Earl of Emmental

Lord Mascy von Emmental ran a hand over his wife's swollen abdomen, murmuring to himself, "Next time, I'd like a girl."

The woman replied gently to her husband’s murmurs, “You speak as if you were Cain. But I would be glad, if I were a girl.” In that instant, their gazes met, and naturally, they kissed.

Three sons already exist between the two.

Yet there was still no daughter. The count, having had only male siblings himself, held a particular affection for girls—perhaps because he had had sisters in his own youth.

Even as a child, the count had quietly had items meant for a girl transported to the nursery prepared for the unborn child. The lady, observing her husband’s actions, feigned not to see, yet smiled fondly.

The moment her labor began was during a visit to inspect the lands. A swift horse burst into the lord’s manor house.

"Lord! The lady has entered the birthing chamber!"

Not even six hours had passed before another swift horse galloped into the manor house.

"Lord! She has given birth! A daughter! Both mother and child are in good health!"

The count exhaled in relief. Though the fourth child, the anxiety remained unchanged. Safety was paramount. The second wave of relief and elation washed over him upon learning it was a girl. Without delay, he prepared to return home, leaving the inspection of the lands behind. That very night, he arrived at the family’s residence in the capital, having returned swiftly through the guild’s teleportation circle.

This decision had been wise. For he had seen his newborn daughter with his own eyes…

The next day, the child’s presence could not be found anywhere within the household.

Every room was searched, yet she could not be found. A newborn child, after all, could not possibly move on her own.

It was known that the nurse had fed her at dawn, but after that, there was no trace of the daughter’s footsteps.

He knew, as was common in the capital these past few years—especially since the beginning of this year—that noble children had been disappearing with alarming frequency. The warning he had given to his sons only days before still lingered in memory.

All avenues had been pursued in the search, yet not a single clue had surfaced. National constables moved through the household, and though it was his own home, he felt no peace.

Most painful of all was his beloved wife’s deterioration—awake, she would weep uncontrollably, only to be calmed with sedatives. Was it not true that, compared to a father who had seen her only once, a mother who had carried her for ten months, who had endured the agony of childbirth, would feel her presence more deeply? He sank into sorrow, unable to comfort her, unable to be near her as she was meant to be.

Only about twenty percent of kidnapped children had returned safely. It was not a high probability, but with no alternative but to continue the search and wait for contact from the perpetrator, the uncertainty was unbearable.

Four days after the incident, a man arrived at the count’s office. He was Sir Faker, one of the administrative aides from a vassal family, a baron of modest rank.

His frame, already lean, had grown even more gaunt. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his gaze drifted aimlessly as he finally steeled himself to speak.

“Though my lord is enduring such great hardship, I have been deeply grateful for your ladyship’s kindness in allowing my daughter to stay with the young mistress’s nursemaid these past days. Yet yesterday, my wife regained consciousness. I come now to respectfully decline any further favor, for I can no longer accept your generosity.”

This man, in truth, became a father only a few days prior. His wife is a lady-in-waiting who came from the household of the countess’s wife, a close kin by nursing bond. The one her wife has long cared for. Moreover, this time, she might have been appointed as the infant’s wet nurse, had circumstances not changed—just as the man himself spoke of earlier, when his wife fell unconscious during childbirth. The first birth, they say, took an unusually long time from labor to delivery, and she bled twice as much as a normal woman.

While his wife remained unconscious, it had been arranged by the wife’s kindness that the child receive milk from a wet nurse. Now, however, the man has come to withdraw that request, following news of the household’s recent events and of his wife’s regained consciousness.

“Is the countess’s condition improved?” The count asked, his gaze lingering on the face of his beloved wife, now sleeping under medicine, as though it were her own.

“Hai! We are deeply honored by the lord’s words. Her condition has only just stabilized, and though her strength remains frail, we expect her recovery to progress gradually.” The man answered hurriedly.

Even as they had both lost their children, the shared sorrow and pity between them welled up, unbidden.

“If anything should arise, do not hesitate to call upon us. Though our strength is slight, we promise to lend what aid we can.” Though he usually avoided making promises, the thought escaped his lips before he could stop it.

“Thank you,” the man said, bowing deeply, then took his leave.

For the first month, she had awakened each morning with the faint hope that news of her daughter might arrive before noon.

