Jenkins masked the gloom he felt over the tragedy at the gravesite, not wanting to spoil Miss Stuart's cheerful mood. Riding his terrifying skeletal horse alongside the convoy, he fell into conversation with Alexia. Somehow, he couldn't stop himself from recounting the events of the past few days.
He had always found it easy to confide in Alexia. She was a true friend.
The snowy plains receded behind them, the vast expanse of white now glowing orange under the brilliant sunset. The procession moved at a leisurely pace. A young maid walking nearby kept stealing glances at Jenkins's steed, her expression a mixture of fear and fascination. It wasn't until Julia, the head maid, gently corrected her that she realized she had veered off course.
Jenkins offered them a smile before a sudden surge of fire engulfed both him and his skeletal horse. Its hooves stamped craters into the snow, each print left smoldering with embers. The orange flames, however, didn't melt the snow—a peculiar characteristic of the Inexhaustible Flame under Jenkins's precise control.
The women gasped in astonishment. Through the curtain of fire, Jenkins’s youthful face broke into a grin before he slowly drew the flames back into himself. From her carriage, Miss Stuart was straining to overhear their conversation, her gaze fixed discreetly on Jenkins. She offered no comment on his little display, but the smile playing on her lips grew wider.
"...So that's what happened," he concluded. "I don't consider myself a sentimental man, but after seeing something so horrific... I can't help but want to find the one responsible and burn them to ashes."
He hadn't stopped his story even while putting on a show for the young maid, and by the time he finished, Alexia had grasped the full picture.
Alexia's focus wasn't on the tragic family, however. Her attention was fixed squarely on Jenkins.
Seeing Jenkins about to protest, she spoke again from atop her horse, cutting him off.
"You see, the first choice was last year, when Papa Oliver asked you to decide whether to escort that shipment. Had you agreed, that dangerous statue would have arrived in Nolan back in 1865 and been properly contained. None of this would have happened."
"I admit that, but..."
"The second choice was whether to go to the train station with him. I imagine he wouldn't have objected if you'd refused; after all, you two seem to run into trouble every time you go out together. But you agreed. That was unusual, which is why he decided to eat out first instead of taking the statue straight back."
"I'll concede that point as well, but... please, let me finish!"
He anticipated another interruption and spoke quickly to preempt it. When Alexia adopted a listening posture, he continued.
"That's not fair, Alexia. You're looking at the past through the lens of the outcome. Of course you can attribute it all to those choices, but in truth, what isn't composed of a series of choices?"
"You have a point. But Jenkins, our world is hardly ordinary. When coincidences pile up , one has to believe it's the work of fate. Don't you see? You're like the protagonist on the stage of this play, 'The Tragedy of the Galts.' You've pushed the story forward at every step, and you will be there to witness the final act. The finale hasn't arrived yet, but I can guarantee that you will be involved in the capture of the culprit. And when it's all over, you will go to their graves, lay down flowers, and quietly tell them the whole story."
Jenkins couldn't argue, because that was exactly what he planned to do. But that just proved how well she knew him—or perhaps it was a minor prophecy.
"A stage?" he mused. "I've heard it said that Nolan City itself is a stage—the stage for the end of the epoch."
He was trying to change the subject.
"Was that something Audrey said? She's right. That city could very well become a place of legend."
Alexia spoke with a grave expression, but then a smile touched her lips as she turned to the eavesdropping Miss Stuart.
"You have eyes in Nolan City as well. You must know just how many things have happened in that great city on the west coast these past six months."
"Hm? Oh, of course! That city is absolutely dreadful!"
Miss Stuart jumped, startled to be addressed. Realizing she wasn't being scolded for listening in, she quickly agreed, then stole another glance at Jenkins.
"Mr. Williams, you must be careful," she advised. "Even for someone as powerful as you, fate has a cruel sense of humor."
Knowing there were people who cared for him, even from afar, lifted Jenkins's spirits. They were kind words, and for a lonely traveler in a foreign land, they meant a great deal.
As the party neared the rendezvous point, he dismissed the skeletal horse and altered his appearance. He then changed into a set of servant's clothes and melted back into the group, completely unnoticed.
From six o'clock onward, hunting parties began trickling back into the main camp. By then, most had heard the news of Stipe Stuart's disappearance, though it clearly had nothing to do with the unassuming third princess's entourage.
There are always unpleasant people in the world, and the odds of encountering them increased dramatically whenever nobles gathered in one place.
Jenkins assumed the day's hunt was over and stood by their designated spot, directing the servants to build a campfire. But then he saw another group approach from the far side of the camp and engage Miss Stuart in conversation. Thıs text ıs hosted at novelꞁire.net
He couldn't make out their words or expressions, but he could tell instinctively that the two groups were not on good terms.
"That's the Marquis of Jones's youngest daughter and the young baroness from Duke Bolbo's family. Her Highness's relationship with them is... extremely poor. Both of them are fond of the First Prince, but as you know..."
The young maid who had been so curious about his skeletal horse earlier rushed to explain, nervously clutching the hem of her apron. Jenkins dropped the firewood he was holding and moved closer, pretending to adjust a tent flap while actually trying to listen in.
It seemed to be nothing more than the typical posturing common among young ladies—hardly a serious matter. The two noblewomen had come to flaunt their kills and were now asking Miss Stuart what she had managed to hunt.
The scene was a cliché, but a common one. One couldn't expect these sheltered young ladies to concoct any truly devious schemes; after all, their understanding of intrigue was drawn mostly from their mothers' petty squabbles and the pages of chivalric romances.