping between the fingers.

"..."

The pause should have been brief, but it felt terribly long. There was certainly hesitation. Yet it was not doubt so much as the final stillness that comes just before resolve. Dream Journey watched it. She did not urge, nor did she pile on words. She simply waited.

At length, the shadow nodded faintly. That alone was enough.

"...That was not entirely your fault."

She spoke gently. Words meant to lighten the other's responsibility. It had only been bad luck. The rain that night had not been in the forecast. Their usual route home had been blocked by construction. The detour had led to a pedestrian overpass. Her younger sister had fallen down the stairs while trying to save y-o-u. All of that was merely the result of circumstance.

"And most importantly, this condition of Or's is temporary. ...Are you truly choosing that path?"

The shadow standing there still had no words. But there was no longer any tremor in that silence.

Most likely, she was no longer lost. To offer her any more words of comfort would be an insult to her.

What was required of Dream Journey now was not presentation, but conclusion.

"...Very well."

Her voice was a little harder than before. She removed the mask of an elder sister thinking of the two of them and put on the mask of a witch who would tear them apart.

"Then let us make that contract."

She stated it quietly.

There were only the words necessary to establish the terms.

"Between you and me..."

The final words fell faintly lower. The mechanical sound that had been so regular seemed, for a moment, to grow distant. Even the shadows of the trees swaying outside the window had, before she knew it, stilled.

For an instant, it felt as though time alone had been left behind in that place. Within the backlight, the shadow still had no outline. Yet its existence was fixed there with certainty.

The deadline would be until that child could live on her own.

When that was done, you would turn into foam and disappear.

If one called it simple atonement, then perhaps that was what it was. After all, a contract like this had not a single benefit for her. But Dream Journey would not deny the choice she had made. She could not deny it. Because she knew that was love.

Dream Journey simply watched her quietly, as if bearing witness to something that had already been exchanged.

The faint smile floating at her lips looked gentle, and also infinitely cruel.

"On the toaster, the dial on the right is time, and the one on the left is temperature. At first, set it around the middle—three to four minutes—and use it while watching how it goes. You can place the bread directly on the rack. If it's frozen, leave it in just a little longer. Once you get used to it, I'm sure you'll be able to tell by feel."

Orfevre brought the steaming cup to her lips.

The temperature, cooled by the smallest amount, was appropriate, and the bitterness was not too strong. The aroma was not bad either. Rolling it over her tongue and letting it fall down her throat—there was no difficulty in that sequence of actions.

On the plate sat a single piece of bread toasted in the toaster. Its surface was browned to a fox-like gold, and the edges were slightly hard. When she inserted the knife, a small dry crackle sounded. This, too, had no problem. The heat and cooking time were neither too much nor too little. At the very least, it had become something edible. Even without looking at those scraps of paper anymore.

"..."

That, more than anything, displeased her.

She took another sip of tea. Her gaze drifted unconsciously toward the kitchen. At first, she had understood nothing. Where anything was. How to use it. All of it should have been groping in the dark. Yet now, the hand opening the cupboard had no hesitation. The order of washing dishes, the handling of fire—her body remembered at least the bare minimum.

She carried the bread to her mouth. The taste was monotonous, but not a problem. Yet as she chewed, what surfaced in her mind was something else.

If she were told that memories had fallen out, she could understand that. In fact, if fragments of major events were vague, then some degree of absence was not strange.

And yet.

Even so, did memory fall away so conveniently? Her handling of knives, her control of fire, the steps for brewing tea. All of those remained in her body as basic movements. Then why had only the more detailed accumulations of daily life—where things were and how they had been used—been so cleanly removed?

It was unbalanced.

Perhaps it was not that she could not remember. Perhaps she had never known in the first place. Besides herself, there had been someone who took responsibility for the minutiae of life—

Suddenly, her hand stopped. Yes. The handling of fire, the preparation of meals, the laundry. All the trifling details of daily life. Orfevre had entrusted all of them to someone. There had been a person who, when she issued a royal command, would gladly receive it. It was unlikely to be her sister. Her sister already had a household of her own. Long ago might have been another matter, but now that they were both adults, she could not devote most of her everyday life to Orfevre.

"Trainer..."

