Listening to Concerns, Helping with Struggles

The king's request...

It was mysterious and intriguing—enough to leave my father visibly troubled after reading the letter he received.

Next came the symbols he drew on the board.

I recognized them from books I had browsed in the library. They were affiliated with magic, which naturally piqued my curiosity. But before I could observe further, I was ushered out of the study and led toward the garden.

Oh well, I suppose I won't know what it's all about for a while.

The air outside our home was peaceful, and the gentle rustling of leaves added a comforting rhythm to the surroundings. Marlene's footsteps were constant beside me as she guided me through the winding paths.

While walking, the aromatic scent of blooming flowers mingled with the fresh breeze, yet my mind lingered on the unanswered questions left behind in the study.

"Ah, who do we have here?"

Suddenly, a familiar voice called out from the distance.

Looking ahead, I saw my mother standing underneath the shade of a nearby tree. Her purple eyes were warm but noticeably weary, her lavender hair flowing gently in the wind.

As Marlene and I walked forward, her smile faltered for just a moment—a flicker of hesitation that hinted at something deeper.

Arriving in front of her, my caretaker speaks formally.

"Madam Theresia, I have brought Lady Herta here as instructed by Lord Albrecht."

"Thank you, Marlene. You may leave."

Marlene bowed and turned around, leaving me and my mother alone. Later, she knelt beside me, her gaze lingering for a moment before gently brushing my brown hair aside.

"You must be tired from all those lessons with your father."

I blinked up at her, feeling unsure how to respond. Tired? No, but there was more behind her words than simple concern.

Her gentle hand lingered, fingers brushing gently over my forehead before retreating. A faint sigh followed, her expression softening yet distant.

"You've been learning so quick, Herta... sometimes I wonder if we're asking too much of you," she continued, her voice lowering. "I only want you to be happy, Herta."

Me, be happy? What is she on about?

"I just... worry sometimes," she murmured. "You're still so young, yet you comprehend things so easily. I don't want you to miss out on being a normal child."

A normal child? What does she mean by that? I don't understand.

That is until I remembered my late mother from my past life. Before she passed away from an accident, she told me to keep being happy and live a normal life. Unfortunately, those words were buried by the constant reprimands of my stepmother after she adopted me.

Ah, I see. It's been so long since I heard such sentiments.

I reached out, grasping her hand with my small fingers. As for a response, I didn't know what to say, but I hoped this one would do.

"It's alright, Mama. I love you."

Upon hearing my words, her eyes warmed as she squeezed my hand in return. 

"Oh, Herta. I love you too."

For a while, she held me close, her warmth wrapping around me like a delicate embrace. The tension in her shoulders appeared to ease, as though my words had lifted a quiet burden she had carried alone.

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After a while, my mother finally calmed down, her features unwinding as she turned her gaze toward the garden. Without saying a word, she led me along the stone path, her steps slower than usual as though savoring the moment.

Eventually, various flowers greeted us in full bloom, their bright colors rocking a lively canvas across the garden beds. Mother then knelt on the ground, gently brushing her fingers along the petals of a delicate blossom.

"Take a look at these, Herta," she insisted, her voice lighter now. "They are my favorites."

I came closer, observing the different flower species scattered throughout. Some resembled the ones I remembered in my past life—roses, lilies, and daisies—yet others were unfamiliar.

Among them, a particular flower caught my eye—a star-shaped blossom with slender purple petals that stretched outward like a ray of light, each crowned with tiny stamens.

Curious, I pointed at the flower. "Mama, what flower is that?"

"That one's called a Clematis," she explained softly. "It's always been special to me."

Mother then reached out, tracing its petals with her fingertips.

"Why?" I asked, tilting my head.

Hearing my question, a faint smile formed on her lips. "They are strong, yet delicate, and are associated with the qualities of mental beauty and ingenuity."

Mental beauty and ingenuity? Sounds like my kind of flower.

I knelt beside her, mirroring her gesture as I carefully felt the petal's soft texture. Something about it seemed familiar—a reminder of dignity that resonated deeply.

Soon, the sun had begun to set below the horizon by the time we returned to the manor. My mother's expression was calmer now, her earlier worries replaced with a quiet warmth.

