Ch13. Two Months and Eleven Days

Three months. Nineteen days gone.

Jeffery knew the number not because he had deliberately been counting. One morning, he woke and realized that he already was. It was only on the morning the count reached twenty that he became conscious of it. Conscious of the fact that he— a man who had wandered for seven years and never once counted time for himself—

had begun counting someone else’s time. Mornings at Number Three, Ceylan Street were always quiet.

The old blacksmith woke before the sun, but at this hour he had not yet begun hammering. In the eastern district, only the occasional dull rumble of cart wheels rolling over stone broke the silence.

The sound would travel in from somewhere down the street, bounce once or twice between the stone walls, then disappear. Jeffery sat in the chair beside the window. He had not yet put on his coat.

He wore only his undershirt.

His right elbow rested on the windowsill. In his hand was something he had already looked at countless times. The letter opener. It was not long. Nearly half a palm shorter than his hand. There was no need for the edge to be sharpened. It was not meant to cut flesh. It was meant to cut paper.

But now it rested in his hand, spine facing upward, while his thumb slowly traced the thin strip of metal.

Back. And forth. Back. And forth. A movement he himself did not seem to notice anymore. Outside the window, the outline of the castle appeared and disappeared through the morning mist.

He watched it.

His brows drawn together slightly. Not deeply. It was the expression of someone turning something over in his mind without having reached an answer yet.

He was thinking about a route.

Not a route into the castle tonight. Something longer. A route out of the city. The road that would allow him to disappear from this place with another person beside him. He had been thinking about it for days.

In detail. What hour the guards changed shifts at each gate. How many miles south the first town suitable for rest lay. Whether she could stay on horseback that long. And if she could not—

what he would do then. Every time he reached the end of the plan, he found himself caught on some detail. Then he started again. And caught again. Like a problem he knew had an answer, but still lacked one condition.

From downstairs came the sound of Mrs. Ge beginning to prepare breakfast.

Jeffery tucked the letter opener back against his chest. Stood. Picked up his coat and pulled it on. Then looked one last time toward the castle through the morning mist. Two months and eleven days left. He turned away from the window. Pushed the chair back toward the table.

His movements were quiet, as though he did not even want to disturb the stillness of the morning.

But the thing in his eyes— the thing held down, buried deep, burning red without smoke— deepened by another degree in the instant his back turned to the window. No one saw it.

Mrs. Ge was the kind of woman who saw through almost everything. When Jeffery came down the stairs, she had her back to him, flipping a flatbread beside the stove. Without looking up, she said, “You look pale today. Didn’t sleep well?” She did not wait for an answer.

She turned the flatbread and continued, “I keep telling you, young people shouldn’t stay up so late.” “You’re always awake half the night. You don’t even drink. You just sit there staring out that window.”

“You’ve been looking at the lamps on this old street for three months. Seen anything new yet?” Jeffery sat at the table. Fastened the highest button of his coat. Not because he was cold. Only because his fingers needed something to do. “I slept well enough,” he said. His voice low and even. “I just woke early.” Mrs. Ge slid the flatbread onto a plate.

Turned around. Set it on the table.

Then, with the quick glance of someone who had spent decades reading faces, she looked at him. She said nothing. But the line beside her mouth loosened slightly. Like something she had no words for. And no intention of giving words to. She simply served him an extra bowl of porridge and returned to the stove.

That morning, Jeffery ate slowly. Not because he lacked an appetite.

Because his mind would not stop moving.

So much so that he barely knew what he was eating. His mother used to call that state: The body is sitting here, but the soul has gone somewhere else. He had laughed at how old-fashioned she sounded back then. Now he realized she had been exactly right.

His soul had gone to the southern road. To a road he had already walked countless times inside his head but had never once actually travelled. It went to the hour when the guards changed shifts.

To the first fork after leaving the city.

To the posting station in the first small town to the south. He brought every detail of the route back into his mind and checked it again. Like a craftsman examining the edge of every tool before leaving the house. Except there was one place where he always stopped. Could she ride that far? The question sat in him like a splinter driven into wood. Not deep enough to disappear.

Not loose enough to pull free.