That conclusion settled into her chest with strange ease. The unnatural absence gained a single shape.

Then where is that person now?

She set down her tea. The small sound rang far too loudly. The discomfort in her chest changed into conviction. It was no vague unease. It was a distinct foreign object with a reason.

Slowly, she stood.

"...All that remains is to confirm it."

The traces had been carefully erased, but they must be somewhere. The moment she reached that conclusion, her thoughts quietly sharpened. She stripped away emotion and stacked only facts. Few things would remain. But since they were not zero, there was no reason she could not trace them.

First was that room. A space close to a blank, with only a bed placed inside. The instant she opened the door, she felt a faint difference in the air. For a room that was supposedly unused, the smell of being shut away was thin.

She stepped inside. Her gaze naturally went to the bed. She placed a hand on its edge and pushed quietly. It did not creak. It seemed to be maintained, and did not feel like something used only when a guest arrived.

She touched the sheets. Her fingertips slid over them. The fibers were soft and bore the feel of having been washed many times. They were not new. But neither were they worn through. Moderate use, and regular care.

She turned them over. Checked every corner. The gap between them and the mattress. The edges. The underside. She lifted the pillow. Nothing was hidden beneath. She removed the bedding. What had been neatly tucked in fell into disorder. But there was no need to mind that. Confirmation came first. There was not a single hair.

"Tch..."

Next. She returned to her own room and marked out the shelves. Pulling out a convenient album, she felt its weight in her palm. She opened it as it was and turned the pages. Her own path lay there. The Satsuki Sho. The Japanese Derby. The Kikuka Sho. All of them matched her memory. But that was all.

"...?"

Her fingers stopped at the wrongness she suddenly sensed.

Something was missing.

Her gaze was pinned to one page. It was a blank where she k-n-e-w something should have been. The album was divided by race. Photographs were arranged according to that flow. Within that sequence, only one place broke off unnaturally.

Starting with the Satsuki Sho, the Japanese Derby, and the Kikuka Sho, then the GI races of her senior period—up to that point, everything was neatly present. But the record that should have followed abruptly skipped.

Her fingertip traced the empty space. The paper was there. The page was not missing. But only what ought to have been pasted there had been removed cleanly.

The Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe. Her second attempt.

The words floated up without warning. It did not feel as though she had remembered. Rather, it was close to a certainty that simply understood it should have been there.

That expedition.

That stage.

That result.

And the presence that should have been beside her then. Her gaze sharpened faintly. The photograph of that part was absent. The one picture that should have remained as the most natural record had been removed from there alone.

It was not coincidence. If anything, it was removal so precise it seemed to have targeted only that spot.

"...How blatant."

She spat the words in a low voice and lifted her fingers away. The page remained orderly, as though nothing had happened. But once she had noticed it, there was no hiding the distortion.

Why had only that place been erased?

The answer was simple.

Because that person was in the picture.

The sound of the album closing rang strangely heavy.

The time after she closed the album passed long and hollow. She turned the entire house over, quite literally, and checked everything she could lay hands on. But the result did not change. There was nothing that connected. Traces remained, yet the path leading to them had been severed with almost admirable thoroughness.

"...Worthless."

Her low voice fell into the still room. Only irritation was certainly there. At some point, it had grown dark outside. Beyond the window spread the presence of night, bearing a quiet different from daytime.

An entire day spent for this much?

A dull heat smoldered in her chest. It was not that she had found nothing. But she had not arrived anywhere. This Orfevre—she—had not. That fact made her terribly angry.

She was not in the mood to bathe. The very act of putting anything in order felt horribly empty now. She went to the bed and threw herself onto it without caring that her hair scattered.

The sheets rumpled faintly, but she did not feel inclined to mind. She looked up at the ceiling. A white surface spread silently above. It should have been no different from during the day, yet now it felt terribly distant.

Keeping her eyes fixed on the ceiling, she breathed out shallowly. Her thoughts circled, but all of them arrived at the same place. Missing fragments and an unfilled blank. Only the feeling of reaching out and falling short by one step remained.

She did not know where to place the emotion that was something like irritation mixed with emptiness. Enough, sleep—she started to turn her head and body, and at the edge of her vision, another shape entered.

"...?"

