Honor, Properly Restored
Opening day, and already someone had not only found the shop—they wanted to buy the cards.
A name did come to mind.
"Um, the customer you mentioned."
"......?"
"Does he happen to be as handsome as an actor?"
"He has a more refined look than anyone I have ever met."
Right. That was him.
A few days earlier, samples had come in from Japan. Partly to promote the soon-to-launch Capsulemon, they had been planning a collaboration card set with D-Que. After checking that the print had come out well, someone would have left a set at the shop. Probably. And he had not only spotted it, but gone so far as to say he meant to buy!
"What should I do?"
The answer was simple.
"Put a condition on it."
"......?"
"He's the first customer of our shop. We'll take a commemorative photo and run it in the magazine. If he agrees, give it to him as a gift."
A short exchange followed on the other end of the line.
"He's asking whether the cards have to appear in the photo."
Honestly. Same worrier as ever.
"The cards don't have to be in it."
"Then he says he'll do it."
The brief call ended, and I quietly gathered my thoughts. Of all people, the first customer was the eldest son of the Grosvenor house. No harm in leaving a record.
Still. Even Tennessee, with that eye of his, had come running on the very first day?
I grinned. At a start that left nothing to be desired, I let a light smile show.
At that same moment, Carl Bernstein was in a meeting with his designers.
Calling it a meeting was generous. In truth, it was hardly different from taking out his temper.
"Look at this."
Carl flung the magazine. One of them caught it in an awkward scramble.
"Doesn't anyone have a guess whose work this is?"
"......"
"Once you pass a certain level, even if you aren't close, you at least know the names. Isn't that how it works?"
"That is true, but among designers with a name, no one has a style like this..."
"So a complete amateur made it?"
"......"
"Ah. So John Green went and took a complete amateur by the hand."
"M-my thinking was shallow."
"Enough. Bring this person in."
"Sir?"
"Why? I asked nicely, so it sounds like a request?"
Carl's eyes went wide.
"Drag the person who made these clothes in here and set them down in front of me!"
"But we have no information..."
"Then go to John Green! Beg him to tell you who it is! Or turn over every factory in London until you find out who commissioned these clothes!"
"......"
"No. It would be faster if you brought me something better than this. Wouldn't it?"
"I—I'll take responsibility and bring them in."
The designers had not been gone long.
Knock, knock.
A familiar face stepped in with the knock: Carl's lawyer.
"You sent for me?"
"Sit."
From the sound beyond the door alone, he would have known the air was anything but ordinary.
"I'm thinking of making a magazine."
The shop has barely opened, and already he means to start something else?
Whatever he felt, the lawyer's face stayed perfectly calm.
"We could put out something like this, and promote our brand while we're at it."
"A week to gather the contributors. A week to pull the manuscripts. A week to print. Roughly three weeks, and it can be made. If we take advertisements from the department-store tenants, we can run it with no financial burden."
"You calculate quickly."
Of course he did. He had seen it coming a mile off.
"But you left one thing out."
"Sir?"
"But under the law of intellectual property, that would..."
"Then how did they manage this?"
"I would guess they bought the rights."
"Then we can buy them too."
"Dragon Planet?"
"This magazine isn't for sale. They give it away free every week. What's to stop us from doing the same?"
"Well, young master, you know better than I do... Dragon Planet is enormously popular these days. To bring in the latest chapters for serialization, you would have to pay at least ten million pounds..."
"So you're saying it cost ten million pounds to make this rag?"
"I can't say for certain."
"Which is the same thing."
The lawyer squeezed his eyes shut.
Carl Bernstein, denied something he wanted? He would not be satisfied until he had at least smashed whatever someone else already had. Sure enough, the order that followed was close to pure obstinacy.
"......"
"Or make certain it can never enter our school. You can do that much, can't you!"
The first was nonsense. The second, at least, was possible. It was not a formally published book. Catch it on any pretext, and a ban on distribution would not be difficult.
"I'll draw up the official notice and send it at once."
The next morning, large notices were posted all over the school. They announced a ban on distributing the magazine I had made.
Distribution of the magazine is prohibited.
I scoffed. One look at the words Student Council Resolution, and I had a fair idea whose handiwork it was.
Right. I had opened this game because of someone. If I sat quietly and took the hit, where was the fun in that for me?
Peter, who had no way of knowing what I was thinking, let out a small sigh.
"Here we go again."
"......?"
"The moment something looks like it's about to work out, he kicks up a storm. And I thought we were finally finding our feet."
Oh. He was worrying about me?
Heh.
