Zephyrin took a step into the adjacent room before halting abruptly, feeling himself as near to being a somnambulist as he had ever been. He wasn’t particularly taken aback by the opulence on display; his own room in Elysia—in which his father had stayed for two weeks, after conquering Eleutheria—hardly paled in comparison to the splendor which presented itself to his eyes; and yet…

Where was he? Though Zephyrin was confident that he had, albeit roughly, correctly traced the sequence of events in his mind—he had been injured, noticed by a blueblood, and then been taken to her abode, there to recover—these lavish surroundings fairly upended his projections.

For, however well-off, what blueblood duke or count could afford to casually strew a sitting room with as many furnishments of elaborate make as abounded in this apartment? From the sleek Gaulyrian rosewood marquetry commodes to the squat, black lacquered, and convex vantail-doored cupboards from across the Hesperian Ocean, even Elysia’s king would esteem himself fortunate indeed if but one of these marvels came into his possession.

Zephyrin continued to stare, hardly knowing where to turn his head. That mana-powered planetarium—surely it was a one-of-a-kind, exemplary specimen of Gaulyrian craftsmanship? And there, on that tortoiseshell veneered low-end table… wasn’t that a diamond-loaded snuffbox, worth eighty thousand crowns at the absolute minimum?

Then, already in a stupefied state, his mind was thrown into the height of confusion when he remarked an object that was far from being the most splendid in the room, yet for him fraught with meaning. On one of the low-end tables lay a rich wooden box, its sides streaked with Silesian chrysoprase. Hardly conscious of his actions, Zephyrin took it in his trembling hand, turning it over repeatedly. Its weight, its appearance—the garlanded ‘Z’ monogram on the acacia lid’s center…

This… I inherited this from my father…

Zephyrin traced the monogram with a tremulous finger, his gaze wide with disbelief. His Elysian guardians had, of course, prevented him from receiving those items of his inheritance which carried a martial connotation, however slight—his father’s saber, pistols, sabertache, and so on, had never so much as crossed the border—several innocuous articles, however, had reluctantly been permitted to reach his desperate hands…

Such as this box.

What was it doing here? For that matter, where was ‘here’, and what had happened after he had saved that child from the noblewoman’s coach? And perhaps most importantly, why…

… why couldn’t he dismiss the nagging sensation that this wasn’t his first time in this room?

Zephyrin couldn’t wait a moment longer. He hastened to one of the antechamber’s three gold-trimmed doors and tried it. It was open. His present weakness notwithstanding, he would have recourse to it, and explore this mysterious demesne until he came across someone who would answer his questions…

But the door failed to open. At least, it failed to open fully—curiously enough, it was as if something on the other side was offering resistance. Really, it was strange; judging by its obduracy and the noise, it was as if a metal object stood on the opposite to the door, keeping it from opening—

And then, when Zephyrin tried it again, the door did open, this time revealing a navel-high figure clad from head to toe in plate armor, pointing a child-sized but gleaming sword straight at him. Zephyrin’s heart skipped a beat. Before he could utter a word, or catch more than a glimpse of the palatial, velvet curtained hallway that lay beyond, the armored sentinel exclaimed in a muffled but high voice: “Ah, awake at last! My friend, you've kept me waiting!”

No strong feeling of trepidation came over Zephyrin at this development; only a detached sense of puzzlement, followed by the fleeting thought that, perhaps, he was still dreaming. Indeed, having only emerged from a hazy, injury-induced state recently and with some difficulty, this latest development seemed rather to indicate that his recovery was not quite as advanced as he had initially supposed.

Still, composing himself as best he could while the child shifted in place with an eager air, Zephyrin said faintly, “If a friend you deem me, I’ll thank you to allow me to pass, that I may seek out my benefactress and offer her my gratitude.”

“Nay, sirrah! A friend you are, but strict orders were given me to let none leave or enter my room, and I’ll hold to that vow with my life!”

At that precise moment, a voice spared Zephyrin the effort of making reply to this obstinate affirmation by calling out, “Monsieur!”

