Chapter 6: A Major Panic at the Royal Palace, and the Crisis of Leaving Work on Time
Clang, clang, clang, clang…!!
The ear-splitting sound of bells shook the entire royal palace.
The emergency summons bell.
I sit up from the sofa and frown irritably.
My precious nap has been ruined.
“…Five times.
That’s a level five emergency.”
My former crown princess candidate knowledge automatically runs a search in my head.
Level five.
It means either “a declaration of war from another nation,” or “the kidnapping or death of royalty.”
Looking out the window, I can see guards running around in a frenzy.
Angry shouts echo in the distance.
“…I want to go home.”
There are still four hours until quitting time, but should I leave early?
No, with this level of chaos, the gates are probably sealed.
Getting arrested as a “suspicious person” because I moved carelessly would be a hassle.
I sigh and finish my cold tea.
For now, maybe I should barricade myself inside this library and hold out.
Just as I think that.
Bang!!
The second act of violence against the door today.
Enough already.
If the hinges break, I am sending the repair bill.
“Eliana…!
Are you here!?”
Bursting in is the usual Mr. Bear, Claude-sama.
But something is off.
His complexion is always poor, but now it has gone past pale and into an ashen gray.
His normally disheveled clothes are a mess, and greasy sweat beads on his forehead.
“I’m here, but… is this a zombie movie shoot?”
“This is no time for jokes…!
Help me, Eliana!”
He grabs my shoulders.
His hands are trembling slightly.
“The original copy of the peace treaty with the Eastern Empire has disappeared.”
“…I see.”
“The signing ceremony is tonight.
If the original isn’t found by then, the treaty will be considered void.
…It means war.”
War.
The moment that word appears, my mental calculator spits out its conclusion at high speed.
War equals disrupted supply lines, which means skyrocketing wheat and tea prices.
War equals national mobilization, meaning even former nobles like me will be drafted.
War equals overtime, all-nighters, and working weekends.
(…Absolutely not.)
My elegant slow life.
Mina’s delicious bread.
The joy of sleeping in.
All of it would be taken away.
A quiet flame of anger ignites in my eyes.
“…Let’s organize the situation.
Where was the original last confirmed?”
I switch to a businesslike tone.
Claude-sama looks slightly surprised, but immediately answers as if clinging to a lifeline.
“Three days ago.
It was taken to the finance minister’s office to receive an approval seal on a budget proposal.
After that, there is no record of it being returned to the vault.”
“The finance minister… Marquis Gandalf, correct?”
I knit my brows.
That old fox.
When I was receiving crown princess training as the crown prince’s fiancée, he was the most troublesome person I dealt with.
“He doesn’t read documents,” “He stamps seals wherever,” and “He is always eating something in his office.”
A sworn enemy of administrative staff.
“We searched the vault, but it’s nowhere…!
Even when we asked the minister, all he said was ‘I don’t know, the secretary did it’…!”
Claude-sama runs a hand through his hair.
It is no wonder the palace is in panic.
If it is not found in the next few hours, tens of thousands could die.
And yet.
I am calm.
“Claude-sama.
What do you think was the first thing I did when I arrived here?”
“Huh?
…Cleaning, wasn’t it?”
“No.
Creating a ‘checkout log.’”
I open my desk drawer and take out a notebook.
A simple logbook modeled after the lending cards from libraries in my previous life.
This library was treated like a “dumping ground,” but in reality, it was also where “homeless documents” within the palace were temporarily thrown.
On my first day, I remember spotting a leather pouch with unfamiliar binding among the piles of scattered papers on the floor.
“Three days ago in the afternoon, a messenger came here.
He said, ‘It’s from the finance minister.
Take these nuisance documents off our hands.’”
“Don’t tell me… here!?”
Hope dawns on Claude-sama’s face.
I flip through the notebook.
“No.
It is not here.”
“W-what…!”
“Because I told him, ‘This is an important document, and I cannot accept it without the proper procedures,’ and sent him back.”