Always there. He had calculated it. From the city to the border, the official road would take four days at the fastest pace.

But they could not use the official road. There were checkpoints. People who knew her face. If they took the mountain paths instead— avoiding every posting station and every checkpoint— it would take six days. If everything went well. Six days. Jeffery swallowed the last bite of flatbread. Set down his chopsticks.

His gaze fell to the grain of the wooden table. Stayed there for several seconds. He did not know how much riding she had done.

Did not know whether her body could withstand six days of mountain roads.

Did not know what injuries she had suffered in the past. Whether there were old wounds she had never mentioned. He knew only what she had chosen to let him know. And someone who had grown up inside a palace—

there were things such a person did not speak about easily. He understood that.

He simply did not know whether the part he did not know would one day become the weakness in his plan that caused everything to collapse.

That morning, Jeffery went out. He walked casually. At least, that was how it looked. His pace unhurried. His hands sometimes slipping into the pockets of his coat.

He looked like a traveller with nowhere particular to be, merely passing the morning. He had perfected that posture over the last three months. So well that even the stallkeepers on the old street who recognized his face no longer paid him much attention. But his route was deliberate.

He went east from Ceylan Street. Circled the market in the eastern district. Stopped in front of a livestock stall. Looked at the horses as though only mildly interested. He was not looking to buy one. Not yet. He was studying their endurance. Which of them could handle long-distance travel. The stallkeeper was a talkative middle-aged man. Jeffery only had to say, “That one’s leg structure looks decent.”

And the man talked for the better part of a cup of tea. Which horse could travel how far.

Which one disliked mountain roads. All of it. Jeffery listened with the expression of someone seriously considering a purchase. But his eyes swept once around the streets surrounding the stall. He memorized three things. The wall beside the mouth of the alley— one person could pass if they turned sideways. The street leading toward the eastern gate— the foot traffic thinned after midday.

The dirt road outside the gate— left led toward the northern official road. Right led into the old road toward the mountains.

After turning right, it disappeared behind a bend in roughly forty paces. At last, he thanked the stallkeeper.

Said he would think about it. Then continued toward the city gate. Still unhurried.

But somewhere inside his chest, something sank slightly lower. Into a place he could not name. It settled there. Steady. Like an anchor finally finding the rock it had been meant to catch beneath the water.

By the time he returned to Number Three, Ceylan Street that afternoon, the sun had shifted west. Long slanting shadows stretched across the street. He sat at the table. Took the letter opener from inside his coat. Placed it on the wood. And simply looked at it. A thin line of light reflected from the metal.

Quiet. Like someone who had nothing to say.

Jeffery rested the tip of his index finger lightly against the spine of the blade. No pressure. Just contact. As though confirming that it was still there. There was something inside the gesture that even he could not explain. Not longing. Not entirely. More like a confirmation he had to make every morning.

That this was real. That he had not spent three months planning around something that did not exist.

That the deadline— two months and eleven days—

was something he had to reach. Something he would reach.

Outside, the old blacksmith began his afternoon work. The ringing of metal carried through the street.

Jeffery slipped the letter opener back into his coat. Stood.

Pushed the chair back toward the table. Quietly. Then walked to the window and looked toward the sky above the castle. The last color of sunset was spreading through the clouds. A color that burned quietly.

With no intention of telling anyone it was burning. The shallow crease between his brows had softened a little since morning. Not because he had solved anything. Because he had confirmed one thing today.

The road that turned right and disappeared behind the bend— he could get through it. ＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿ The parchment arrived that afternoon. Jeffery was polishing his sword at the time. Sitting in the chair beside the window. The cloth moved back and forth over the blade. Slowly. Evenly.

Like someone keeping his hands occupied while allowing his mind to go somewhere else. Mrs. Ge called his name from the stairwell. Someone had delivered something for him. Jeffery set the cloth down. Went downstairs.

Accepted the small, neatly folded paper packet.

He glanced at the handwriting. Recognized it immediately. Not because he had seen her writing many times.

There was simply something in it he could not quite explain. A hand shaped by rules. Disciplined. Proper. Yet at the end of each stroke, something faintly escaped. Like a person accustomed to perfect composure who could not quite restrain herself in the smallest details. He stood by the stairs and turned the packet over. Pressed his thumb once against the fold.