Zephyrin and the knight turned around in unison and saw a gray-haired, soberly dressed woman cross the palatial hallway guarded by the knight. As she approached he drew himself up defiantly in anticipation of a confrontation; no less ready for combat, the stern-faced challenger said in a severe tone, “Monsieur, do you not see that our guest is indisposed, and in no fit state for your games? It is expedient now that you lay down your sword.”

“Lay down? Lay down my sword?” the knight repeated, the incredulity in his tone magnified by the disinhibited frankness of early childhood. “Madame, a king lays down not his sword, but his life!”

“And yet,” his opponent replied, in the ironical tone indicative of a campaigner hardened by a lifetime’s experience on the grueling front of childcare, “as Monsieur is presently seated neither in throne nor saddle, and there is no question of relinquishing of his life, perhaps he will find it pleasing to hold more firmly onto his honor than to a caprice.”

“Oh, you are incorrigible, madame!” exclaimed the miniature knight-errant, stamping an armored foot on the glossy flooring. His indifference to whether that action might scuff the parquet was not shared by his probable governess, who with narrowed eyes redoubled her offensive. “A sovereign’s valor can earn him but little merit when he is found wanting in courtesy to his subjects,” she said, giving Zephyrin a meaningful look. This blow seemed to find a chink in the small champion’s sense of honor; he turned on Zephyrin anxiously, the blue of his soft eyes showing faintly through the visor of his antiquated helm.

“Oh! Say not that our game wearies you, kind stranger! Or are you in need of rest, as my tyrannical governess implies?”

“I…” Zephyrin raised and laid a trembling hand on his brow. The dull throbbing he had been able to ignore upon his waking had, he now realized, reaggravated to a relentless drumbeat, no doubt encouraged by the highly peculiar circumstances in which he found himself. Even as he tried to speak he reached out into thin air to steady himself in vain, and would have stumbled if the stern-faced woman hadn’t moved with unexpected alacrity to clutch the cotton arm of his robe and support him.

“Don’t strain yourself, child…how is it that you find yourself here? Was there not a maid by your bedside?”

“I was alone when I awoke,” Zephyrin murmured, giving himself over to his weakness and relying on the woman’s surprisingly strong arm, cordlike beneath the pliant fabric of her dress. “It is a moment of weakness; it will pass before long...”

“Where is that girl idling now?” muttered the governess under her breath, before telling Zephyrin flatly, “You are still injured. Rest for now; there will be time for questions later.”

“Why do I have to leave?! Surely, it is my responsibility to watch over…”

The governess clicked her tongue. “Monsieur, if you insist on being difficult in this manner, I cannot affirm with any confidence that a report of your petulance will not reach Madame’s ear.”

Prone in bed once more, Zephyrin watched as the protesting knight submitted with great reluctance to the removal of his helmet, resulting in the release of a shock of ash-blond curls. He argued in vain for some time longer, then sullenly allowed himself to be escorted out by his governess, who was replaced by an equally dignified but younger, less austerely dressed lady, who promptly assumed the task of attending to Zephyrin without his needing to prompt her.

“… Pardon me as I adjust your pillow.” Zephyrin accommodated the woman—clearly belonging to the upper nobility by her refined accent and lofty bearing, but whose exact station was not immediately determinable—performed several minute adjustments, then eased him back in the bed. “There. Are you quite comfortable?”

“Yes, thank you.” Zephyrin paused, then inquired, “May I have the pleasure of knowing your name, madame?”

“I am the Countess dy Valmont, tasked with the supervision of your convalescence,” answered the steady-gazed noblewoman slowly, her deliberate enunciation clearly aimed at facilitating the comprehension of a patient who had just suffered a head injury. Then, appraising Zephyrin with a softer expression, she continued, “You are still weak; please do try to rest while I momentarily absent myself to summon the doctor.”

“I would suffer greater harm, madame, by the prolongation of my uncertainty over this change in my circumstances, which troubles me more than the shock I recently suffered. If you will have the kindness of answering only a few of my questions before seeking out this physician, I will be much obliged.”

