Previously
Baroness Alunde receives Henrietta's letter and is horrified to learn her niece is in the dangerous Krakow Duchy. Fearing Henrietta will follow in her father's footsteps and die, the Baroness plans a trip to retrieve her under the guise of visiting a relative.
Lately, the chapel of the God of Wheat Ears had been packed with soldiers attending services. Priest Ronda looked benevolently upon Private Matyas, the architect of this newfound popularity.
The moment the service ended, soldiers swarmed Private Matyas, all pleading for her guidance.
“What do you think I should write? I want to ask her to eat lamb with me in Heresruen during my leave, but give me something touching to say.”
“Me first! Write that I want to marry her.”
“Are you crazy?! How are you proposing before you’re even engaged?!”
“Engaged? That bastard’s only dated her in his dreams!”
Lately, Henrietta had been resolving the soldiers’ romantic dilemmas and ghostwriting love letters on their behalf.
The other chapels were eager to recruit her because of this, but none could breach Priest Ronda’s ironclad defense.
Once the bustling crowd of soldiers dispersed, a holy stillness returned to the chapel.
Since it was the weekend, many families had come to visit the enlisted men, and the visitation hall behind the chapel was lively.
Henrietta smiled warmly as she watched the soldier who had just learned how to confess sprint out of the visitation hall, cheering at the top of his lungs.
“Come to think of it, Private Matyas, I believe this is your second month here, yet no one has visited you. Don’t tell me you haven’t sent word even now?”
Knowing the gist of Private Matyas’s circumstances, Priest Ronda worried that Henrietta had kept her whereabouts a secret from her family.
“I sent word. Only that I was well. I didn’t tell them where I was.”
“You left out the most important detail in a letter checking in.”
“Ignorance is bliss, as they say. Letting them know I’m well is enough. If I happen to die, they’ll find out then.”
“That isn't checking in; that's an obituary.”
“My obituary might actually be good news to them.”
“Goodness.”
“It’s fine. I’ve never considered them family anyway.”
Her voice was calm, almost cheerful. Henrietta gathered a few items and prepared to leave. Seeing what she held in her hands, Priest Ronda tilted her head in confusion.
“Where are you off to?”
“The sunlight is so lovely. I’ve been waiting eagerly for today.”
“The sunlight?”
“Yes. It’s been raining constantly, and the weather was so gloomy before. Isn’t it wonderful? This brilliant sunshine.”
Gazing out the window, Henrietta’s eyes sparkled beautifully.
***
With the arrival of the weekend, Kalinin’s day felt unbearably dull. Billy, now a proud homeowner, commuted during the week and refused to budge an inch from his house on weekends.
In other words, Kalinin had no one left to torment.
‘You don’t have… any friends, do you?’
Private Matyas’s question suddenly surfaced in his mind.
No friends? Preposterous. Billy was merely harboring an excessive attachment to that modest house of his lately.
‘Ah. Don't tell me you mean the Captain? But would the Captain think so too?’
Did he truly need to care what Billy thought?
‘I wonder if the chandelier I bought him suits that house.’
It struck him that he had never once visited Billy’s place.
Kalinin rose from his seat and put on his coat.
Across the desk he left behind, sheets of paper lay scattered about, stamped chaotically with ‘Good Job.’
The Division Commander’s carriage was parked inside a spacious, roofed carriage house sheltered from the rain. The road in front was paved with smooth marble to facilitate parking, and drainage channels were neatly installed to prevent carriage wheels from skidding on rainwater. Thanks to that, not a single puddle lingered despite days of downpour.
As the Division Commander rarely went out, the carriage was in the shed today as well.
The white marble gleamed dazzlingly beneath the sun. Warmed by the rays, the stone floor felt pleasantly toasty.
To sum up all these conditions in a single phrase: it was prime ground for drying flowers.
“What in the world is all this?”
Arriving to board his carriage, Kalinin found Henrietta seated in a straw hat, drying red flowers on a mat.
“…Blossoms…?”
“They are rondanis.”
It was an answer that threatened his sanity.
“No, I did not ask for the name of the flower. Private Matyas. Explain. What is this?”
“These are rondanis flowers I was pressured into buying in Heresruen last week.”
“And why are they here?”
“Brewed as tea, rondanis flowers offer a tart flavor without any bitterness, promote tranquility, prevent colds, relieve fatigue, and are particularly effective for female menstrual irregularities—”
“I asked why they are here.”
“They were selling such wonderful flowers at a bargain, so I bought a whole bundle. But once I bought them, I realized why they were cheap. They weren't fully dried. I was meant to dry them myself.”
Henrietta spoke with such brazen composure, her words flowing like water, that Kalinin was almost tricked into thinking his question was the imprecise one.
“I mean to say, why dry them here? Of all places, right in front of the Division Commander’s carriage house.”
“I was told your carriage rarely moves, Division Commander, and—”
“Did you not ride in that very carriage with me last week?”
“I looked into it, and that was the first time it had moved in three whole months! And look at this place. Isn't it perfect for drying flowers? There’s nowhere else with such neatly paved marble and not a speck of shade.”
Kalinin’s cognitive faculties discovered an infuriating trace of logical coherence in her explanation.
It was true. Nowhere else was paved with such clean marble. And smooth marble made an ideal surface for drying flowers. Even the maids at his estate used to dry flower petals over the garden paving stones….
“If you’re planning to head out in your carriage now, I’ll shift everything aside. Please, have a safe trip.”
Private Matyas even displayed the courtesy of stepping aside for the Division Commander. She was far more accommodating than the maids back home, who had rerouted the late Duke’s walking path on the grounds that not a single petal could be disturbed.
“No, no… wait.”
While Kalinin was lost in his memories, Private Matyas began nudging the mat aside, clearly taking his silence for assent. Kalinin reeled in his spiraling thoughts and hastily stopped her.
“Private Matyas. This is not your personal drying yard.”
“Surely you don’t think I intend to drink all of this alone? I plan to share it with my squad.”
“No, this is a parking bay for a carriage. The Division Commander’s carriage.”
“I know. The Division Commander’s carriage that rarely moves.”
Only now did the Duke understand. Not Private Matyas, but Billy.
He understood why Billy always complained that talking to Private Matyas felt like running in circles.
“I will not permit you to dry them here. Use your barracks.”
“The floor in my barracks is dirt and gets muddy. I spent days drying them inside and barely kept the mold off.”
“No soldier dries flowers in the military, let alone in the Division Commander’s carriage bay.”
“There’s no regulation forbidding the drying of flowers, however. I checked beforehand.”
“That is… because it is common sense. Who codifies common sense into law?”
Even as he spoke, Kalinin felt pathetic. Strange as it was, common sense seemed to lose all power whenever he dealt with Private Matyas.
“If it isn't regulated, doesn't that leave it open to broader use? By my common sense, drying flowers on idle ground isn’t a crime.”
“This is not idle ground… Phew….”
About to argue that the ground wasn't idle, Kalinin simply sighed. In truth, he, too, considered the carriage house a pointless waste of space. It would never have been built if not for Billy, who had stubbornly insisted that proper protocol demanded it for a Division Commander.
At a loss for words, the Division Commander merely waved his hand. Quick to take a hint only at times like this, Henrietta hummed a tune as she dragged the mat the rest of the way over. Just enough to let the carriage pass without hindrance.
He had lost again.
Swallowed by a bitter sense of defeat, Kalinin climbed into the carriage. Reading the room, the coachman gripped the reins warily.
The carriage began to move.
Beyond the carriage window, Private Matyas’s straw hat seemed to radiate triumph.