Did not open it immediately.

Simply held it. Felt the thickness of the paper for a second. Then turned and went back upstairs. The note was short. One sentence. I want to walk along Ceylan Street tonight.

No signature. No time. No question asking whether it was convenient.

Jeffery spread the paper across the table. Placed one hand on either side. And looked at it for a long time. His face showed very little. But for one instant, the line along the side of his neck tightened. The unconscious movement of someone suppressing something that had suddenly surged upward. Quick. Small.

He probably did not even realize he had done it.

He did not write back. He simply folded the paper again. Placed it beneath the letter opener on the table. Then stood. Walked to the clothes rack. Took down his coat. Shook out the creases. Put it on. There were still two hours before dark. He returned to the chair. Picked up the cloth again. Continued polishing his sword. Only this time, his movements were no longer even. The cloth stayed too long over one section. He did not notice.

Not until he realized he had been staring at that same length of steel for quite some time. And what was moving through his mind had nothing to do with plans.

Or routes.

He remembered the angle at which she had turned her face that night.

Remembered how close they had been. Close enough that he could almost feel her breath. Remembered looking into her eyes and feeling something in his chest tighten as though caught in a hand. Then remembered the way he had slowly— deliberately— stepped half a pace back.

His throat had been tight when he did it. So tight that even he had thought the swallow too obvious. Like a flaw.

A weakness. Something that exposed everything he had been suppressing all night. Jeffery set the cloth down.

Drew in a deep breath. Slow. Controlled.

As though putting something carefully back where it belonged. He counted silently. Two months and eight days. He slid the sword back into its sheath. Stood. Went to the window. Opened it a narrow crack and let the afternoon air in.

Outside, the eastern district still carried the sounds of the market closing. Carts. Voices. All mixed together. Ordinary sounds. Living sounds. Sounds that required no calculation.

Jeffery stood before the narrow opening.

Let those sounds enter. And stood among them for a while. ＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿ When she arrived, the sky had only just begun to turn blue with evening. Jeffery heard Mrs. Ge’s voice downstairs. That particular tone— slightly surprised, deliberately softened, politely courteous— the voice she only used for pretty young women.

By the time he heard it from upstairs, he had already fastened the last button of his coat. He walked to the mirror. Looked at himself. Paused. Undid the button at the collar. Then fastened it again. Then he turned. Walked toward the stairs.

She was standing in the light at the bottom. Looking up as he came down. There was an expression on her face he never quite knew how to handle whenever he saw it.

Something faint. Pretending to be casual and failing slightly. A small smile hidden in her eyes. The expression of someone who knew she had appeared unexpectedly.

Knew exactly how the other person might react. And had appeared anyway. Jeffery descended the last two steps. Stopped two paces away. His throat moved once. Barely. “You didn’t give me a time,” he said. His voice low and even. “I thought you weren’t coming.” It was a lie. He knew that.

From the moment her note arrived, he had known that he was waiting. He simply had not said it to anyone. Not even himself. He looked at her.

The shallow crease between his brows slowly eased. Like morning mist parting just enough to reveal something beneath it. Something quiet. Burning. Something he almost never let anyone see. He shifted half a step aside to clear the stairway.

And without realizing it, leaned very slightly toward where she stood.

An unconscious movement. Like a pull faster than thought itself.

Something that had already begun the moment she appeared. Anna pulled down her hood.

There was light in her eyes. Softly restrained. “You know it isn’t easy for me to come here.” She smiled.

Thinking of all the preparations before she left. Addie had nearly exhausted herself making arrangements. She had asked around the palace to find out whether anything that evening might involve Anna.

Whether anyone was likely to pass near her room. Most importantly— whether she could make it along the path beside the side gate and through that narrow break without being seen.

And this time—

there was white lime dust on Anna’s cloak. Jeffery’s gaze had already left her face while she was speaking. It was a habit built over years of travelling.

When he looked at someone, he did not look only at their face. His eyes moved an inch downward from hers. Settled lightly on her cloak. Precise. Like laying a ruler across something for only a second and memorizing the result. White lime dust. On the left shoulder. A little more along the edge of the sleeve.

