66.

Turner, who Rosetta had expected to tease and abandon her after a few times, surprisingly kept seeking her out consistently. That said, it didn’t mean his attitude toward training her was diligent. Every morning, he’d show up with a face that looked like he’d just crawled out of a liquor barrel, order her to run five laps around the training ground, then vanish somewhere before Rosetta even completed her first lap—or nap soundly under a cool tree’s shade.

Today, he was casually sipping a fizzy drink with lemon slices floating in it—somehow acquired through dubious means—while flirting with a passing maid. Pouting his lips and repeatedly blowing kisses, he looked utterly ridiculous. The more she looked at him, the more apparent it became that he was a man utterly devoid of seriousness. Her past self, who had once thought well of him, now seemed distant and absurd. Rosetta clicked her tongue in disdain.

Despite all his flaws, there were a few reasons why Rosetta tolerated Turner. First, she didn’t have to personally seek him out to check on the progress of her request. Second, after enduring this routine for about a week, she noticed—however faintly—her stamina had begun to improve.

“Come on, come on. Just a little more and you’re done.”

When she reached the turnaround point on legs trembling with exhaustion, Turner cheerfully encouraged her. She didn’t even have the strength to raise a fist. Rosetta spat twice on the ground with all her might, a gesture of bitter resentment, then half-rolled, half-stumbled down the slope. Though she clung on by sheer willpower, each step brought a surge of nausea rising from her stomach.

“Haa… hah… haa…”

“Wow, you actually finished all the laps today.”

“Hah… hah… w-water…”

After barely completing the final lap, Turner greeted her with a smirk and handed over a canteen. Rosetta collapsed onto the ground without even thinking to wipe the sweat from her soaked face. Saliva dripped from her mouth like an old horse. She rinsed the metallic taste forming in her mouth with the canteen’s water, then poured the rest over her neck and head.

“Seriously, you’re harsh. Really harsh.”

Turner shook his head in exaggerated disapproval. Despite his tone sounding utterly fed up, his eyes gleamed with persistent, almost intrusive excitement—like a cat that had just spotted an intriguing prey. Rosetta hurled the empty canteen at his face. It would’ve been deeply satisfying to see it smack squarely against his smug features, but he easily caught it with one hand.

“How’s it feel? Do you think you’ve gained a bit of muscle?”

Gasping for breath, Rosetta answered with a finger gesture instead of words. Turner, seeing this, burst into another shrill, delighted laugh. He kept laughing until Rosetta finally landed a kick on his shin while drying herself with a towel. He made a big show of being in pain, though he clearly could’ve dodged it—only making Rosetta’s mood worse.

“Madman.”

“Tsk tsk. Is that how you speak to your teacher?”

“If you’re done, then get lost.”

“Get lost? I’ve got some good information for you. Not interested?”

At that, Rosetta sharply lifted her head. Good information—surely it must be about the sailor details she’d requested. Suddenly dropping her earlier disgust, she stepped closer to Turner and whispered in a soft, eager voice.

“You found something?”

Turner calmly pulled out a folded sheet of paper from his coat. Toulon had relatively young sailors, so those nearing retirement age were few. Rosetta tilted her head slightly as she took the thick document from Turner. How could just a few names require so much paper? But her suspicion didn’t last long.

“Pretty impressive, huh?”

“…Where on earth did you dig all this up?”

Rosetta shot Turner a glance mixed equally with awe and suspicion. Inside were meticulously listed the whereabouts of fifty Toulon sailors—retired or active. For those still serving, it even included the names of their ships and captains, down to the finest detail.

“I do what I’m paid for. Pick one. See if any of them are who you’re looking for.”

In that moment, Rosetta upgraded her assessment of Turner—from a money-grubbing leech to at least someone minimally useful. She slowly scanned the list and soon noticed several blanks.

“What’s this… left blank?”

“Oh, those people are hard to track. Either they’re deliberately hiding, or they’re already dead.”

“…”

“I tried my best for the price, but those ones are tough to approach.”

The names left blank were mostly prominent figures in Toulon—men who had held significant positions: Nick, the former first mate, along with helmsmen, deck officers, navigators, artillery commanders, and so on.