In the next month, they had extended their search as far as the borderlands, clinging to the possibility.

By the following month, she began to wonder if her daughter had already been taken by the Lord’s grace.

By the fourth month, the search was called off.

In the fifth month, Lord Ficker, the baron, arrived once more at the administrative chamber.

His complexion was pale, and though he had seemed merely worn down before, he now looked older than his mid-twenties—so much so that he appeared to have passed forty.

“My lord… my wife has departed this world, having ascended the bridge to the Lord’s grace,” he said, using the formal phrasing of nobility to announce his wife’s passing.

“That… is most sorrowful. She must have grieved deeply.”

He could not think of what to say, and the word “wife” felt awkward on his tongue, leaving him silent. He wished he could offer something more fitting, but no words came to mind.

After a long pause, the baron spoke with a heavy voice.

“With your kind permission, my lord, I would ask a favor. Might you assist me in finding a home for my daughter’s upbringing?”

The earl hesitated, considering the man’s resolute words.

For the time being, it was decided that the baronet would return home after discussing the matter with his wife.

That night, the earl called his wife to their chamber, embracing her gently and resting his hand upon her shoulder, then spoke of the events of the day.

She mourned the death of her foster sister and pitied the woman’s disgrace, fearing she would be cast out from the household.

Yet she also thought it unavoidable—bereft of a husband and without her parents’ support, a woman with an infant could do no more. The baronet received sufficient wages, but surely not enough to hire a wet nurse.

After a brief silence, she said, “I would like to see the child.”

The earl heard her wish. He thought it best to act swiftly, and the next day summoned the baronet and his daughter to the estate.

When the earl and his lady first looked into the basket of ivy-woven vines, their breath caught in silence. There, asleep as if by fate, lay the child they had imagined might have been their own daughter had she been raised at their side.

Though the child might have been a stranger, she bore a striking resemblance to the lost infant. Tears welled in the lady’s eyes.

“Divine providence,” she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion, and then, after long silence, a rare smile broke through her tears. No one opposed her. The earl himself had already decided he wished to raise the child as their own.

The baronet’s face relaxed into a look of relief. Not merely that the child would remain within the household, but that she would be raised as the heir in their own estate—far from the unknown and the uncertain—was a comfort he could not deny.

“By the way… what is this child’s name?” He realized he had not yet asked, though he had been speaking to the child.

“Spica, Your Grace. My late wife named her.”

“A wonderful gift from Liz. We shall cherish her name. Spica, from today, you are my mother. Please be kind to me.” The wife held Spica tightly, burying her face in the girl’s hair as though she would never let go. The warmth of her smile, rare after so long, made me feel as though winter had ended and spring had come to our home.

Though the formal adoption would not be completed for several days, from that day onward, Spica was ours.

We decided to wait until after the official ceremony to introduce Spica to the boys, and so at dinner, we announced the arrival of a sister. All three stared, their eyes widening for a moment—faces caught between joy and quiet unease.

Spica’s baptism was held on the day the documents were accepted, for it was learned that the lady of the house had yet to undergo her postpartum recovery and thus could not perform the rite herself.

It was a fortunate coincidence, yet the outcome of the baptism revealed that Spica possessed an abundance of sacred power—more than enough, it seemed, to possibly qualify her as a princess consort. Such a future might never have been possible had she been raised within the lesser baronial household.

The first meeting with her family after the baptism was gentle and deeply moving. Without hesitation, Spica smiled, and her brothers approached with cautious steps, each gazing at her in his own way, their affection evident in their quiet wonder.

The count had, in truth, expected only a slight increase in household noise with the addition of one more child. He had been profoundly mistaken.

A daughter, it turned out, was a wonderful thing.

Unlike her sons, who felt heavy and solid when lifted, like a sack of sand with a firm center, Spica’s weight was soft and buoyant, as if she might shift at any moment—yet she leaned into the embrace with perfect trust. There was no memory of sagging against her, no sense of resistance, not even the faintest recollection of being pushed away, as had sometimes happened with her sons.

To see her gaze up while suckling her fingers, her body resting completely in one’s arms—there was no end to her sweetness.

The way her servants had arranged her longer hair was charming, though regrettable that Spica undid it within moments. I hurried to arrange for the painter to be summoned, earning a quiet shake of the head from my wife.

The days with a daughter truly were warm.