The angle of someone brushing against something low while squeezing past it.

He looked at it for perhaps two seconds.

Then raised his eyes to her again. The shallow crease between his brows had returned. Deeper than it had been that morning. Deepened into the place that meant: He knew exactly which route she had taken. “You used the gap beside the side gate.” His voice did not rise at the end. It was not a question. It was confirmation. Quiet enough that Mrs. Ge at the stove would not hear.

“That part of the wall was repaired two days ago. The lime hasn’t completely dried yet…”

He stopped halfway through.

Because he realized what he had been about to say next. You can’t use that route again. The gap is nearly three inches narrower since they repaired it. If you get stuck—

He had no right to say those things. Because he had measured that gap himself. One evening she knew nothing about. When he had passed that section of the wall and stopped. Pressed his palm against the stone.

Measured it. Memorized every detail. He had never told her. And now he could not bring himself to say it.

Something caught briefly in his throat. He pushed it down with a nearly invisible swallow. Then raised his hand. His fingertips settled against the white dust on her left shoulder. Very lightly. Almost tentatively. As if he himself were checking whether the gesture crossed a line.

Then, with the side of his thumb, he slowly brushed the powder from the fabric. The lime dust was fine.

It drifted down between them. Hung in the air for a second. Then disappeared. He did not withdraw his hand immediately.

His fingertips remained suspended beside her shoulder for one second more. During that second, his gaze lowered. To the fabric of her cloak. To the place he had just cleaned. As though making sure the dust was gone. Or perhaps making sure of something else. Then he drew his hand back. Stepped half a pace away. Turned aside. Cleared the way upstairs for her. “There’s still some on your sleeve,” he said. His voice perfectly level.

As though speaking about something unrelated to him. “Brush it off once you’re inside.”

He did not mention the gap again. Did not say: Be careful next time. But everything he did not say remained there like a thin layer beneath the surface. In the way he withdrew his hand. In the crease between his brows. In the measured way he stepped aside and let her go first. Neither of them named it.

Neither of them needed much effort to understand it. Mrs. Ge hummed a short piece of some nameless tune beside the stove. Jeffery’s ear shifted faintly. He did not turn around. Only flicked his gaze once toward the kitchen.

Something tightened near the outer corner of his eye.

The expression of someone who had just realized he had been seen through—

and had no way to deny it. It lasted less than a second. Then disappeared as he turned away. Anna stepped into Jeffery’s room. Perhaps because it was only temporary lodging, everything was sparse.

Even his belongings were barely unpacked. As though he intended to remain ready to leave at any moment.

As she walked, Anna brushed the dust from her sleeve. The room smelled like him. That scent settled something inside her.

She walked to the sofa. Did not sit immediately. Instead she turned to face Jeffery. A mischievous smile appeared on her face. “How did you know that wall was repaired two days ago?” She already knew the answer.

But she asked anyway. She wanted to know what he would say.

Whether he would admit it openly. Or invent some excuse. Either way— she wanted to know. Jeffery entered after her. Two paces behind. No closer. He watched her enter. Watched her gaze sweep once around the room that looked almost untouched.

Watched her stop beside the sofa.

Turn. Then he saw that smile. The smile made his foot pause slightly in the middle of his second step. Not dramatically. Not a retreat. Only the small hesitation of a body noticing something ahead that the mind had not fully prepared for. So slight that even Jeffery himself only registered it somewhere quietly inside. She asked. He listened to the question. Did not answer immediately. His face remained calm as ever. The shallow crease between his brows remained. As though nothing had happened.

As though her question were merely a draft slipping in through the window. But his eyes moved. Just once. Quickly.

A fraction downward. Toward the right.

Toward a blank patch of floor. The look of someone thinking very quickly and refusing to let the other person see that he was thinking at all.

He pulled the hem of his coat slightly behind him. Sat in the chair beside the table. The movement natural. “I passed by.” Two words. Clean. Complete. No unnecessary explanation. His voice low and even. Like a stone placed flat on a table. Solid. No gaps. Then he looked up at her. Straight at her. No avoidance. But the directness itself was almost too direct.

