Forty Two

"So you can't really find the Duchess?" I bit the nail of my right thumb as I paced back and forth in the living room.

It's early in the morning, and that's the news he'll tell me. Yesterday I tried to trace him, but I remembered then that he used to use a phone and not the one he uses now—even CCTV of the airport and even the seaport. I haven’t seen a single image of the Duchess riding at all.

But she can use a private plane. However, there's a CCTV area in every airport for those who use private aircraft. She decided to be far away, in a place where she could not be seen. But that was sudden. She didn’t even tell me.

“Those people I know did their best. But Aunt Leonore was nowhere to be found,” he added.

I stopped and faced him sitting on the couch, one of his arms at the upper of the backrest of the couch, leaning his back, and the other one tapping on his lap, like a piano chord forming his fingers as he tapped. Is that Clair de Lune? I don’t know much about piano other than the