The carriage clattered along the street. The brown curtains draped over the windows swayed every time the carriage jolted. Because the curtains were made of wool, light seeped through, revealing the silhouettes of buildings outside.
It was a summer afternoon, and with the windows closed, the air inside the carriage was stifling. Yet we did not open them.
“It won’t take long,” Dorian, sitting opposite me, said. The carriage shook considerably, but it wasn’t as bad as I had expected.
Perhaps my standards for carriages had dropped drastically after riding in the cargo wagons.
A tiny glowing stone was attached to the top of the carriage. I leaned back against the seat, which felt as though it had been patched a thousand times. Compared to the Duke’s carriage, this one had many shortcomings, but it was definitely better than a cargo wagon.
Lewin was sitting on Dorian’s lap. He still clutched his doll. From the moment he climbed onto the carriage and sat on his brother’s lap, he never let go of it.
Seeing a child hug a doll almost as big as his own torso… it looked exhausting.
Even Dorian and I realized only after buying it that the doll was far too large to carry around. It couldn’t fit into a palm-sized bag.
Lewin held the doll tightly against himself, nodding off precariously. You could see the sweat forming on his forehead, probably because hugging the doll shifted his weight forward. Dorian adjusted him in his arms, making him lean on him at intervals for stability.
“He’s asleep already,” I murmured.
“Being in an unfamiliar place, he probably didn’t sleep well last night,” Dorian said, his expression darkening slightly. Since they hadn’t brought servants besides Iva and Hartmann, Lewin had likely been tended by strangers the previous night.
A heavy feeling settled over me. I looked at the child, peacefully asleep, his long lashes and chubby cheeks soft in the carriage light. The doll in his arms seemed to have loosened slightly as his grip weakened in sleep.
To make sure he wouldn’t drop it, Dorian carefully turned Lewin sideways in his lap. The child didn’t stir at all.
Putting aside the sadness I felt, I took the opportunity to speak.
“…Was Lewin originally a lisping child?”
At my question, Dorian slowly lifted his gaze from the child. Though the carriage was dim, lit only by the small glowing stone and the curtains, his eyes shone clearly from beneath the shadow of his brows.
The air fell silent instantly.
“No.”
Through the tension that filled the carriage, his voice settled like a cello melody. Deep, sweet, and smooth, it resonated with a musical quality.
“Lewin was a precocious child. Before the incident, his speech had already been corrected, and he spoke freely, chattering about his thoughts and the things he had experienced.”
“Then why is he lisping now…?”
“I don’t know myself,” Dorian said.
He paused, lost in thought. I watched Lewin.
“The lisp he uses with us seems to come from his tongue being unpracticed. After all, he hasn’t spoken properly for two years. But the words he used with the servants weren’t like that.”
Was he intentionally hiding something? I rested my elbow on the windowsill and my chin on my hand. Dorian, still deep in thought, continued.
“I’ve heard that even grown children sometimes lisp when a younger sibling is born. Of course, this situation differs from ours.”
“Is that from experience?”
“…Are you joking?”
Dorian’s face paled slightly. Oh, my words slipped out before passing through my brain again. I hurriedly tried to fix it.
“No, I just wondered if it was because he remembered and copied his older brother.”
“As you know, Miss Rohella, when Lewin was born, I wasn’t old enough to lisp to divert attention from my younger sibling…”
Dorian’s face flushed. Dorian is fourteen years older than Lewin, so he had been fifteen when Lewin was born.
I shook my head, realizing I’d teased him too much.
“Sorry. I tend to say anything when my thoughts get tangled… In any case, it seems Lewin’s lisp is a way of hiding from others that he can speak properly.”
“Now that you mention it, yes.”
“Do you think he has a reason to hide it?”
Dorian was silent for a moment. The carriage rattled softly again. Thump, thump. Occasionally, the crack of a whip and the neighing of horses pierced through.
No matter how well insulated the carriage, it didn’t seem to block all sound. In fact, the faintest conversation could probably be drowned out by the surrounding noise.
Dorian seemed to be gauging whether our conversation could escape outside. After a moment, he spoke.
“Lewin could speak well.”
“Yes, you said so.”
