Prince 23

#23.

To my dear friend Archibald, the fool Albert.

You are truly a fool, my poor prince. Truly, I want to tell you everything, but the more I think about it, the more I believe this is one of those moments when I have to hold back what I want to say, even if it breaks my heart.

Are you crumpling up my letter right now, thinking I’m being too much?

You might be asking why I’m turning away now when I’ve always told you everything, even what’s going to happen in the future.

Well, it’s because of Florian, that poor child.

Listen, Archibald.

That child is clearly hiding something from you, isn’t he?

But as you might have sensed, he seems to be a rather good-hearted child.

It doesn’t seem like he’s involved in black magic, as we initially suspected.

After all, Cecile already knew his secret long before you did, didn’t she?

Yet, instead of doubting him, Cecile believed in him more and took care of him kindly.

You know better than anyone that Cecile isn’t a fool, and she’s not the type to be easily swayed just because someone looks a bit cute.

So what exactly is this child hiding?

Think carefully, Archibald.

I absolutely cannot tell you first.

The poor child has a secret for some reason, and I can’t even begin to guess what that reason might be. I can only roughly guess what that secret is.

Given the situation, if I were to tell you the secret outright, how upset do you think that child would be?

Archibald Albert, you are my dear friend, but so is that child who’s left alone without parents, bearing a secret and suffering silently. His situation is quite pitiable too.

You may not know this, but we orphans have built a timeless and spaceless alliance. (I’m lying. There’s no such thing. I’m a lonely person, so please always look after me so I don’t feel lonely.)

Still, I value our secret friendship more than any universal orphan alliance, so I’ve filled this letter with plenty of hints. Now, read my letter again from the beginning and think it over carefully, my Sherlock.

P.S.

How about reading *Twelfth Night* again? It’s a fun book, isn’t it?

P.S. 2:

I’d like to send you some medicine for your cold, but by the time it reaches you, it might have turned into poison from all the time that will have passed. And if that happened, Flynn’s condition might become even worse, so I’ll just share a simple recipe with you.

Boil a handful of willow bark and ground bupleurum root in hot water and have him drink it morning and night. This was my mother’s secret remedy, and whenever I drank it, it would calm my shivers and bring down my fever. It might be hard to find these ingredients here, but in a place with a garden as large as Arle Palace, you might just be able to pick them outside! Since you’ve had bridal training, I don’t need to explain how to brew the tea, do I?

On the first day of July, just realizing it’s the hottest month,

– Cordelia, who might be more suited to detective work than you.

* * *

To my heartless friend Coco.

I have one piece of good news and one piece of bad news.

Since I know you would prefer to hear the good news first, I’ll start with that.

Flynn’s fever dropped immediately after giving him the tea you suggested.

I took a sip myself, and it tasted so disgusting that I wondered if it might kill him. But that good-hearted Flynn gulped it all down without complaint, tears welling in his eyes.

“Does it taste good?” 

I asked, bewildered, and he said it was a taste from his memories. Did Princess Edwina make him drink muddy water when he was a child?

Anyway, as soon as he drank it, his fever dropped so quickly that, for the first time in my life, I received a compliment from Cecile. Well, to be exact, she said, “You’re not completely useless after all.” Coming from Cecile, that’s a high praise.

But that wasn’t the end of it. Cecile praised me once more this morning. It happened when His Majesty the former king and my mother rushed into Flynn’s room upon hearing that he was ill.

His Majesty, who had regained his grandson in his old age, must have been worried that something might go wrong. Even though Flynn said he was fine now, His Majesty insisted on calling for a healer to make sure it wasn’t something serious.

I thought that was a good idea, so I was about to rush out to bring the healer and doctor when Cecile stopped me and said,

“It’s alright, Your Majesty. Everything was resolved with a cup of tea that Archie made. Archie may look like this, but he’s learned proper healing arts. You can rest assured.”

Cecile had never praised me like this in front of His Majesty before, so the atmosphere in the room became unusually awkward.

It was Flynn who broke the strange mood. With a bright smile, he said that it would be such a shame to stay in the room when we were all gathered like this, and he wanted us to go and see Arle’s garden together. His round eyes sparkled as he pleaded with us, and we couldn’t resist. So, Cecile, I, my mother, His Majesty, and Flynn, the five of us, went out to the garden together.

Though Arle’s garden is famously beautiful, it’s a sight we see so often that it didn’t stir much emotion in us. But Flynn, who had been sick just a moment ago, was suddenly bounding around, marveling at everything he saw.

As we walked down a path where white hawthorn blossoms were scattered, he said the name “hawthorn” was too boring and decided to call it the “Fairy’s White Path.”

The path lined with soft sky-blue Bouvardia flowers, he dubbed the “Light Blue Velvet Forest.”

Cordelia, as you know, I’m a pathetic fool who avoids seriousness by immediately deflecting with jokes.

In fact, this habit isn’t limited to serious situations; it comes out during any moment of emotional excess.