“Y-you sent it back!?
A document tied to the nation’s survival!?”
“I didn’t know.
He didn’t show me the contents, and it was being treated like trash.”
I say flatly.
Rules are rules.
If you accept documents without proper procedures, you will be blamed when they go missing.
That is an ironclad rule of office work.
“However, I do remember what the messenger muttered as he took it back.”
I rewind my memory.
The irritated lower-ranking official.
The words he spat out as he left.
‘Tch, so inflexible…
Fine, I’ll just put it on the minister’s lunch tray.’
“…The lunch tray?”
Claude-sama repeats numbly.
“Yes.
Marquis Gandalf hates placing hot pots or cups directly on his desk.
He has a bad habit of using any ‘thick, high-quality paper’ nearby as a trivet or coaster.”
Claude-sama is struck speechless by my words.
“Y-you’re saying… he used an international treaty as a trivet…?”
“He would.
Once, a ‘Royal Capital Sewer Maintenance Plan (one hundred pages)’ I submitted was soaked under his teapot.”
My evidence is personal experience bordering on resentment.
“Go to the finance minister’s office immediately.
Not the desk, but the side table or the kitchenette shelves.
It is probably stacked with dirty dishes.”
“…The kitchenette…”
Claude-sama staggers.
He looks like he does not want to believe it.
But there are no other leads.
“Please go.
…There are only three hours left until quitting time.”
“A-alright!
I owe you!”
He dashes off as if launched from a spring.
Watching his back disappear like the wind, I quietly sip my tea.
“…I hope you find it.”
For my sake.
For my peaceful dinner.
In the end, the treaty is found.
An hour later, the bells ring again.
This time, three times.
The signal for “all clear.”
I let out a sigh of relief and begin tidying up.
The bookshelf organization is done.
Today’s quota is complete.
Chime.
The bell announcing five o’clock.
“Alright.”
I put on my robe and lock the library.
When I step outside, the evening sky is dyed red by the sunset.
The guards who had been running around now return to their posts with relieved expressions.
As I walk through the palace corridors, I hear maids whispering as they pass by.
“Did you hear?
They found the treaty in the kitchenette of the finance minister’s office.”
“Apparently it had soup stains on it.”
“Unbelievable… but how did they find it?”
“They say the ‘Witch of the Northern Tower’ predicted it.”
“What?
Wasn’t that place haunted?”
…Who are you calling a witch.
I will have to track down the source of that rumor later.
No, that is too much trouble.
I will leave it be.
I am just a manager who leaves on time.
I exit through the back gate and head toward the lower town.
As I go down the cobblestone slope, a savory aroma drifts through the air.
“I’m home.”
I open the bakery door.
Mina pokes her head out from the kitchen.
“Oh, welcome back.
The palace sounded noisy.
Were you alright?”
“Yes.
It was like a small scare.
…What’s for dinner?”
“White stew.
The kind you like, with big chunks of potatoes.”
“That’s perfect.”
I break into a smile.
War has been avoided.
The stew is warm.
Is there any greater happiness?
I return to my room, change clothes, then head down to the dining area.
I take a spoonful of the steaming stew.
The sweetness of milk and the fluffy potatoes.
It soaks into my tired body.
“…Mmm, delicious.”
With the spoon still in my mouth, I think absently.
What happened to Claude-sama after that?
He probably ran around trying to remove the soup stains, or bowed his head repeatedly to the empire’s representatives.
Either way, a long night surely awaits him.
(…Maybe I should bring him some energizing sweets tomorrow.)
Thanks to him, I am able to eat stew like this today.
That much courtesy I can afford.
Dipping bread into the stew, I look up at the moon outside the window.
Peace really is wonderful.
However.
I still do not know.
That because of this incident, the way Claude-sama looks at me has completely shifted.
From “a convenient colleague,” to “a goddess worthy of worship,” or perhaps “a partner who must never be let go.”
And that he has begun staying up all night, desperately thinking of an excuse to formally escort me to a “ball.”