It was beside the bed. A small chest placed within arm's reach. It must have entered her field of vision countless times before, and yet for some reason, only now did it catch. She had not looked here yet. No, more precisely, she had thought she had looked, but she had not truly seen it. Despite searching the room so thoroughly, only this place had fallen out in a perfect hollow. Perhaps it had been too close at hand, and for that very reason had slipped from her awareness.

Sluggishly, she raised herself up. Then she reached out and hooked her fingers over the upper drawer of the chest.

"Mm..."

She pulled, but it seemed to be locked and would not move. A definite resistance transmitted to her fingertips. The instant she understood it, something burst in her chest.

It must be here. The place closest to what she had been seeking.

Strength gathered in her fingers.

"...Do not underestimate this Orfevre."

The next instant, there was no hesitation. She seized the handle and pulled with all her strength. The wood screamed its death cry. Paying it no mind, she applied still more force. The internal mechanism failed to withstand it and gave a dull sound. Noisy thing. It should consider itself fortunate she did not kick it open.

"...!"

In that moment, the drawer opened as though she had torn through the lock itself. The broken metal fitting swayed inside with a dry sound. Slowly, she lowered her gaze to what had been revealed.

There lay a single golden pendant. Beside it, a crimson velvet case.

"What is this..."

She reached for them quietly. First, the pendant. Her fingertips touched it. It had age to it, but from the design worked into its details, it was certainly no cheap trinket. Yet Orfevre had no memory of ever wearing it.

That goldwork, actually...

A voice sounded in the back of her head. No, strictly speaking, not a voice, but words. The more she tried to remember the owner of that voice, the more pain began to split her skull. It truly would not go the way she wanted to the very end.

"...Gh."

Her brows drew together despite herself, and she clenched the pendant in her hand. A dull pain pulsed deep in her temple. Instinct told her that if she chased it, she would break. But at the same time, she knew. That did indeed exist. It was not a dream, nor some assumption of hers. If she could only touch just a little more, it would certainly connect to that place.

But for now, if she went any deeper, her very thoughts would collapse. She gave one short click of her tongue and switched her attention.

Her gaze moved beside it. The crimson velvet case. In contrast with the pendant, it was quietly there. The exterior had few scratches. It was clear that it had been handled carefully. But it was not unused either. A faint habit from repeated opening and closing remained along its edge.

She reached out slowly. Soft fabric touched her fingertips. As she tried to set her thumb against it, she hesitated for just an instant. She did not know why. Yet she had a premonition that if she opened this, something would change decisively.

"...Petty little tricks."

But she had no reason to obey such a thing. She had no cause to let anyone direct her. If they could stop her, then let them try. She applied force as she was.

With a small click, the lid opened. Her eyes fell upon what had been kept inside. What lay there was gold. The object drew a smooth curve; its ornamentation was restrained, but the finishing of its details was careful and refined. It was an item of quality, if one had eyes to recognize it.

But there was something wrong.

"...Only one."

Her voice came out lower than she expected. It should have existed as a pair, yet there was only one. In the place where the other ought to have rested, empty space remained for one more. Only that spot was unnaturally vacant. Something creaked deep in her chest.

"...I see."

Only then did Orfevre finally step upon the shadow of the woman who must possess the mate to this ring.

The rain had not been falling from the beginning.

It was a sudden shower that had not appeared in the forecast she checked before leaving home that morning. By the time she noticed it, it was falling too hard to escape. Receiving the light of the streetlamps, it descended in countless lines. The stairs of the pedestrian overpass were wet, shining with a slick, unsettling gleam.

Across them, one footstep, then another, overlapped. The woman was slowly climbing the stairs. In one hand was a small folding umbrella. Her other hand remained free. The handrail was close enough that she could touch it if she wanted to, yet for some reason she did not choose to. Rather than did not choose to, perhaps it would be more correct to say she could not choose to.

In the sound of the rain, she suddenly opened her mouth.

"...Is it okay for me to be this happy?"

Her voice was like a murmur to herself. Her feet did not stop. Yet only those words fell with a stillness that felt strangely out of place.

Her gaze went to her left hand. On the ring finger there was a golden ring. Raindrops struck it and scattered light, proving that it was certainly there.

Beside her came another set of footsteps.

"...What foolish nonsense."