When His Majesty speaks of the sorrow of losing his daughter, I don’t know how to comfort him, so I change the subject. When Edmund, the page, recites poetry with tears in his eyes or when he gazes at the sky in awe, saying, “The heavens are so beautiful, Prince Archie,” and looks at me with a face full of emotion, I feign ignorance and pretend not to notice.

I really am someone who wants to back away when confronted with others’ sorrow, longing, happiness, or awe.

But this time, something was different. I didn’t want to run away.

I didn’t want to change the subject or look away while babbling nonsense.

Flynn’s expression and voice, filled with happiness among the flowers, were so clear and sincere that when he said such things, I thought, “Yes, perhaps fairies really do walk this white path at night.”

So I smiled and simply said,

“Indeed. The light blue petals look like buttons wrapped in velvet.”

Flynn was so delighted by this that he laughed and said, “Then I’ll call them ‘Light Blue Velvet Buttons’ as you named them, Your Highness.” Though I couldn’t help but think, what a strange child.

Despite his youthful appearance, he’s supposedly over twenty, yet at times like this, he seems like a twelve-year-old.

But even as he was so cheerfully innocent, he looked at me with a slightly prim expression and said,

“I’m only saying these things because you’re listening, Prince Archie. It’s a secret from everyone else. If my friends knew I was naming flower paths, they’d tease me and say, ‘Wow, you’ve lost it.’”

“Well… I suppose they would. Naturally.”

“But you don’t, Prince Archie.”

Cecile, who was listening to our conversation, seemed like she wanted to say, “You’ve lost it,” to him, but for some reason, she held back and kept her mouth shut.

Cecile and a flower garden, it’s an odd combination, isn’t it? If I had any talent for drawing, Coco, I would sketch it out for you just to show how amusing it was.

Putting Cecile aside, the rest of us had a truly enjoyable time.

His Majesty seemed to greatly enjoy this rare garden outing filled with such whimsical chatter, and my mother was also laughing frequently. Watching them, I realized how fortunate we were to have found Flynn.

As you said, it seems almost certain that the child is Princess Edwina’s son, and more than anything, the atmosphere at Arle Palace has completely changed since he arrived.

After losing his son and then his only daughter, our former king completely shut himself off from the world.

My mother, Queen Adelaide, always felt guilty and was constantly on edge around His Majesty.

And my sister Cecile, who couldn’t be more stoic,

And there I was, trying to fill the awkwardness between them with jokes, only to end up running away.

A strange warmth that could never have arisen with just the four of us began to fill Arle Palace.

On such a happy day, you might wonder what the bad news could be.

Well, it’s the obvious story. Your Sherlock, distracted by brewing tea according to your recipe and wandering around the garden, still hasn’t solved the mystery.

After lunch, I returned to the writing room and read your letter three whole times, finally realizing that there might be a hint hidden within *Twelfth Night*.

But when I tried to reread *Twelfth Night*, I searched the bedroom and the writing room all day, only to find that everything else was in its place except for that one book. It must have been Noel who secretly took it out of my luggage while we were at the Lethe Monastery. Noel is my partner in crime, after all. She even helped me sneak the book storage chest out with a giggle. Now the dog I raised has turned to bite me.

Anyway, tomorrow morning, I plan to go to the Lethe Monastery to find that book. But I’ve got a pesky companion tagging along. Yes, the identity of that pesky one is, of course, Flynn. So this time, I plan to leave our book storage chest here at Arle.

That fellow is so curious about everything; he’s constantly trying to sneak into the writing room, and once, he even got caught trying to touch our magic box when I wasn’t looking.

I agree with you that he’s a good-hearted fellow, but still, there’s such a thing as “just in case” in this world. I want to cherish our magic box more than anything. You might be scolding me right now, saying how can I talk like this after losing a book, but that’s how I feel.

So if I don’t send word for a few days, don’t feel lonely, my friend.

When I meet with Bedder, I’ll also pester him to tell me more about Princess Edwina and the magic box.

-On the third night of the hottest month.

Your foolish friend, Archibald.

P.S.: If you’re planning to mock me for writing “Flynn” and asking if we’ve gotten that close already, please don’t. The name Florian is too long and hard to pronounce.

And well, Flynn is quite a decent fellow the more I see him. You should have seen him thanking me tearfully after drinking the tea. He was as cute as a baby bird.

* * *

To my dear prince.

Are you going to the monastery tomorrow? Then you must still be at Arle Palace, right?

If you’re still sitting at your desk, reply to me.

I have a small gift for you.

-Your Coco, smiling for the first time in a while after reading your letter.

P.S.: You’ve never once turned away from my serious emotions, have you?

* * *

To my Cordelia.

Yes, your Archibald is still here.

But my dear Coco, why do you say you’re smiling for the first time in a while?

I want you to always be smiling.

Should I take the book storage chest with me to the Lethe Monastery after all?

Since my beautiful looks won’t be enough to make you laugh (you’d have to frown to avoid being blinded), I’ll try to amuse you with Bedder.

He’s big, but I’ll try to stuff him into the box. He may arrive old, but he’s already old, so it won’t make much difference.

-Your friend, Archibald.

Regarding your P.S.: Yes, the letters from my often lonely friend seem to have completely changed me.

