─ Do you, by any chance, know the future?
For a moment, that line flashed through my mind. That's how disoriented I felt.
The person sitting in front of me still had a gentle expression, yet suddenly she seemed like a tyrant who had built a massive financial empire with her bare hands.
It was the terror that comes from realizing someone you thought understood you actually didn't, much like the fear evoked by seeing a liminal space.
Could it be, perhaps─
"If that's not the case, how could you have raised our reckless son's business so successfully?"
"Oh, yes. Is that what you meant?"
As the shadow that had darkened the Madam's face lifted, I felt like I was back in 19th-century London.
After all, before I came along, Mr. Miller's business portfolio was truly all over the place.
"Van Gogh, Cézanne, Munch… To be honest, I didn't believe those artists would become so successful, probably because I don't know much about art."
"Well, that's how art is, isn't it?"
Success or failure in art isn't determined solely by the artist's ability or the quality of the work; only the outcome reveals the truth.
So, it's no wonder that with everything I touched flourishing, it seemed as if I had foreseen the future.
And indeed, I actually had.
"And your novels too. They were truly innovative… with an unusually strong structure, each one different yet unified."
As if you had seen the future where they were successful─she said, making me avert my gaze.
Margaret Miller gave me a faint smile as she looked at me.
"No need to be modest, Hanslow."
"Well, it's not so much modesty as… yes, something like that."
Let's leave it at that.
Now that I think about it, just as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle got the inspiration for Sherlock Holmes from his university mentor, Agatha Christie said she got the inspiration for Miss Marple from her grandmother.
"In any case, I believe that those who can see further have a greater responsibility… That's why I took Clara under my wing when she was young."
"Is that so?"
"But honestly, I stopped there because… that was the extent of what I could do."
She laughed lightly, gazing at me. That peculiar feeling returned.
"But you're different, aren't you? It's as if you don't see the walls, or perhaps you ignore them… Often, watching you, I've found it both refreshing and precarious."
"Ahem, thank you for your concern."
Well, I didn't realize it, but it seems there was something like that.
In this era, the rights of women and minorities are practically non-existent. But I've always walked proudly without regard for such things.
Still, the fact that she noticed even those subtle differences is impressive, to say the least.
"So, I'm asking you."
Mrs. Miller extended her hand to me.
"Can you continue to care for them as you do now?"
"Of course."
If that's all, it's simple. I answered immediately.
"You didn't even need to ask; it's been my pleasure, Madam."
"Yes, that's all I need."
She smiled, her eyes shining as she tightly clasped my hand.
***
"It's been a while, hasn't it?"
"Have you been healthy, Your Majesty?"
Victoria scoffed at the greeting.
Since when did this upstart monkey become so polite as to inquire about her health? How insolent.
So, she responded sharply.
"It seems you haven't taught your student very well, Lord."
The greatest commoner, William Ewart Gladstone.
At her words, the greatest prime minister produced by the Liberal Party could only bow his head with a bitter smile.
"I am but a commoner, Your Majesty. I cannot be called Lord. And if my student has any faults, it is due to my inadequate teaching, so I have nothing to say."
"Are you still refusing the earldom?"
"What glory would I have if I accepted it now? I only wish to spend my remaining years among friends."
He speaks so well.
Victoria clicked her tongue and looked down at him with a mixture of love and hate.
He's an arrogant, irritating man, but… with Disraeli gone, he's the only one left who can stand on the same ground as her.
"Enough. So, you know who will become prime minister, don't you?"
"You intend to appoint the Marquess of Salisbury, do you not?"
Gladstone said as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
According to the strict laws of the British Parliament, the prime minister should be from the ruling party, even if the current one resigns.
But if Her Majesty the Queen, who stands above the law, nominates someone, the story changes.
Even if that person is from the opposition, they can become prime minister.
The only reason his less seasoned pupil, Primrose, could become Prime Minister in the first place was due to the Queen's appointment, wasn't it?
At that time, the Liberal Party had more experienced and seasoned leaders like William Harcourt and Henry Campbell-Bannerman.
Even though they opposed Primrose's rise to the prime ministership, which was almost akin to a 'jockey's overthrow,' he still became Prime Minister.
This was because the Queen, who utterly despised commoners and the Liberal Party, pushed for it, partly thinking, "At least he's a noble, so it's somewhat better," and partly to accelerate the Liberal Party's internal strife.
So now, she would appoint the staunch Conservative, the Marquess of Salisbury, to completely choke the life out of the Liberal Party...
That was Gladstone's judgment.
However.
"Cluck. Have you already lost heart? Is the Liberal Party so devoid of capable people?"
"... Pardon?"
Gladstone's eyes widened.
So, now.
Is she suggesting he recommend the next Prime Minister from the Liberal Party? The Victoria Queen?
The very Majesty who looked at the Liberal Party as if they were worms and seized every opportunity to crush them?
Victoria, receiving his puzzled gaze, nonchalantly turned her eyes to the window and spoke.
"Was it the year after next? My 60th anniversary, the Diamond Jubilee."
"Y-Yes, Your Majesty."
"In other words, it means I'm already seventy-six years old."
Given that she ascended the throne at eighteen, it was only natural. But conversely... it also meant it had been a very long time.
Moreover, Gladstone could not take the age of seventy-six lightly.
His senior by five years, his lifelong rival, and the man who had been the Queen's right hand, the Earl of Beaconsfield, Disraeli, had died at exactly that age.
"After that, it will be Edward's reign. I can't imagine that boy will truly succeed me."
"Please don't worry. He will be a good king. The Crown Prince."
"A 'good' king, yes. But not a 'great' king, is he?"
Victoria grumbled, and Gladstone could only agree.
