A loud voice calling his name made Alphard flinch. It belonged to a man, and given the urgency of it, Alphard decided it was best to leave the room.
He took the moment to study the walls along the way, lined with portraits of different people. The hallway ran long enough that he allowed himself a brief pause to read the names beneath them.
Judging by the elegance, the style of the frames, and the shared surname, Alphard guessed this was a noble family — though he couldn't be entirely certain. It might simply have been a matter of taste.
The longer he looked, the more questions piled up. Each portrait carried a birth date and a death date, and near the end of the hallway, just before the stairs, he found his own name — his portrait hanging beside his sister's.
[Alphard Quinn Aurelius — 1294] [Helena Quinn Aurelius — 1298]
Noting the peculiarity of the dates, and having already caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror, he guessed he was somewhere around twenty, with Helena closer to sixteen.
Out of curiosity, he noted that Kenji himself had actually been twenty in his own world — nearly twenty-one, in fact.
Just as he sank into that thought, the voice called his name again, sharper this time, jolting him back.
Alphard hurried down the stairs, though with each step the pain from his wound forced him to slow. Every creak of the wood beneath his feet seemed to announce his approach.
The thick carpet running down the staircase meant he had to grip the banister at every turn, and by the time he reached the bottom he was aching all over.
Following the same ornate carpet — patterned in sprawling oriental motifs that stretched across the entire first floor — he arrived at the main sitting room. At its center, set into the wall, a marble fireplace veined with dark streaks breathed out a dry heat that shimmered faintly in the air.
Two sofas sat facing each other nearby, their cushions worn into soft hollows. On one of them sat a man in his fifties, his gaze calm and unhurried. Alphard assumed he was the one who'd called for him, since Helena occupied the long sofa that separated the two men.
He recognized the man at once — from the portraits.
The man rose and crossed the room at an easy pace, pulling Alphard into a warm embrace.
Having already made the mistake of hesitating with Helena's hug, Alphard wasn't about to repeat it — he returned the embrace firmly, though a jolt of pain cut it short.
"Forgive me — I had an accident, and I'm still recovering."
Alexi, his uncle, already knew the situation, but excitement had clearly swept the fact clean out of his mind for a moment.
"No, forgive me, nephew. Helena had just been telling me about it. I called ahead from here because I wanted to hear how things stood."
Alexi nodded and settled back into his sofa while Alphard took the seat across from him.
Behind the sofa, a window let in enough light that Alphard could read the expressions on both their faces clearly.
Clearing his throat, Alexi spoke.
"Alphard — are you mixed up in something? I've noticed you're out of the house at all hours lately, coming home late."
A faint chill ran through him. He tried to keep his expression steady, though his fingers kept twitching until he clasped them together tightly, forcing himself calm.
Alphard had hoped some piece of information — some memory of the real Alphard — might surface at a moment like this. But after every attempt to reach for one, nothing came. All he had was the language.
The fireplace's heat wasn't enough to chase the pallor from his face.
"Of course not, uncle. I was just walking the streets and woke up in that cathedral. If I've been out, it's because I've been looking for work."
Alexi's gaze deepened, studying him. His narrowed eyes, clearly waiting to catch some flicker of doubt, only unsettled Alphard further the moment he noticed it. Then, all at once, Alexi burst into warm, easy laughter, as if nothing at all was wrong.
"Well, you had me worried there. I should have a beer to shake this off."
Catching the shift, Alphard wondered exactly what Helena had told him — and, unwilling to sit with the uncertainty, asked outright.
"Why are you laughing, uncle? What did Helena tell you?"
Saying his sister's name still felt strange, as if he were reciting a role rather than speaking about family. On the surface, it came out naturally enough. Underneath, it grated at him.
"Your sister told me you'd been hurt. I came in on the train from Viremont to see what happened. She said you'd been looking for work, and I got it into my head that you'd fallen in with some dangerous crowd near the cathedral."
Alphard shot Helena a bewildered look, but she showed no reaction to it at all.
For a moment, he wondered if something was actually wrong with her. This was the second time now that her stare had sent a chill down his spine.
Settling himself, he turned back to his uncle, nerves mostly under control.
