While the duke was unable to accept the death of his mistress, his aide, Dennis, took a cold, practical approach.

He informed Baron Luce’s adoptive mother of her death.

Upon hearing the news, Dalia fainted on the spot.

From that moment on, Lady Luce’s fragile state of mind deteriorated further.

“My daughter cannot be dead… That cannot be! My daughter is not dead!”

She would grab the maids by the hair and scream at the slightest provocation.

And that was not all.

Even in the midst of her frenzy, she would occasionally venture out to Unibern Street and linger around social gatherings.

Perhaps she was seeking sympathy from the noblewomen. She would declare that her daughter had died.

She was a dreadful woman.

Ultimately, it was the servants who suffered.

“How many times must I say it? My daughter is not dead! Our baron and my daughter will both return soon!”

Nobody dared to utter the word ‘funeral’ because she would scream and faint at the mere suggestion.

Dennis came to consult Meriette, asking what should be done, but there was no clear solution.

So, the funeral of Baron Luce’s young lady was postponed indefinitely.

Ultimately, she was denied even the peace of death.

“Poor child…”

She was someone who always expressed gratitude, even for the smallest act of kindness. She was a young lady who had always kept to her room.

She obeyed her master’s oppressive commands without complaint.

Perhaps because of that, no one had ever truly tried to understand her.

This failure weighed heavily on Meriette’s heart whenever she thought of her.

Rubbing her reddened eyes, Meriette opened Beka’s door.

“Haah… Head Maid…”

“Quiet, Beka.”

As if wounded by the rebuke, Beka sobbed even louder. Her childish cries ricocheted through the darkness.

“Hic… Head Maid, sob… Lady Luce…”

“I heard you were slapped.”

“It’s not just that—hic… no, it wasn’t. She grabbed my hair and dragged me across the floor.”

How could she still seem so childlike? The sight of her small shoulders trembling was almost pitiful.

The head maid softened her tone slightly.

“She is a woman who has lost her daughter.”

It was best to regard her as someone to be pitied and leave it at that. What else could servants possibly do?

But Beka raised her voice in protest.

“Then why must I be the one to suffer? Why, Head Maid? Hic…”

There was a rustling sound coming from the room next door. Amy must have woken up. Hearing this, Beka sniffled even louder, as though she was deliberately trying to make herself heard.

Meriette found Becca’s selfish behavior irritating. Her expression hardened again.

“Beka. I said be quiet. Remember your place.”

“M-my place…?”

Beka stopped crying for a moment and repeated the words blankly.

“My… place…”

Leaving that murmur behind, Meriette closed the door.

***

“Your Grace.”

“……”

At the unexpected call, Aiden lifted his head.

Dennis stood there against the backdrop of the study, his face pale.

‘Wasn’t I in my bedchamber?’

His mind felt hazy.

Why couldn’t he remember what had happened in between?

It was as if someone had ripped a piece of his memory away and taken it; he could not recall getting up and coming to the study.

“…It is already two o’clock.”

“……”

A thick vein throbbed at his temple and his head pounded.

He could not tell whether this was because he was still half asleep, or because of the sleeping powder he had put in his wine.

Perhaps it was both.

Aiden lowered his gaze to the desk, frowning faintly.

The newly signed budget proposal for the second half of the year lay neatly spread out in front of him.

He sighed quietly at the absurdity of it all — of having carried out his duties flawlessly in such a shattered state.

“So.”

“Count Lowell is waiting.”

“…We were to have tea?”

“Yes.”

Aiden rose slowly. Smoothing down his sleeves and checking his neatly fastened cravat, he headed towards the tea room.

Despite it being broad daylight, the room was dimly lit, the curtains drawn tight and candles flickering inside.

“It has been a while, Count Lowell.”

“Your Grace…”

The count’s brows drooped.

His uncle’s sorrowful expression reminded Aiden of his mother’s portrait.

He could read his uncle’s thoughts clearly in the green eyes they shared.

The Count was undoubtedly seeing in him the reflection of his sister, who had fallen in love with a common knight and met her death, leaving him with a son.

As expected, the count called his nephew’s name in a choked voice.

“Aiden.”

“……”

Leaning back in his chair, Aiden slowly lifted his wineglass.

Rolling the faintly fruity wine over his tongue, he regarded the count.

“For some reason, I am reminded of your childhood today. You were a boy who smiled easily. You loved to be held by anyone.”

“……”

The count’s steady, composed gaze faltered when he looked at Aiden, his expression twisting in a way that almost resembled helplessness.

For a moment, Aiden found himself wondering.

What exactly were they seeing?