Looked at plainly, the second-year student council president had summoned me in Tennessee's place, and Jack and Peter had paid for it along the way. Jack's father was a member of Parliament, so his share had ended at a reasonable line. Peter had suffered a brutal revenge that dug up even the past he wanted hidden.
Now it was my turn to help Peter.
Good thing I already prepared something.
I turned to Peter.
"You free today?"
"Free for what?"
"After class, I was hoping we could step out for a bit. If that's all right."
That night, we headed for Queensman together. The secret door that showed itself when you drew out Hamlet. The moment we stepped through—
"Whoa."
Peter let the awe out of him in one long breath.
"It's so much cooler than it looked in the magazine."
"Olivia put real care into it."
While he was looking around, Paver, who had been deeper in the shop, came toward us.
"This is the person you mentioned?"
I nodded. Their hands locked tight. Peter and Paver shook, but the greeting was brief. Peter turned carefully toward me. He had come because I called, and now his face asked what he was supposed to do.
"Shall we start by changing clothes?"
"......?"
"Mr. Paver."
At my word, Paver brought over a shopping bag. A large Ultimate logo was stamped in the center, and beside it Peter's name was printed in bold.
"Mr. Paver designed it for you."
"What do you mean..."
Paver, beside us, added a word.
"I heard that despite a difficult time, you have kept helping the president to the end."
Remarkable courage. Outrageous nerve. Perhaps because what Paver loved most was a spirit of resistance. Even in the middle of the rush, he had promised to make Peter's clothes separately.
"I worked hard on it. Please open it."
Peter looked back and forth between me and Paver, his face asking whether he was really allowed to take it.
After everything you went through!
"I-it's too much."
Carefully, Peter drew the clothes out. A so-called school jacket, the thing people also call a baseball jumper: a varsity jacket. The base was the finest sheepskin, with the Ultimate logo on the left and Peter's name on the right. Truly fine clothes overwhelm a person by the feel of the material alone. This was exactly that.
"Would you like to try it on?"
Paver held the jacket up, and Peter carefully slipped his arms in.
"It fits right against me."
"I'm glad."
"How did you know the size?"
"We still have every measurement from when we made the uniforms."
"Oh, right. I had my uniform tailored here!"
As Peter nodded, I asked Paver,
"Is the barbershop ready?"
"Yes. I reserved it under Mr. Peter's name."
You would think he might have stopped being surprised by now...
"A b-barbershop? What's that for?"
"Just go. You'll see when you get there."
Peter was a classic shaggy head, the look of someone who had grown his hair out because a haircut felt like a waste of money. A penny-pincher like that was never going to have set foot in the most expensive barbershop in London. Sure enough, he looked thoroughly frozen.
"How would you like it cut?"
"However you... please."
"Then shall we cut it short and put in some pomade?"
"Anything... is fine."
The barber with the scissors turned toward me. The moment I nodded, snip-snip, the scissors moved.
No matter how well someone cuts hair, if it takes forever I can't stand it. Doing one's best is all very well, but watch them cut a place they have already cut, then keep refining it, and the irritation comes of its own accord.
But this was the best in London, and it showed. Not once did he go back over a place the scissors had already passed.
Different, all right.
Exactly seven minutes to turn that bushy hair perfectly clean. Three minutes to set the line. Ten minutes in all, and he had made an entirely different person.
And that was not all. After the wash, once the pomade went in—
"Oh—oh."
The admiration slipped out of my mouth on its own. Peter himself looked awkward and shy. I smirked.
"I've paid for a year's worth, so come every three weeks and get it cut."
"Are you insane? Do you know how much money..."
People who worried about my wallet usually scratched their heads a moment later, muttering that they had spoken out of turn. Peter was the same.
"Not that I'm in any position to worry about you."
"Let's go. We've got an interview."
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
I hadn't scrubbed him clean and polished him up for nothing.
"The magazine. This issue is an interview special."
"You're putting my interview in it?"
I nodded.
"No—if it's a special, you have to bring in someone special. Who's going to read me rambling?"
He had no idea what he was saying. One day, Peter would make an enormous masterpiece. This interview would become a precious record.
"Who else is in it besides me?"
"Want to know?"
"Well, just wondering."
I smirked.
"Miyamoto Hideo, the father of Super Orlando."
"Huh?"
"Tezuka Akira, who created Dragon Planet."
"Ghk—!"
"Ralph Warren, the name synonymous with American classic clothing."
By now his face could barely hold the shock.
"And last, Peter Bint of The Great Car Thief."
"......!"
Peter, who had only been blinking, forced his mouth open.
"Why is my name in there with them?"
"Carl Bernstein did something stupid."
"So what?"
"We have to show them what kind of person you are."
"N-no, even so..."