Archibald Albert is now too serious to just keep joking around.

* * *

To the prince whose writing is usually so neat.

I like how your handwriting becomes messy when you’re rushing to reply when I call for you urgently.

Of course, even when it’s messy, it’s still better than mine.

P.S.: As long as I have your letters, I can always laugh, so just put the book storage chest down and go. What if you drop and break it?

Regarding your reply to my P.S.: I like you, Archibald, for saying you’re too far gone to keep joking around while you’re making jokes.

* * *

To my clever Coco,

That’s right, my handwriting is always better than yours.

Anyway, tell me, what’s the gift?

It’s not that I’m eager for the gift itself—it’s just that I like the idea of you sitting at your desk.

I thought you’d be busy spending your days out with Liam every day. (Yes, I am indeed jealous right now.)

-Your Archibald, who was hiding his jealousy well.

* * *

To Prince Archibald, master of obsession and jealousy,

I never thought I’d see you jealous.

I know you’re joking, but it still makes me feel good.

My prince, your jealousy is my strength, so I’ll write you a longer letter than usual.

Actually, the gift I have today isn’t for you, but for Noel.

Since Noel doesn’t know how to read yet, I thought a picture book would be a nice gift for her.

At first, I chose a book from our publishing house that has no text, just pictures, but after reading your letter today, I suddenly changed my mind and hurried to search through my shelves. A book with some text might give you some joy too.

The title of this book is *Lydia’s Garden*, and the protagonist is a little girl named Lydia from a poor family.

Due to their dire circumstances, she’s sent to live with her stern uncle far away, and even as she takes the long journey by train, Lydia remains very brave. She doesn’t cry when leaving her family behind and even packs her favorite flower seeds, full of enthusiasm to learn how to bake at her uncle’s house.

Her uncle is a stern man who never smiles, but he seems to have a kind heart.

Lydia, being a bright child, quickly adapts to her new surroundings. She learns to bake in her uncle’s bakery and plants the flower seeds she brought from home in a dented cake pan and a broken cup.

Then one day, she discovers the gray rooftop above the bakery, a place no one ever goes, and decides to create a secret garden there.

The people at the bakery don’t think much will come of planting a few seeds, but a year later, flowers bloom everywhere, and Lydia becomes known as the “little gardener.” Her uncle, of course, sees the flowers around him, but he still doesn’t know about the garden on the roof.

On the day of the great reveal, Lydia persuades her uncle to close the bakery and takes him up to the roof, showing him the vibrant colors of the flowers blooming in the once gray space. Her uncle, though still not smiling, stands there looking a bit unsure, just like Cecile standing in the flowerbed.

The picture of the entire roof covered in flowers is quite moving, but my favorite scene is on the next page—the last page of the book.

It’s the moment when Lydia finally returns home after hearing that her father has found a job and their financial situation has improved.

This scene has no text at all. It’s just one large picture spread across two pages.

The same gray train station where Lydia first arrived is shown across the two pages,

and in one corner, her uncle, who has come to see her off, kneels down and holds the still-small Lydia tightly in his arms.

He bites his lip as if holding back words,

and closes his eyes tightly as if to swallow his tears.

Even without a smile, a tear, or a single line of dialogue, you can feel the uncle’s sadness at having to let Lydia go.

When you see how much a picture alone can stir the heart, maybe Noel can take her time learning to read, don’t you think?

Today, after hearing your story about Flynn, I found myself opening this picture book again and ended up crying.

When I see people like Lydia, it reminds me that there’s no need to feel down about the world being gray.

There’s always a place somewhere to secretly plant flower seeds.

I think Flynn might be one of those people too.

And, Archibald, I believe you’re one of them as well.

The book is so large that I’ll have to tear it apart page by page to fit it into the box, so please glue it back together and give it to Noel.

I think Bedder might even be able to take the torn pages and turn them into an even more beautiful book.

P.S.: I might be a little jealous, but I won’t interfere, so have a good time with Flynn.

July 3rd.

-Hoping you find the answer before the next letter, Cordelia.

* * *

My dear Coco,

First, I am always yours, so don’t be jealous.

Second, don’t cry except when reading a book. If there’s something particularly sad, tell me.

Third, the idea of tearing up the book page by page to fit it into the box is barbaric yet impressively creative.

Fourth, you are that kind of person too, Cordelia. You’re the most Lydia-like person I know.

On the morning of the fourth day of the hottest month, as I briefly leave Arle, your Archibald.

———= Author’s Note ———=

To the readers who are sharp unlike Archibald and already know everything.

First, *Twelfth Night* is a book with a woman disguised as a man.

Second, *Lydia’s Garden* is an epistolary picture book. All the plots mentioned above are conveyed through letters.

Third, who gains strength from the readers’ subscriptions, recommendations, and lovely comments? (Answer: Me… Me! I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as I cried while writing it.)

This has been a small indulgence from a quiet attention-seeker.

Thank you for all the comments, recommendations, and subscriptions. I’ll return tomorrow at midnight with Bedder’s letter.

<– –>

Unavoidable serial (1/2)