"I'm glad we spent some time together, sweetie," she remarked as we reached the entrance.

Understanding her kind sentiment, I smiled back.

Once inside, my mother and I went our separate ways. She headed towards the kitchen while I decided to visit the library, intending to lose myself in the pages of some books.

Yet as I walked past my father's study, the faint sound of chalk scrapping made me pause.

Peeking inside, I noticed him standing in front of the blackboard, his hand moving in hurried strokes. Lines of text and diagrams are scattered across the surface. However, his eyebrows remained furrowed, frustration evident in the tense grip of his chalk.

With curiosity guiding me, I stepped inside.

creak

The sound of the door opening alerted my father's attention, so he turned, surprised at first, but his expression softened when he saw me.

"Ah... Herta," he muttered, his voice tired but gentle. "What are you doing here?"

I glanced past him, my gaze settling on the various words scrawled across the board. Among the scattered notes and symbols, one phrase stood out—"Solitary Particle Theory."

"Papa, you're working on that?" I asked quietly.

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Yes... but no matter how I examine it, I can't seem to understand what is smaller than magicules."

I approached the board, my eyes tracing the cluttered diagram. Though some of the symbols seemed familiar, the connections eluded me. Yet, one particular detail stood out—distinctive markings reminded me of magical formations I'd seen in books.

"Would you like some help, Papa?"

"Really? Sure."

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The Solitary Particle Theory—a scientific concept that aims to answer the fourth rudimentary conundrum: Are magicules created, or do they merely exist?

It is a question that has lingered in my father's mind for quite some time, and as his daughter—and a genius—it falls upon me to lend a hand.

Of course, I know that by doing this, my mother will inevitably worry again.

But that's alright. 

As long as I pace myself and avoid pushing too hard, there shouldn't be a problem.

With this resolve, I stand beside my father in his study, staring at the blackboard. I attempted to sort through the mess, piecing the tangled thoughts together in my mind.

The intricacy of this theory fascinated me. It is based on a particle claimed to be smaller than a magicule—one born from an unknown origin and obscured beyond a certain range. Most of the experiments tried to detect or measure it, but there would always be a mysterious error. 

"Magicules are known to be the building blocks of life in magical beings," my father muttered, scribbling yet another set of notes. "However, we still don't know what were they made of, or if were there any particles smaller than them."

He sighed, stepping back from the board with frustration evident in his gaze.

"Papa," I spoke up, hoping to break the tension. "I have a question."

"What is it, Herta?" Father glanced at me, fatigue clear in his eyes. 

I breathed deeply before responding. "If the experiments to detect and measure this particle always ended with errors, then there must be something wrong with the tools being used."

Hearing my comment, Father furrowed his brows.

"Elaborate your statement, Herta," he demanded, his tone firm yet careful.

Oops, did I say something wrong?

Swallowing hard, I rephrased my words. "What I mean to say is that the existing devices we had are not suitable for these kinds of experiments, so we need a better one."

Father's expression shifted, his exhaustion giving way to curiosity. "A better device? Are you suggesting we build something from scratch?"

"Not exactly," I replied, confidence seeping into my voice. "We could use the device that first discovered magicules and improve it to enhance its accuracy."

"But designing something like that would require a detailed blueprint," he argued, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

Knowing he would say that, I grabbed a parchment and a quill from a nearby table.

"I'll do it, Papa," I declared without hesitation.

Father blinked, clearly surprised by my assertion. "You? Do you even know how such devices are constructed, Herta?"

"I can figure it out," I insisted. "But first, I'll need to examine an existing device."

Understanding my request, he reached for the upper shelf and retrieved something encased in bronze with glass on both ends—an old yet finely crafted tool resembling a telescope with complex runes engraved on the sides.

"Here you go, dear," he revealed, placing it in my hands. 

Studying the device, I instantly recognized the symbols from one of the magic books I read before. It was called engraving magic. This one enhances the focus of the lenses. However, the modification only goes so far as to view magicules and nothing more.

"So," Father asked with a faint smile, "can you do it?"

I met his gaze, determination burning in my chest. "Of course, I can."