"Sorry. It just feels like a dream somehow. Oh, you can come a little closer. Your shoulder's getting wet. We could've taken a taxi home, you know?"

"It matters not. A trifle."

A low voice, tinged with exasperation.

Orfevre was walking one step behind her. As if she cared nothing for getting wet, she simply looked straight ahead. Even in the night, that presence did not waver.

The woman smiled faintly and moved her feet.

One step. Then another.

"It feels like I'm drifting in the sea forever."

"You are too giddy. Over a mere ring..."

"It's not a mere ring! I mean, Orfe, you gave this to me—"

The words were light. Yet within them, there was a heat that could not be wiped away.

She took the next step. To return to our home. To step toward our new future. She had been endlessly happy, up until this moment.

"Huh?"

The sole of her shoe slipped. The fact that they were brand-new pumps had worked against her. Her body lost its support and, pulled by gravity, began to collapse toward the bottom of the stairs.

Reflexively, she tried to reach for the handrail. But she was too late. If the ring she had only just received were scratched, even by chance—

That moment of delayed judgment. That alone made everything too late. Her vision flipped. Night and streetlamps and rain blended together in a warped smear.

And within it.

The woman was reaching in another direction. A distance she did not even know she could grasp. Even so, those fingertips stretched toward her with certainty. The sound of rain grew stronger. Time stretched slightly.

Ah. We really should have taken a taxi home.

She inserted the key.

The very small sound of metal touching metal. In the quiet night, even that felt terribly loud. She turned it slowly. There was no resistance. Used to being used many times over, it unhesitatingly released the internal mechanism and unlocked with a dry click.

Then, along with the night air, a slightly thinner body slipped in soundlessly. The instant her feet touched the entryway floor, a faint sound rang. She held her breath in spite of herself, but not a single noise came from deeper inside.

Good. She's sleeping properly today too.

The tension stretched through the depths of her chest loosened just a little. At the same time, however, she caught her breath at the sight before her.

"Whaaat...?"

The room was in disarray. The arrangement that should have been orderly had collapsed. Drawers were left open, and the contents of shelves had been carelessly pulled out. It was not so bad that there was nowhere to step. But the traces of someone searching for something were unmistakable. She could understand the will at its center as clearly as if she held it in her hand.

"...I guess of course you can't settle down."

She smiled faintly and bitterly. She had suspected that child would surely do this. More delicate than any goldwork, she was not the kind of person who would leave an inexplicable phenomenon alone within the safe territory called home. It was almost strange it had ended with only this much.

She walked quietly. Careful not to make any noise, she moved her feet. Her destination was one place. Before the door to Orfevre's room, she stopped faintly. She opened it. It barely creaked.

The promise exchanged the day after Orfevre was injured. The contract she had made with that girl's sister in a quiet hospital room.

"Until that child can live on her own. You will lend only a little help so she will not be troubled in her daily life. But you yourself will not show yourself before her. ...Very well. If that is what you call your resolve."

That was why, every night, she had waited for the time when Orfevre would be asleep and come to this home. She would enter like a thief, check on Orfevre's injury, put the room minimally in order, and leave behind only the things that were necessary. Laundry. Meals. The little routines before bed. Only the smallest things. But if they connected that child's life together, then she had thought that was enough. She had tried to make herself believe it was enough.

"...But it's already enough, right?"

She murmured, as if trying to convince herself. The washed tea pot, the laundry hung out to dry, the trash sorted and thrown away. Even without her, Orfevre could now manage the bare minimum of healthy and cultured living. The traces of her daytime life made that clear.

Then Orfevre should be able to get by without her now. If she were ever troubled in her daily life from now on, her family and friends who adored her would support her.

So tonight would be the end.

She smiled bitterly. She knew this was not something that could be dismissed with words like reluctant to part. Still, that was the only thing she could call it. Any more than this would cease to be simple meddling. It would become breaking her promise, defaulting on the contract. That alone she did not want to do.

"...This is the last time."

She breathed out softly. It was time. It would be all right now. Let it end. In her heart, she had decided that. Yet her feet, clinging to regret, still carried her toward Orfevre.

"Orfe..."

In the darkness, on the bed, she was there.

Orfevre.

