At that moment in the library courtyard, branches and leaves swayed in the warm midday breeze, rustling softly. The clear voice of the young girl echoed in Lucan's ears, catching him off guard.
He stared blankly at the girl's face, now so close to his own—her cheeks flushed, yet she stubbornly held her ground. Hidden in her gaze was both mischief and regret—
She regretted it.
The moment the words left her mouth, Anastasia felt a deep wave of regret.
Because she saw Lucan's eyes shift. In that instant, his gaze grew hot—so hot it felt like it could melt her... and she feared she might just melt into it.
But her regret wasn't born of fear.
It wasn't terror.
It was pure, overwhelming embarrassment—she asked herself what on earth she was doing. It was like being drunk on two glasses of fake wine, doing something she'd only ever dared to imagine, and regretting it the moment it was done.
But what use was regret now?
She had already spoken the words.
And since she had, the princess refused to back down—she told herself it was just a prank. Even though her schemes against Lucan always ended in failure, she never gave up—only tried again.
It had always been this way.
And it had to be the same now.
So despite her searing embarrassment, Anastasia clung even tighter around Lucan's neck. She arched her chest forward against his own, and raised her legs a little higher—curling her slender form completely into his arms.
She was embarrassed.
He had to be, too.
That's what she told herself.
If she could make him feel more embarrassed than she did—then she would win...
That's what she believed.
Unfortunately—
She underestimated Lucan's shamelessness.
[You saw the mischief and remorse in the princess's eyes. You realized it was a prank born of impulse—and now she regretted it, but had no choice but to carry it through.]
[You thought to yourself that your assessment of her had been too kind. No—far too kind. Who else would be foolish enough to deliver herself to your arms like this?]
Would Lucan feel shy?
Even counting this simulation, he had already lived three lives—once as a normal person, once as a magus, and once as a "priest" tainted by the heretical. Living longer didn't guarantee maturity, but Lucan had enough experience to stay calm in most unexpected situations.
So he simply looked down at the girl in his arms—calmly.
And he reached out his hand.
His palm lightly rested on her slender waist.
Anastasia froze.
And she couldn't take it anymore...
"Impudent… disrespectful!"
[You heard her stammer.]
[Leaving behind those words, Anastasia tore herself from your arms and fled.]
[Just like the first time she discovered your identity, she ran off. But even then, what she showed wasn't fear—it was shame.]
[Her presence lingered in the air. Her graceful figure vanished among the trees at the edge of the courtyard.]
[You recalled the feeling of her in your arms—and smiled.]
[You knew full well—after all this time together—she had long since developed feelings for you. You weren't dense. You could sense it.]
[And you?]
[You couldn't deny it either.]
[But even as she disappeared, you didn't turn back inside. You remained at the library's door, enjoying the breeze. Because you knew...]
[She would return.]
And sure enough—
Barely ten minutes later.
At the edge of the courtyard, that silver-white head and delicate face reappeared among the bushes.
Anastasia peeked from behind the foliage. She had cooled off a bit, calmed the flurry of her heart. But when her gaze met Lucan's amused smile from afar—her face turned red all over again.
She'd been spotted.
But strangely, she was happy.
Happy that Lucan hadn't gone back inside.
Happy that he seemed to be waiting for her.
So...
The girl lifted her skirts and approached.
"Since... since you waited for me here, I'll forgive your earlier rudeness—for now!" she declared, pretending to be dignified. But somehow, her tone—despite being that of a royal princess—sounded more like a little girl putting on airs.
Lucan couldn't help but laugh.
And so he did.
He laughed, sincerely.
Anastasia, who had gone from flustered to angry to confused, laughed too.
They laughed together.
Laughing freely and joyfully.
The princess thought: Lucan-sama really is strange. Strange in how he can put people at ease. Strange in how he brings joy and peace just by being there.
She wasn't "angry" anymore.
But the words she had said earlier still echoed in her chest—no longer a prank, but a true feeling.
She meant it now—she really did want him to "take responsibility"… for daring to offend a noble princess!
...
September, 1913
I had the good fortune of receiving an invitation to visit the Kremlin.
At the twilight of the Tsarist era, the imperial court presented a strange contrast—on one hand, the worsening domestic situation; on the other, a harmonious family atmosphere. I had visited the royal palaces of many nations, but never before had I sensed such comfort—not even in the most prosperous of countries.
It felt less like a seat of imperial power, and more like a content little household.
If Nicholas II was the head of this household—
Then the man who resided in the palace alongside them, Lucan Lovist, was its spiritual pillar.
He seemed to stand above the clouds, yet also walked among dust and soil.
He was a saint—and yet the most ordinary of men.
A saint among the mundane.
That is what I believed.
Even afterward, I always held his existence as a guiding light in my philosophical journey.
Which is why, when later news reached me—I couldn't believe it.
How could a man like that commit such terrible, violent deeds?
—Memoirs in Old Age, 1941. Berdyaev, Moscow