His collar and cuffs were immaculate. His shoes shone with a perfect polish. His black leather gloves were free of even a speck of dust. Although he had grown thinner, his trousers still fit him precisely and elegantly.

He stood upright.

Flawless.

So why did they look at him that way?

His aide. The head maid. And now even Count Lowell.

Had they not once praised him as the perfect Duke of Strilland?

Aiden could not understand.

“Your hands were so small, like maple leaves…”

Lost in reminiscence, Count Lowell continued to speak.

From time to time, Aiden tilted his head slightly and raised his wine glass. Something pink caught his eye at the edge of his lowered gaze.

A rose.

It stood in a golden vase.

As he stared at it, he felt as though a warm, humid breeze had brushed gently past him.

Softly.

Slowly.

In time with that imagined wind, his heart began to pound.

He remembered a radiant afternoon, sunlight streaming through the garden as he walked with Sveta, her slender hand resting lightly in his.

The hazy image that had lingered at the edge of his thoughts slowly sharpened.

Sveta was standing in the corridor leading to Ivan’s laboratory.

He asked her, “Does your stomach hurt?”

He remembered looking at her pale hand resting over her abdomen.

Her fingers had been beautiful.

What had he thought in that moment?

‘Why is she not wearing a ring? Have I not bought her enough jewels to tire of them?’

That was what he had thought.

He was standing before a woman who said her stomach hurt. That was the selfish thought that had crossed his mind.

She had often complained of abdominal pain at that time. She had frequently visited the doctor and could barely eat.

He should have paid closer attention.

Instead, the most he had done was pick a flower for her.

Burying her face in the lush rose he had given her, she asked.

“Your Grace… do you not wish to have a child?”

“If, by chance, I were to carry one…”

She had been talking about their child. But, at that moment, all he could think about was his dead sister. He shouldn’t have done that.

Once again, he had allowed his own pain to consume him and said things to her that he should never have said.

“It would be beautiful. With green eyes like yours, Your Grace…”

Now, at last, the meaning behind those hesitant words became clear.

Now he understood why she had asked that question.

At that time, she must have—

“Your Grace!”

Suddenly, the room stirred and a servant rushed over from some distance away.

Aiden looked down with unfocused eyes.

Shards of a broken wine glass were embedded in his palm.

Pale yellow wine mixed with blood and dripped slowly to the floor.

“Are you all right?”

Count Lowell looked as though he might weep.

“I will summon the physician.”

“That will not be necessary.”

Aiden pulled the sharp fragment from his hand without hesitation and shook his hand lightly.

“Count Lowell, forgive me, but we must conclude here today.”

“…Of course.”

“If the opportunity arises, I shall invite you again.”

Aiden left the tea room, offering a polite formality.

The cut was deeper than he had thought. His glove was soaked.

He took it off and threw it away.

Drops of blood fell along his path, leaving a trail like scattered tears.

***

“He said he would arrive by now.”

Sveta stared down the long road, unable to keep still.

She felt as though Henrik would appear on horseback at any moment.

Although only half a month had passed since she last saw him, her heart raced as though years had passed.

She was eager — almost desperate — to tell him everything that had happened.

So excited that she nearly lost her balance, Sveta quickly tightened her grip on her cane.

“Ah… I almost fell.”

She wiped the beads of sweat from her forehead and turned to look at her small sanctuary.

It was a modest house with a tiny vegetable garden at the front.

Henrik had found it exactly as she had hoped. Although she had only moved in a month ago, she never grew tired of stepping into the yard and taking in the view.

She liked it here in Zvern.

It was close enough to Fern, the capital of Prisada, yet far enough away from the main road that led there to remain undisturbed. The village was quiet.

There was nothing particularly remarkable about it, no great wealth or grandeur. But, as Henrik had said, it had everything one truly needed.

“When my leg heals, I should explore the place.”

The moment she murmured that, a cloud of dust rose from the ochre road in the distance.

“Viscount Meriner!”

Sveta waved her hand high.

Henrik smiled faintly at her.

Dismounting from his horse, he asked.

“It’s been a while. How have you been?”

“I think I’ve made a friend.”

“Truly?”

“Yes.”

Her voice bright with excitement, Sveta chattered on.

She told him how much she loved the house, and she spoke about the mysterious seeds that a neighbor had given her and that she had planted in the garden.

She was grateful that Henrik was willing to listen to such trivial stories.

Carefully limping, she led him into the kitchen.

She quickly brewed tea and placed a piece of chocolate on the saucer beside his cup before offering it to him.

“Thank you.”

He popped the chocolate into his mouth at once, then placed a large sack on the table.

Startled by the heavy thud, Sveta asked.

“Viscount Meriner, what is this?”

Henrik, still chewing, broke into a grin.