Her former charge. Her former lover. The person who had given her a wedding ring. Her chest rose and fell at regular intervals. The sheets were disheveled. She was still dressed in her regular clothes, making it clear she had fallen asleep as she was.

"...Honestly."

A sigh escaped before she could stop it. She had not bathed or changed, just collapsed there as she was. There was no need to imagine how long she had been searching. Slowly, the trainer approached. She killed her footsteps so as not to wake her.

She almost reached out—and stopped. She had no right to touch her. Besides, if she touched her, Orfevre might wake. Orfe was not a deep sleeper. If anything, being allowed to get this close was something of a miracle. Perhaps the injury had left her not quite in form—that thought brought a slight worry, but instead the trainer lowered her gaze.

"You really are beautiful every time I see you..."

She stared at Orfevre's face. A sleeping face that looked just a little childish. The usual arrogance and sharpness were nowhere to be found. A flawless face like a sculpture. She had damaged such a national treasure. The fact hurt deep in her chest.

Ah, today was a bad day. She would surely not endure any more than this, so she needed to finish this final task quickly. She turned her eyes to the chest beside the bed. Her goal was the paper and pen placed there.

Taking care not to make any sound, she slowly wrote. The same as always, with concise characters free of needless decoration. Yet the contents alone were slightly different from before.

Are you used to living on your own now?

At first, there may be many things that confuse you, but it is all right to go slowly.

When you're in trouble, it's okay to rely on someone. One thing at a time, starting with what you can do.

I'm sure you'll be able to manage.

There, the pen stopped once. Her breathing grew just a little shallow. She should have had no more hesitation. Even so, for an instant, her breath caught. Like breathing underwater.

I'm sure you'll be all right.

You will be able to live properly, even alone.

And then, at the end.

Good night.

I wish you...

There, the pen stopped. The words that were supposed to continue would not take shape no matter what. Should she wish? Should she pray? One single character. That should have been all. And yet her body understood that it would decisively shape the future.

No.

Something in the depths of her chest denied it clearly. She must not write such words.

Her breathing grew shallow and quick.

"..."

She swallowed a small breath. Strength entered the hand holding the pen. On the white paper, a single black line trembled.

Wish?

Pray?

"...I don't have the right to write something like that..."

She did not. No matter how many pretty words she lined up, all of them felt thin. Even she was surprised by how small and unreliable that weakness sounded.

That instant had burned into the back of her mind. Her foot slipping in the rain. An outstretched hand. The few centimeters of distance that had not reached.

No. That was wrong.

It was not that she had not reached.

At that time, she had not been the only one who fell.

(——!)

The instant her body tipped, gold flashed at the edge of her vision. In the next moment, her arm had been seized. Strongly. Without hesitation. As if being pulled in, the distance between them shrank.

And then—

They tumbled down together. Orfevre covering her, shielding her. The sound of Orfevre's back, not her own, striking the steps first. A shock that stole her breath. The noise of them falling to the bottom was completely swallowed by the rain.

It was only a few seconds.

Even so, she had understood.

That was not an accident. Orfevre had chosen. Chosen to protect her. Chosen, in exchange, to fall herself.

Orfevre had not hesitated.

And I...

"...I..."

Her throat trembled. In that one instant, she had certainly reached out. But at the same time, she had been thinking of something else. The beautiful ring this child had given her. What would she do if it were scratched? Something like that. She had placed that, the thing from this child whom she had tried to protect with her whole body, upon a scale.

The result of hesitating, even for an instant, was that she could no longer bring herself to call that child's name. When she heard that Orfevre had hit her head badly in the accident, the blood had drained from her face. That unique, beautiful jewel in all the world—of all people, she herself had damaged it.

But what had truly terrified her came afterward. When Orfevre awoke, looked at her, and said "Who are you?" with eyes that saw something entirely unknown. It would still have been better if she had lost all of her memories. No, not better, but—what tormented the trainer most was that Orfevre had completely forgotten only her. She remembered herself. She remembered everyone else. Only the trainer had been cleanly removed. As if she had never existed from the start.

"...Haha."

A dry laugh spilled from her throat. It was far too neat. Could there be any punishment more convenient than this? Toward the person who had tried to protect her, she had prioritized something else for even a single instant. As recompense, she was erased from that person's world. She had no right, as one stranger to another, to wish for that person's happiness.