“Not just well—he spoke abnormally well for his age.”
A typical older sibling praising a younger one? ‘My sibling was a prodigy’? Probably. I nodded. But Dorian’s words didn’t stop there.
“He could recite poetry.”
“…Poetry?”
“Yes, poetry.”
I understood why he had hesitated before saying it.
Spellcasting.
Most incantations are composed in the language of spells, but the more powerful the magic, the more the spell takes the form of poetry.
Some spells are even recorded in books as poems, though few people can use them.
So a child simply reciting poetry isn’t in itself a secret. But if…
Had I understood that correctly?
I couldn’t hold back and asked bluntly.
“Are you saying Lewin uses spells?”
“At the time, I was busy with heir training, so I didn’t witness him actually reciting spells. But I do remember our mother becoming visibly anxious afterward.”
He looked down at Lewin, his eyes tinged with melancholy. Was he recalling that time? I wanted to ask: was the train accident truly targeting Lewin?
Even if Lewin was a spell user, it couldn’t have caused the train accident. Spell users are rare, but eventually, they all return to their homeland of magic.
There was no reason for anyone to target him, and no reason to hide the fact, especially with the image of a reclusive, wise child.
“Unless the Duke’s family intended to exploit Lewin’s magic…”
But if that were the case, wouldn’t Dorian, as the heir, have known that Lewin truly was a spell user and his parents intended to use him?
“You said the train ride was for Lewin’s recuperation?”
“That’s correct.”
“It’s complicated,” I sighed. I should be grateful at least that Dorian had given me some clue.
Dorian and I sank into our separate thoughts. Lewin’s chest rose and fell gently in Dorian’s lap.
I wanted to ask Lewin to recite poetry, just to see. But if that really was the cause…
I closed my eyes. Moments later, the carriage jolted violently and came to a stop.
Amid the clattering horses, a booming voice sounded, like a train’s whistle had been eaten and spat back out.
“We’ve arrived!”
Dorian carefully woke his younger brother. Lewin’s chestnut hair had become tousled. Dorian ran his hand through it, recalling how their mother had caressed Lewin’s hair the same way, over and over.
Those peaceful days…
<Lewin recited poetry today.>
That day at the meal, Lewin had said it proudly. All eyes turned to him.
Dorian lamented that he wasn’t there when his younger brother recited poetry and spoke up.
<Really? Will you show it to me too?>
It was a thoughtless remark. He resented that recent heir training had reduced the time he could spend with Lewin. The child was growing too fast.
Lewin tilted his head in curiosity.
<Now?>
<Now is fine.>
Dorian said with expectation. Tomorrow, the week after, next month—all his heir training was packed, so if not now, he wouldn’t get the chance.
But it wasn’t Lewin who responded.
The Duchess, quietly slicing her steak with a knife, spoke.
<No, Dorian. It’s better to hear it later.>
Normally, his mother would have smiled and agreed. But she rejected it on Lewin’s behalf. It puzzled him.
Dorian shifted his gaze from Lewin to his mother. He noticed something was wrong.
Her poised face, cutting the steak elegantly, was pale. Her hand gripping the knife was tense.
This was unlike her.
After the Empress had passed away, leaving only the Crown Prince, his mother became the First Lady of the Empire. Not running royal affairs herself, but serving as the model for noblewomen.
She was known for her calm composure and emotional control.
But now… something was wrong.
<I agree. Lewin’s poetry recital is better heard later, Dorian.>
His father, refreshing his throat with wine, said. His hand holding the glass trembled.
Both parents seemed uneasy—fearful, perhaps.
What were they afraid of? Young Dorian did not ask.
‘I shouldn’t have done that.’
He closed his eyes, counted to three, and opened them. Lewin’s round crown came into view. During the painful two years after losing their parents, he had learned much.
Regret was meaningless. He had learned never to regret again.
To undo past regrets.
“We’re here, Lewin.”
His voice fell upon his younger brother like snowflakes. Lewin slowly sat up, blinking at his older brother. He was still so small.
“Shall we go?”
“Mm.”
Lewin’s eyes sparkled like new spring leaves. Dorian smiled brightly. He had already lost this light once.
He would not lose anything else.