The lady’s brows rose infinitesimally. As she regarded him with a subtly astonished but not displeased expression, Zephyrin realized he had inadvertently lapsed into an adultlike mode of expression, as if encouraged by the disconcerting, half-familiar decor and his position as an invalid to think himself in his former body. Unfortunately, it was too late to play dumb now.

“… I will answer a few of your questions to assuage your concerns and assist your recovery, but will forbear from any great discursions; my commission was to aid your rehabilitation, not overburden your mind,” the noblewoman said, with an evident thought to her assigned duty, though not in a tone entirely devoid of understanding. “What is it you wish to know?”

Zephyrin inclined his head slightly in gratitude. “My first question is this: after suffering my injury but before losing consciousness, I believe I saw a great lady. Am I correct in thinking that a memory, rather than a dream?”

“You are indeed. Madame stepped out of her carriage to tend to you; then, after it was ascertained that the child you rescued was unharmed, it was decided that no means should be spared to save the life of so heroic a youth. You were then carefully placed in the coach and conveyed hither.”

“I had a classmate with me. His name is—”

The noblewoman lifted her hand in a placating gesture. “Your companion was most helpful. Our party was speculating in vain as to your identity when he approached us and provided all the necessary information. An outrider was dispatched to Lyceum Rudolf-VII to escort the child back safely, as well as to apprise the Father Director of your condition.”

“Why wasn’t I brought back as well?”

“Madame insisted on nursing you here, in the Royal Palace.”

As I thought. “And so the boy who stood guard outside the door to this apartment?…”

“… was Monsieur the Cygnon, yes.”

Zephyrin’s mouth went dry. ‘Royal Palace’, ‘Cygnon’… he had more than enough elements at his disposal to mentally reproduce the chain of events that had transpired after his loss of consciousness. A ripple of unease traversed him, which he tried to dismiss by reminding himself that the violence that would be visited upon the palace was still several months away. That gave him more than enough time to return to the lyceum, and that without deviating history in any significant way.

“If you’ll allow me one last question…” As the noblewoman gave him a barely perceptibly nod, Zephyrin continued, steeling himself for the answer that would remove all possible doubt. “This… ‘Madame’ to whom you refer… do you mean to say that the passenger in the coach was—”

At that instant, the lion-head doorknob turned. The countess quickly rose from her seat, just in time to perform a profound curtsy as a lady splendidly appareled in a silken pink and green dress entered the room. Her walk was gracious and her bearing the most regal Zephyrin had ever seen, and would have unquestionably given her an intimidating aura, if not for her unaffectedly open expression and the quick inquisitive glances she cast about the room, endowing her with a certain childlike quality.

Behind her followed four ladies-in-waiting, ready to cater to her every whim. The great lady’s gray, almost periwinkle-hued eyes immediately sought out Zephyrin’s; when she found them open, her cherry-red lips parted to reveal a row of neat, pearly teeth, no less radiant than the glittering necklace around her neck.

As she regarded him with unabashed interest, Zephyrin was struck no less than her by the resemblance they shared; it was unmistakable now that he was in command of his mental faculties once more. He had seen portraits of her in Elysia, but they hardly did the reality justice; now, beholding her with his own eyes, he found himself dazedly retracing a genealogical tree to its roots.

My father married a granddaughter of King Èthérius of Elysia, whose sister married Rudolf XIII… which makes my grand-aunt…

As everyone waited for her to speak, the great lady took all those present by surprise by spontaneously clapping her hands in delight. Directing her gaze to the Countess, she exclaimed gaily, in a musical, lilting Elysian voice: “Fie on you, madame dy Valmont! Who was it that said I wouldn’t have another child before this year’s end?” Without waiting for a reply from her lady-in-waiting, her bright, animated eyes settled on Zephyrin once more, and she smiled at him warmly.

“I am Adelaide-Estelle, Queen of Gaulyria. Zephyrin dy Valensis, it is a very great pleasure to meet you at last, and to welcome you as the newest member of my household.”