So this was probably a natural punishment. There was no voice blaming her anywhere. No one punishing her. Everyone called it an unfortunate accident. They comforted her by saying Orfevre would surely remember someday.

That was why the one judging her was Orfevre herself. Because in truth, in the clearest possible form, Orfevre had handed down her verdict.

"...It's all my fault..."

Her words rasped. It was too heavy for a comedy. Too foolish for a tragedy. Her breathing simply grew shallow.

"...This is only what I deserve, isn't it...?"

The voice that fell from her lips was cold enough to surprise even herself. That child had not hesitated. She had. Only that difference had determined everything now.

That was why—

She had no right to wish. She steadied her breathing, suppressing the tremor. She told herself again and again that this was the end. Averting her eyes from the half-written words, she gently set down the pen. If she stayed here any longer, she felt she might leave behind things she should not.

Her gaze fell to her left hand. The golden ring remained on her ring finger. Even in the unlit room, it caught the faintest light and quietly asserted that it was there.

"...I have to give it back."

She murmured in a hoarse voice. This was no longer hers. Perhaps that was how it should have been from the very beginning. She tried to make herself believe that receiving something that girl had offered to someone like her had been unsuitable from the start.

She turned toward the chest. Her goal was the first drawer. All she had to do was return it to the box inside, where it belonged. A simple task. With that alone, everything between them until now would end. Someday, when Orfevre found it, she would be confused. Why was there a wedding ring here that she had no memory of buying? When Orfevre found someone to love again someday, the trainer hoped she would give it to them.

She took the key from her pocket. A familiar shape. A thin piece of metal she must have used countless times. Quietly, she inserted it into the keyhole.

Click. A light response.

As it was, she put strength into her fingers and tried to turn it.

"...?"

A faint catching sensation. It seemed as though it would move if forced, and yet it stopped at the decisive point. She applied force again, slowly. This time, she changed the angle, pushing it in a little and twisting. Still no use. For some reason, it moved partway and then froze. As though something inside did not mesh.

"...Why...?"

Strength entered her fingertips. A nasty grinding sensation returned.

This was strange.

This was the key to this drawer. There was no mistaking it. She had opened it the same way many times. Just last night, too.

Once more, with the key still inserted, she slowly turned it. This time for sure, she thought. Carefully, certainly, with force—

"You have finally shown yourself."

A low, clear voice fell from right beside her.

"—!"

Reflexively, she tried to pull away from the drawer. Her arm was seized. The next moment, her entire body was pulled. Her vision shook. Her feet tangled. Before she could resist, she was dragged with a force so strong it felt as if she had been torn from the floor.

"Wa—huh!?"

Words could not keep up. She was dragged onto the bed. The touch that should have been soft struck her back like an impact. Her breath caught, and her vision flashed white for an instant.

"...Orfe...vre."

Orfevre filled her entire field of vision.

She was covering the trainer from above, pinning her down. One arm was still held fast, while Orfevre's other hand was planted against the sheets as if blocking her escape route. They were close. Close enough their breaths might touch. Golden hair swayed faintly. Even in the night, it held pale light, falling disheveled against Orfevre's cheek and casting shadows. From between those strands, the eyes peering through were fixed straight upon her.

Colors like dawn. Though they were in the dark, those twin eyes held a certain light and were opened perfectly round. There was no trace of someone who had been sleeping.

She was completely awake.

"Th-th-th-this isn't what it looks like! I'm not suspicious. Ah, but I guess right now this is trespassing...!?"

The trainer hurriedly strung words together. Even she did not know what she was saying. Only the panic that she had to do something about the situation rushed ahead of her. Because Orfevre had no memory of her. At best, she would be arrested. At worst, she would ascend to heaven by Orfevre's kick.

"Um, really, this isn't—this isn't what it looks like. For now, let's talk—"

"...Hah. I wondered what nonsense you would start spouting."

The calm voice fell. Without releasing the arm she had seized, Orfevre spoke as though it were obvious.

"This is your home as well."

Those words fell quietly, but surely, into the trainer. For an instant, her breathing stopped. What did she just say?

She stared at the face before her. Golden hair. Eyes holding the colors of dawn. The familiar light within them.