The Crown Prince Edward, who was just as obsessed with horse racing and society—or rather, infidelity—as Primrose, openly declared that if he ascended the throne, he wouldn't rule as strictly, solemnly, and seriously as his mother.
True to his free-spirited and sociable nature, he said he would focus on diplomacy and leave domestic affairs to Parliament.
Because of this, quite a few members of Parliament, regardless of party, supported him.
After all, from their perspective, it would be better to be given more freedom than to be stifled under Victoria's reign.
Honestly, for them, struggling not to be crushed under her rule was the best they could do.
Victoria sighed deeply and spoke.
"In the end, that boy will hand over power to Parliament. And that grandson of mine, who only cares about stamps and hunting, will eventually follow in his footsteps."
"Indeed, that seems likely."
"But what if, after that, another one like me comes along?"
Would Parliament, at that time, willingly return power to the royal family?
The Queen asked, and Gladstone couldn't answer.
"That is..."
"Yes, there will probably be a bloody power struggle."
It was a new concern that had arisen in her old age.
Though it wouldn't be her son or grandson... she knew her bloodline well enough. Surely, one of them would be unable to control their fiery temper.
That part was fine. If they could rule the empire properly as she had, she would support them fully.
But what if they were ambitious yet incompetent?
Yes, what if they were like Gregory Villiers from Vincent Villiers, merely seeking to wield the power she had built?
"Now, do you understand what I want?"
That, she could not bear to see.
Thinking so, Victoria's eyes gleamed.
She loved the empire she had built—almost as much as her late husband. No, perhaps even more.
So if her descendants were to foolishly battle for power and rot the empire from within... it would be better to gradually hand over power to Parliament.
'... Hmph. Arrogant brat.'
If it is a writer's duty to nurture and let the masses thrive...
Then it must be the monarch's duty to nurture and let the empire thrive.
As the mother of the British Empire, that was the only way she could think.
"But remember. Just because I appoint the next Prime Minister from the Liberal Party doesn't guarantee that you will be the ruling party in the upcoming election."
"I will keep that in mind."
Gladstone nodded.
The internal strife within the Liberal Party was already in a catastrophic state even before Primrose came into the picture. To mend this and secure victory in the upcoming election, extraordinary efforts would be needed.
Fortunately, Gladstone knew that the Liberal Party had the talent necessary to make this possible.
"In that case, I recommend the current Secretary of State for War."
"Do you have no intention of taking the position yourself?"
"Your Majesty, I am already eighty-five years old."
"Oh my."
Queen Victoria inadvertently chuckled. Was this what they meant by trying to smooth out wrinkles in front of a caterpillar?
"Very well, then Sir Campbell-Bannerman it is."
Should she be relieved that at least he recommended someone knighted?
Though he had stepped down, the principles he had pondered for so long were still intact. For a moment, she thought so.
***
"Honey, are you sure this place is alright?"
"We have no choice. They say it's the best instrument maker in London, after all."
"This place?"
The instrument experts of Tottenham Court Road, known for handling the best instruments in London, couldn't hide their irritation.
No matter that they had come from the musical homeland of Germany, it was this couple who had made an absurd request for instrument modifications.
—We want to commission the modification of a horn. Is that possible? Ah, it's not just a simple natural horn. It's a valve horn.
—What? In F? How dare you suggest something so...! Ahem, ahem. What I want is a B♭ horn! And I want it to be easier for players to perform, so add more valves to make the range more flashy but still simple to change.
—What? Can't do it? Well, this is why... ahem!! Alright, then there's no choice. Leave the horn out and focus on the piano, violin, and other orchestral instruments.
In all the world, where would you find a horn that could use both B♭ and F tubing at the same time?
It felt like they were being asked to make glasses that allowed you to look left while looking right.
As they returned to the hotel, that insufferable German couple, Richard Strauss and Pauline Strauss, grumbled to each other.
"It's no use. The instrument makers here are just not skilled enough. At least when it comes to the horn, we should probably commission the master craftsmen in Germany directly."
"But darling, is that really possible?"
"Now that I think about it, before we came, I vaguely heard that Edmund Gumpert was trying to develop something similar. I think I'll write him a letter."
Even if it didn't exist, he would have to find a solution. After all, he had practically staked his life on this work.
With the deadline fast approaching... drastic measures were necessary.
Hadn't that theater director said as much? That it was difficult to find someone with that level of skill.
Of course, after Hanslow Jin's request, he said he'd try to find someone, but Richard didn't believe him.
He knew businessmen all too well.
They'd likely do nothing and then say to the innocent author, "Oh dear, we tried our best, but it was impossible."
Richard had seen it many times in Germany, so he knew it well.
Capitalists always reacted hysterically when it came to spending more money.
"Hmph, there's no other way."
If nothing else worked, they'd have to make a quick trip to Germany. As the couple walked on, they were suddenly stopped.
"Wait, wait, wait! You there, you sound like Germans, and not just any Germans, but famous musicians! Am I right?"
"Y-Yes?"
"W-Who is this person!"
It was some beggar. But... he had quite the face, didn't he? Looked vaguely familiar.
Although, at best, he was just a good-looking beggar, still, Pauline stopped for a moment.
And in that brief moment, the handsome beggar spoke quickly.
"Listen! Don't you know who I am? Ah, the wicked British judiciary is oppressing this poor genius poet! I ask you to spread the word across Europe about this brutal persecution of art!"
"Who on earth are you!"
"Oscar Wilde!"
... What?
The Strauss couple stared at the self-proclaimed Oscar Wilde with bewildered eyes.
And the man, enjoying their mix of awe and doubt, moved with a certain dignity and spoke.
"I am the greatest genius poet that Dublin has ever produced, a man even God would marvel at—Oscar Wilde. It's a pleasure to meet you!"