Just gathering traitors of this caliber would’ve taken half a year. She gave a cold smile and carefully scanned the list to the very bottom. Then, she tapped a single name at the very last line with her finger.

“This one.”

Melvin Trevor. Nicknamed Mel. An orphaned former pirate who, around age thirteen, had stubbornly insisted on joining Toulon. When they tried to scare him off by piling on the hardest labor, he cleverly won over the gruff pirates’ favor so completely that they couldn’t bring themselves to abandon him.

She had assumed he’d joined another pirate ship and was doing well, so seeing his name on the retired list felt deeply suspicious. Turner glanced at the name and tilted his head.

“What about him?”

Rosetta barely stopped herself from instinctively acknowledging him.

“He… retiring seems odd. Judging by his position at the bottom here, he must’ve had a low rank. Isn’t he quite young?”

“Well, yes, but apparently he developed a fear of the sea.”

“A fear… of the sea?”

“That’s what people say. Also, his right knee’s been limping. Lately, he’s been working as a low-paid officer at some inn.”

“…”

“Is this the one you’re looking for?”

Rosetta tried to recall Mel’s appearance. Dark blond hair, brown eyes, an unremarkable, plain face, and a warm, easygoing personality. A boy who would be seventeen this year, if still alive. Smart enough to read the room, quick-witted, and—given that he hadn’t been on Toulon that day—either not involved in the mutiny or deliberately excluded. Yet still someone who could approach the old Toulon pirates without raising suspicion. After a long silence, she nodded.

“Yes. This one.”

* * *

Yet starting the next day, she became swamped with no time to spare. The social events she’d been postponing one after another now came crashing down on her—tea parties, reading circles, poetry recitals, weekly religious gatherings, charity bazaars… Rosetta was nearly crushed under the endless stream of incoming letters.

What troubled Rosetta most, however, were the aristocratic customs of the Eastern region. A woman who married and moved to her husband’s estate had the obligation to host nearby noblewomen, introduce herself, and serve them tea.

Until now, Duchess Montrosa had personally delayed these duties, citing her daughter-in-law’s frail health as an excuse. But now that rumors had spread about the young duchess learning swordsmanship, that excuse had become painfully awkward.

Under Anna’s relentless pressure, Rosetta had new dresses tailored to the latest fashion, ordered carpets and furniture to decorate the reception room, hired servants or borrowed them from the main house, and recruited a new gardener and chef. She was so busy that she nearly forgot all about Mel for a while.

“Between this ribbon decoration and that floral one, which looks better?”

“Would you prefer small cupcakes as treats, or candied fruits coated in sugar?”

“How about the curtain color—white lace, or a formal dark satin?”

“Where should we place this vase?”

Whatever. Doesn’t matter. White. Anywhere. Rosetta answered listlessly, fleeing into her bedroom like an escape from the relentless barrage of questions. Everyone in the annex seemed to bombard her with questions the moment they saw her. The sheer number of decisions she had to make was splitting her head open. At least the bedroom was quiet…

“Oh! Perfect timing!”

…Damn it. She’d completely forgotten the greatest source of torment was already inside. Rosetta slumped her shoulders in despair at the towering stack of books on the table. Unmoved by her pitiful state, Anna cheerfully asked:

“What should we do with all these books?”

“Just shove them onto any shelf…”

“Oh, come now. Take a closer look! These are all books brought over from Valdemore Castle. Originally, the mistress had them arranged on the bookshelf in the reception room, but since you’re removing the bookshelf from there now…”

“Did I say that…?”

Rosetta tilted her head, puzzled. Now that she thought about it, she faintly recalled hearing something like that. But after shouting that everything could be handled however people wanted, her memory was hazy. Anna shrugged, as if she’d expected this.

“You said there wasn’t space elsewhere, so they moved the bookshelf to the east guest room. But since these are books the young lady personally treasures enough to carry over, they asked how to handle them. So I brought them here myself.”

“Good, good job…”

Rosetta mumbled half-heartedly and began flipping through the books. After glancing through about three, she was struck by a faint sense of déjà vu. She’d been told these were books she “used to love reading”—yet none of them showed the slightest trace of having been touched by human hands. Could that be possible? Or had the old books been stored away while only new copies were sent? As she pondered this, a knock came at the door. It was the elderly butler.

“Young mistress. You should come see this.”