Gwen (2)

"You don't even know her full name."

"Her name is Gwen. Her surname isn't important."

"Isn't important?" Mila's tone hardened again.

"She drifted into Orange Town's docks on an unflagged little boat. There was only half a bag of rations and a knife aboard. No registration, no identification, no documents whatsoever. If that isn't an unknown background, what is?"

"She isn't on any wanted posters either."

Roy added that, not to speak up for Gwen, but merely to supplement a fact he had investigated long ago.

"So I never said there was something wrong with her." Mila turned her spearhead toward Roy, then back again.

"I said her background is unknown."

Barlow said nothing.

He rose from the arm of the sofa, walked back behind the ebony desk, opened a drawer, and took out a thin file folder, setting it on the desktop.

The cover of the folder was blank. There was only a single sheet of paper inside.

"I had Koldo investigate her," Barlow said, opening the folder.

"Every ship registration in the East Blue, every port entry record, and every missing persons report from the Navy East Blue Division—none of them had the name Gwen."

He pushed the folder to the edge of the desk.

"Blank."

Damian looked at the folder but did not reach for it.

Barlow had already told him about this once. That day, the two brothers had shut themselves in his office and talked for an entire afternoon.

"Do you think I wouldn't care about this?"

"If she doesn't want to mention her past, I won't ask. I'll wait until she wants to tell me herself."

"Wait until when?"

"Until the day she trusts me."

Three months earlier, at Orange Town's docks, evening.

Damian was overseeing the handover of a shipment of cargo ships from the Konomi Archipelago.

The setting sun dyed the sea orange-gold. On the docks, laborers were unloading the last boatload of fresh fish. Ice chips were scattered across the planks, glittering like shattered glass beneath the sunset.

"Mr. Damian!"

A dock administrator ran over, pointing toward the outer harbor.

"An unflagged little boat is approaching the port. It's moving very slowly, probably rowed by hand. It's been circling nearby for half an hour."

Damian looked in the direction he indicated.

There truly was a tiny black speck on the sea, appearing and vanishing amid the sunlight's reflection.

"A distress signal?"

"No. No lanterns, no flag signals. There seems to be only one person aboard."

"Prepare a boat," Damian said.

He rowed out himself, bringing a sailor and a ship's doctor trained in first aid. Three quarters of an hour later, they approached the unflagged little boat.

The boat was tiny, no more than four meters long. Its mast was broken, and its sailcloth lay crumpled across the deck like a wrinkled rag.

A golden-haired girl sat on the gunwale. She wore a dress whose original color could no longer be discerned, with a long tear at the hem that exposed a calf wrapped in bandages streaked with faint blood.

When the girl saw Damian's boat approach, she did not call for help. She merely raised one hand and waved at him.

The gesture seemed utterly weak, yet there was an indescribable composure in the arc of her turning wrist.

It was as if she were saying: You finally came.

Damian ordered the sailor to steady the boat, then stepped over the gunwale onto that little wreck of a vessel, which looked ready to fall apart.

The girl raised her head to look at him. Beneath her golden hair was an exquisitely delicate face. Her lips were chapped, yet curved naturally upward.

"You actually came aboard."

The girl spoke softly, with a strange calm in her voice.

"Most people wouldn't dare approach an unflagged boat. You've got guts."

"What happened to your leg?" Damian did not respond to her words.

"From rowing. I rowed for two whole days."

Damian lowered his gaze to her calf.

The wound beneath the bandages could not have been shallow. The blood had already dried.

He looked over the condition of the boat again. Half a torn-open bag of rations, a knife without a sheath, and a shallow pool of water in the bottom of the boat—but no signs that it had ever been patched.

This boat had been drifting at sea for a long time.

"You weren't asking for help," Damian said.

"I thought I should first see what kind of person came before deciding whether to ask for help."

The girl tilted her head at him, her eyes narrowing.

"Are you in charge of this dock?"

"More or less."

"You don't look like it."

Damian did not ask what she meant by that. He crouched down to examine her injury.

His hands were steady. He untied the bandages cleanly and efficiently, without hesitating just because she was an unfamiliar woman.

"You need to come ashore with me. The wound needs to be disinfected again, or it'll get infected."

"What's your name?" the girl suddenly asked.

"Damian."

"Damian." Her voice paused over his name, as though she were tasting a piece of candy.

"My name is Gwen."

He carried her onto his boat and brought her back to Orange Town.

It was the only time in Damian's life that he had not followed the rules.

For the next month, Gwen stayed at a small inn across from Orange Town's town hall. Every morning, when Damian passed by the inn, he would ask the proprietress, "Did her leg get worse last night?" Then he would order another batch of ointment.

In the second month, Gwen's leg healed, and she began appearing in Orange Town's market.

She never haggled when buying things, but she did not spend carelessly either.

She would squat before fruit stalls to smell the oranges, chat with the fishmongers about which fish were fattest that day, and go to the docks at sunset to watch fishing boats return to port. She would stand at the end of the pier in the sea breeze, not bothering to smooth down her windblown golden hair.

In the third month, Damian asked whether she would be willing to go to White Wax Island to meet someone.

She agreed without asking who it was.

Marcus met them at the docks. He gave Gwen one look, then said to Damian, "You have good taste."

That night, after dinner, Marcus called Damian into the courtyard and said one thing: "This girl definitely doesn't come from an ordinary family."

Damian asked how he could tell. Marcus did not explain. He only said, "Your mother had that same look in her eyes."

After returning from White Wax Island, Damian went to find Gwen and did not beat around the bush.

"I want to marry you."

Gwen looked at him, her golden lashes casting thin shadows beneath the oil lamp.

She was silent for a long time, long enough for the cat outside the window to meow three times.

"What do you know about me?" she asked.

"Your name is Gwen."

"Only that?"

"It's enough," Damian said.

"I believe you'll tell me the rest someday."

"There's something I need to tell you, Damian." Gwen took a deep breath.

"I have nowhere to return to, and nothing to bring with me. If you marry me, apart from adding one more person to your household, I won't be any help at all."

"Then that works out perfectly. My house is full of younger brothers and sisters. One more will make it a nice round number."

Gwen looked at him, and for the first time, she showed a smile that was not quite so effortless.

It was a little clumsy, like the armor of expressions she had learned to wear since childhood had cracked, letting the real her show through.

"Then you have to promise me one thing," Gwen said.

"Say it."

"Don't investigate me. Wait until I tell you myself."

"Fine."

Damian had agreed to that condition, so he had to stop Barlow from continuing the investigation.

"This ends here."

"I promised her I wouldn't investigate unless she chose to tell me herself."

Barlow was silent for a moment, then nodded.