"None of that happened. Like I said — I was only looking for work."
"That's fair. Finding work in the capital isn't easy these days. Especially with Independence Day coming up. The Dance of Heroes is close now," Helena said, rising from the sofa.
Relief washed over Alphard — he'd managed to slip past both of their questions unscathed.
Then, without warning, Alexi crossed to him and pressed two twenty-cent coins into his hand.
"Go pick up today's bread. Be careful out there."
At that, Helena made her disapproval clear — Alphard was still recovering, after all — but Alexi only laughed again, paying her no mind.
"Go on, Alphard. Don't worry. Lying in bed all day does a man no good."
Helena kept pressing the point, but Alexi had already decided Alphard looked well enough, and that settled the matter.
With no real choice left, Alphard went along with it. He stepped out through the front door and turned right.
With no idea where he was actually headed, he wandered the streets without finding a single bakery. He found himself enjoying the walk regardless — the place was full of life — though a low, persistent unease never quite left him.
He kept glancing in every direction, making sure nothing sat out of place, and after walking far longer than he'd expected, he finally found a bakery.
He stepped inside quickly, and the girl behind the counter lit up the moment she saw him.
"Morning, Alphard. You're looking very handsome today."
Alphard froze, unsure how to respond to the compliment, the moment settling into something faintly embarrassing. For a second, the thought crossed his mind that he might have a partner — but he let it go just as quickly; nothing about her felt that close.
Did Alphard have someone courting him? How am I supposed to respond to this? I should act fast.
"Hi — I'm here for two loaves of bread. I'm in a bit of a hurry, so the usual is fine."
"Of course."
She moved quickly to prepare the order, though something in his lack of reaction left a faint trace of sadness on her face.
The smell of fresh bread was enough to make his mouth water — strong enough that he could tell more was baking in a back room for the rest of the day.
Before long, she wrapped the loaves in a paper bag. The crunch of the crust, the warmth still radiating through it, the particular texture of the bag itself that somehow made the bread feel even fresher — it was the kind of thing worth savoring.
While he dug through his pocket for the coins, a tall woman stepped in, dressed in a fine, understated gown of moss green. The way it moved with her subtly traced her figure without ever tipping into anything provocative.
Alphard took her for someone of wealth at a glance — her sharp, composed gaze carried the unmistakable mark of good breeding. He looked away quickly, not wanting to seem rude.
In truth, she'd already caught him looking. She didn't seem to mind, though something about her lingering attention left a faint unease in him all the same.
"Mrs. Charlotte, how are you today?" the baker said, her voice pitching noticeably higher.
Not wanting to overstay his welcome, Alphard handed over the coins, gave a small bow of thanks, and took his leave.
He hurried out of the shop and nearly collided with a police carriage on his way. Straightening his hat, he pressed on at a brisk pace — and just as he began to feel he'd finally put the whole encounter behind him, the sense that someone was watching him crept back in.
For a moment he wondered if he was simply growing paranoid. Still, as he approached a nearby square, he slipped into the crowd to be safe.
The square turned out to be some kind of market, lined with stalls selling fruit, vegetables, books, even the services of fortune-tellers.
With the ten cents he had left, he decided to look for a book. Nearby, a humbly dressed man ran a small stall offering both books and liquor.
Alphard noticed him and drew closer. The man greeted him with an easy, friendly smile, gesturing toward his wares.
"Take a look, lad. I've got just what you're after — you've got the look of a real book lover, so let me show you these."
Alphard crouched down as the man, leaning on his cane, laid out the books for him.
"Here we've got The Fall of Victoria, written by a Victorian fellow — Peter, I believe? And this one here's from The Lord of Chaos."
The titles were tempting, but most ran four francs or more, with only a handful priced at one or two.
Alphard offered the man a loaf of bread and ten cents in trade.
The vendor considered the offer for a moment, remembering he hadn't eaten breakfast — or sold a single thing all morning.
"A loaf and ten cents is a poor, humbling price, but seeing as I haven't eaten since yesterday, I'll take it."
With his cane, he pointed out three slim one-franc books for Alphard to choose from.
Alphard settled on one written by someone named Fyodor Morozov, its cover marked with the painted mask of a clown.
"Perfect."