Deliberate enough to feel like someone standing very still to prove that he had not stepped backward—

while the place he was standing was already half a pace behind where he had been. The room stayed quiet for two seconds.

His index finger tapped once against his knee. Only once. Then stopped. He seemed to notice the movement himself. He changed the position of his hand. Palm down. Flat against his knee. His gaze remained on her face.

On that smile. On the look in her eyes that he recognized immediately. I already know the answer. I just want to see what you’re going to say. Something tightened in his throat again. Not discomfort. Something else. The strange heat of being calmly seen through by another person.

Something he could not decide was irritation or something entirely different. It burned once around his chest. Small. Quick. He pressed it down. “I’ve walked through that area a few times,” he added slowly.

His tone remained level.

As though supplying a reasonable explanation.

“New lime is a different color from the old wall. It isn’t difficult to notice.” That was true. The second half was true. But he did not say how many times “a few times” meant.

Did not say that each time he passed, he had measured the width of the gap. Measured a distance for her at a time when he still believed he had no right to measure anything on her behalf. He looked directly at her.

The crease between his brows slowly deepened. Like someone guarding the last door. Holding it firmly shut. But the fact that he needed to guard the door at all already revealed that there was something behind it. Anna watched Jeffery sit. Her gaze travelled over him as well.

Watching every reaction. She had noticed the small tap of his finger against his knee. She knew what that meant. The reaction of someone who had been seen through and was still trying to pretend nothing had happened. “Oh?”

She spoke while slowly moving toward the sofa beside his chair.

But still she did not sit. She remained standing above him. Looking down. “There’s nothing in that area.” “What were you doing there?” Her smile carried a trace of teasing. The angle of her looking down at him made his throat tighten again. Not from pressure. Something else. Something he could not quite explain. And it had nothing to do with where she was standing.

It had everything to do with the smile on her face.

With those eyes that had already found every route of retreat and were still waiting there to see what he would do next.

His jaw drew inward slightly. There was nothing in that area. She was right. No market. No stalls. Nothing that gave anyone a reason to pass through. There was only one reason he had walked that road.

He had confirmed that reason for himself seven days ago.

He simply had no intention of letting anyone else know.

Including her. He stayed silent for roughly three seconds. Three seconds was a long time in a quiet room. Long enough that the silence itself became an answer. “Walking.” His voice was lower than before. Almost pushed upward from the deepest part of his chest. Still even. But something very thin lay beneath that evenness.

Like a stone polished smooth on one side while the grain remained hidden underneath.

He said nothing else. Added no explanation.

No further reasonable excuse. Because he knew anything more would only sound more false. He lifted his face to look at her. The movement brought his brows directly beneath her gaze. It was not an angle he often found himself in. It made him look slightly less heavy than usual. Less like a man perpetually pressing something down. Yet the thing inside his eyes became even clearer from below.

A fire forced as low as it could go. No smoke.

But anyone who came near it could still feel the heat.

His gaze remained on her smile for a while. A little too long. Then he looked away. Toward the side. Toward the bare wall. Like someone turning a card face down again just before it could be revealed. The movement perfectly steady.

Even though the edge of the card had already lifted once. “Are you going to sit?” His voice was level. He changed the subject. Like quietly closing a light door between them.

“Standing while we talk will tire you.”

He probably knew himself how unconvincing the change of subject was. The knuckles of his left hand rested against the arm of the chair. Still. But with slightly too much pressure. The joints faintly pale. A movement well controlled. Just not perfectly. Like a thin branch being held tightly without being broken. “Of course.” Anna smiled.

Then walked slowly to Jeffery’s side. And dropped onto the sofa. No princess-like restraint. Only an ordinary eighteen-year-old girl. She continued looking at him with that smiling gaze.

“Then do you know where any other secrets are?” Her body swayed lightly as she spoke.

Carrying a trace of deliberate pride. Making sure he noticed how pleased she was with herself. She was beginning to understand what Jeffery was trying to do.

She simply did not want to expose it. Because what he was trying to do— was something she herself had been thinking about for a long time. She had simply never found the will to act.

Now— Jeffery had become her reason.