They were not eyes that looked upon something unknown. They were eyes that clearly understood who she was.

"..."

Her throat trembled. Understanding surged in late.

This person was looking at her.

This person had remembered her.

"...Orfevre..."

She called the name in a hoarse voice. Its sound felt strangely distant within her.

"...Your memories... came back...?"

Even as she asked, she already knew the answer. Those eyes were far too different from the suspicious gaze Orfevre had worn while she had forgotten. Her chest tightened hard. Relief, fear, and something helpless beyond them.

"...Thank... goodness..."

"...I'm so... glad..."

She tried to smile, but it did not work. It should have been a simple movement, only lifting the corners of her mouth, and yet her cheeks pulled tight, her breathing grew shallow and ragged, and she could not stop something in her chest from coming undone. Still, she forced it into shape. Because if she did not, this emotion would have nowhere to go.

But in the next moment, her vision blurred. Heat gathered and spilled over before she could bear it. What should have been only a single drop at first increased every time she blinked, trailing down her cheeks and falling behind her ears.

"...Ugh... ah..."

She could not stop it even if she tried. The more she tried to suppress her voice, the more her throat trembled, and the harder it became to breathe. She had not meant to cry. But the moment the thing stretched taut within her snapped, everything she had held back seemed to burst out all at once. No strength entered her fingertips. As if the core had fallen out of her body, she went terribly limp. Only belatedly did she understand that she had been afraid.

Yes. She had been afraid. From that day onward, she had believed she would never again have this voice, these eyes, directed toward her. That was why the reality before her now was too bright, too impossible to believe.

Unable to understand how to receive it, she simply kept crying.

"...Please... let go of my arm..."

With a hoarse voice, she still somehow shaped the words. There was something she had to say. There was a reason she must not be here. This was a mistake, and she had to correct it. Only her reason desperately tried to keep its shape.

"I'm so glad... you got your memories back... I really am... But..."

"...If I were to let go, what would you do?"

"That's..."

"Would you disappear?"

"...!"

"Would you turn into foam and disappear?"

The low voice was quiet, yet it held a firmness that allowed no escape. The force on the trainer's captured arm strengthened faintly. Its resonance was filled with conviction and permitted no denial.

The next instant, something moved at the edge of the trainer's vision. The paper placed on top of the chest—the memo she had only just written—was seized carelessly. With a crumpling sound, it was crushed. The carefully chosen words, the letters she had written while trembling, all of it distorted without the slightest hesitation.

"This thing—!"

Orfevre flung it away. Together with her anger-laced voice, it struck the wall with a dry sound. Far too easily. Far too mercilessly. That sound seemed to linger for a terribly long time.

"...Why?"

A voice as though suppressed fell from very near her. Low. Holding heat, and yet at its very bottom, strangely cold. Orfevre's hand tightened, not allowing her to escape.

"Why can you so easily disappear from before me?"

Their distance did not change. Still covering the trainer from above, Orfevre's gaze stabbed straight into her. Those dawn-colored eyes no longer held the quiet light from before. They were wavering. Anger, irritation toward something incomprehensible, and then—something like faint fear were mixed together within them.

"Why do you leave? Why do you flee? Why do you act as though you were never here in the first place?"

Each word was layered on as if to confirm. Though they were questions, they sounded almost like judgment.

"...Was I such a light existence to you?"

That one sentence pierced deep into the trainer's chest.

"No!"

The denial escaped reflexively. She shook her head. No. That could never be true. I love you. You are the most important person in the world. Because you were there, flowers bloomed in my world. I dreamed of a world where you were in it.

She liked Orfevre. She loved Orfevre. Orfevre meant more to her than anything. That was why. That was why—

"...I caused you to be injured..."

"...It matters not. That was my—"

"It does matter! Because—because you could have died! You could have been gone!"

The trainer screamed.

"When I nearly fell, you didn't hesitate!"

That instant came back with painful clarity. The rain. Her slipping feet. The arm that pulled her in. The impact as they fell.

"...But I... I was so caught up in the ring you gave me..."

Her trembling fingers clenched tight, as if to confirm the weight that should no longer be there.

"...I thought, what if it gets scratched... Something like that..."

Her words broke.

"I lost sight of what I really had to protect!"

Her voice pitched up, unable to endure.

"You protected me...! You didn't hesitate at all... You threw everything away and protected me...!"

She had no breath left. The tears would not stop. Even so, foolishly, only words kept overflowing in her mind.

"And yet I... in that instant... chose something other than Orfe... chose the ring...!"

She wanted to deny it, but could not. Because she knew that had been her true nature.

"...And this is the result, isn't it...?"

A hoarse laugh mingled in. It was too empty to even be self-mockery.

"Just because your memories came back... doesn't mean it all never happened...!"

"..."

"There's no way I can pretend it never happened...!"

The accident, the injury, and everything that had happened after.

Not one thing would disappear.

"I'm the one who hurt you. I can't stand beside you now like nothing ever happened...!"

She wrung the words out from the depths of her chest.

"I can't stay...!"

It was not rejection, but resignation.

"...I'm not allowed to stay..."

It fell, a small murmur.

"I don't have that right... not any..."

The final word barely became sound. It dissolved with her breath. As if she were underwater, it vanished into bubbles.

In its place.

Suddenly, as though cutting off her words.

As though breathing air into lungs drowning in tears.

"Mm..."

Before she could understand what had happened, time itself seemed to freeze, cut out of the world. It should have been only an instant of contact, and yet that sensation alone was terribly clear, carved into her with no escape. Heat, softness, distance—everything forced upon her the fact that this was reality.

A few seconds later, leaving only the smallest distance between them, Orfevre exhaled lowly.

"...Enough."

Her voice, telling her only that, held a weight different from the anger of before. It did not overpower, nor did it push away.

"...It isn't... enough..."

The words escaped reflexively. But the instant she tried to continue, her gaze was snared. A straight look that gave her nowhere to flee.

"You are a poor loser. If you say that you have left me marred... then taking responsibility for that is surely the duty imposed upon you."

"Huh..."

Orfevre spoke flatly, as if it were only natural.

Then her gaze slowly fell. To the trainer's hand—to the place where the golden ring Orfevre herself had given her rested. Her fingertips touched it as though tracing it, pressing slightly as if to confirm the faint sensation left there.

"It is a royal decree."

Lowly, definitively.

"Brew tea for me alone."

One thing.

"Wash my clothes."

Another.

"Make my meals."

With each thing layered on, her words piled up into reality.

"Swear that you will dedicate your life to me, and me alone."

And at the end.

"Never leave me alone a t-h-i-r-d time."

Only those words carried the slightest heat. Though it should have been an order, there was something in its resonance that sounded as though she were clinging.

The trainer received those words head-on. As a proposal, it was rather rough and far too arrogant—and yet, helplessly, her heart began to come undone.

She inhaled. The breath trembled in the back of her throat, and she forced it down. As if pressing back what was about to overflow, she bit her lip tightly.

Then.

"...At least learn to do the laundry... and the bare minimum of cooking..."

Her voice was faintly hoarse. Still, she forced it into shape and threw it out like a joke. Like her best possible resistance, trying to return to her usual tone.

But toward the end, it broke no matter what she did. She tried to laugh, but could not laugh well. Without being able to hide what seeped into the edges of her voice, she still said it through.

Then she stretched out her arms. This time, she did not hesitate.

She embraced Orfevre's body, refined as that of a first-rate Umamusume, and the warmth that certainly existed there, so it would not escape. Strongly, with enough force to decide she would not let go, while still not breaking her. When she pressed her cheek close, the faint remaining warmth and scent sank into the depths of her chest.

"..."

A breath that would not become words escaped. She no longer knew whether this was all right. Only this distance—she did not want to let go of it anymore.

Orfevre moved faintly in her arms.

"That is your role. A king does not perform housework."

She gave a small huff through her nose. The way she said it was the same as always, arrogant and unshakable—and unbearably dear. A little strength entered the trainer's embracing arms.

Neither of them spoke after that. Time simply flowed quietly.

And as they stayed that way, at last.

Beyond the window, the world began to pale ever so slightly. The thickness of night thinned slowly. Light slipping through the gap in the curtains softly brought the outline of the room into view. Orfevre's hair, slightly mussed from sleep, received that light and changed color gently.

Morning was coming.