“If you could live, what would you like to do?”

Saul asked this question once. It happened on a warm, late autumn day when sunlight poured down generously.

Catherine remembered that day clearly. When she first met Saul, his question seemed so absurd that she burst into laughter. Her laughter spilled out uncontrollably, like leaves falling in the wind.

“What a strange question. You speak as though I’m about to die,” she said, her laughter still bubbling through her words. Catherine looked at Saul while laughing, but he didn’t join her. Looking down at her with those dry, cold eyes, he replied, “This isn’t a living life, is it?”

Catherine stopped laughing at that. It was another strange statement. “A living life”—wasn’t life, by definition, something lived? If one wasn’t living, did that mean they were dead?

“If you’ve resigned yourself to death, isn’t that essentially the same as being dead?”

Catherine didn’t ask how he came to think that way. This peculiar conversation was taking place on a bridge, after all. She finally turned, tilting her parasol, suddenly interested enough to spare some time for this gentleman who had somehow noticed her intentions before anyone else—intentions to throw herself into the deep waters below.

“Do you know who I am?” she asked, though she believed he must already know.

Everyone in this city knew Catherine’s name. Catherine Linton, a baronet’s daughter who had come from some unnamed countryside. A seed of misfortune with foreign blood and strange, unique beauty that had become a curse, driving her family to death.

Whenever Catherine heard such tales, she sneered. Those stories merely proved the ignorance of those who told them. How absurd to think beauty could be a seed of misfortune. Catherine knew better—her unhappiness stemmed not from what she possessed but from what she lacked.

In truth, Catherine’s life had been unfortunate from birth. Her mother was a death row inmate, and Catherine’s first breath signified her mother’s death. The postponed execution came without further delay. The newborn never had the chance to cry in her mother’s arms. Before her first wail had even subsided, Catherine lost her mother to a kind but foolish man.

Perhaps the only stroke of luck in Catherine’s life was that this kind, foolish man took pity on her. Thanks to his foolishness, Catherine survived for years as the executioner’s daughter. Under the care of the man who killed her mother, she begged for warmth and sometimes gave affection in return. Then, before even ten years had passed, she lost this kind man.

Because she resembled her beautiful mother, and because the man was foolish—for these simple reasons, she lost him.

The man who had stubbornly refused to give up a child with whom he shared no blood died beneath the claws of hunting dogs released by his master.

Catherine stepped over the foolish man’s bright red blood and was dragged into the enclosure of those with blue blood. Blue-blooded Catherine was thus created.

“I don’t know who you are,” Saul had said.

Catherine was beautiful but unhappy because of what she lacked. Those who desired Catherine had power, and they didn’t hesitate to take her from those weaker than themselves—just as they had done with that kind, foolish man. And those who had killed Catherine’s kind, foolish man eventually died the same way.

“I simply wish to purchase your death.”

So Catherine thought Saul would die like that too.

Nevertheless, on that bridge where the sickly, seemingly fragile gentleman proposed with his utterly dry manner, Catherine sold her death to him.

Looking back, perhaps it was a sense of kinship. Or maybe she was impressed by his attitude—declaring he would buy death while himself uncertain when he might lose his grip on life.

Either way, it didn’t matter. Catherine only thought that Saul’s question—whether she was living a “living life”—might have been right after all. She had ultimately used the price of her sold death to transform a dead man’s life.

“Remember, Catherine.”

And death still held Catherine’s life in its grip.

“My lady. My lady.”

Suddenly, Catherine awoke from her light sleep to someone shaking her shoulder. In the dim surroundings where faint light bloomed, she caught a glimpse of the figure rousing her—dark chestnut hair braided neatly, freckles scattered like fallen stars under the reddish light.

Catherine immediately recognized the girl she always kept by her side and gently shook her head, pushing away the girl’s arm. Her head felt dizzy. She hadn’t slept deeply, and she’d dreamed of unwelcome old memories. With a groan, Catherine pressed her fingertips against her throbbing head, finding it difficult to gather her wits.

“Oh my, why did you sleep so uncomfortably, my lady?”

The chattering voice was bothersome as the girl helped Catherine up from where she had fallen asleep leaning against the bedpost. Catherine quickly raised her hand to silence her and asked, “What is it?”

It was still dark. Thinking this was because the curtains hadn’t been drawn, Catherine turned toward the window where the day had not yet fully broken and frowned. Despite weakening somewhat overnight, the rain remained heavy.

“The priest is looking for you. He says he wants to proceed with the burial when daylight comes,” the girl answered promptly, suddenly remembering.

“In this weather?” Catherine turned her head back to the window, wondering if she had misheard. Though noticeably lighter than the previous night, rain was still falling.

‘Bury him in this weather?’

Catherine exhaled a long breath, narrowing her brow. They must think quite little of me, she thought. She hadn’t anticipated experiencing her husband’s absence so acutely in this manner.

“Tell him I’ll be there soon,” Catherine said, still clutching her head as she gestured to the girl. Watching the girl leave the room without further comment, Catherine looked once more toward the window.

A burial in such weather—she couldn’t help but shake her head.

* * *

Fortunately or unfortunately, the rain began to thin as daylight broke. The wind that had disturbed everything the previous night had also subsided somewhat, allowing the funeral procession to move toward Saul’s burial site with relative composure.

Still, Catherine found the situation entirely unsatisfactory. She glanced up at David beside her, then looked away again. They walked together directly behind the priest who led the procession, in positions arranged for the bereaved family.

Though David’s identity hadn’t been clearly verified yet, Catherine had no choice in the matter. If David truly was a Cavendish, she couldn’t deprive him of the position he rightfully deserved.

“The wind is cold,” David whispered, tilting the umbrella more toward Catherine. He shielded her from the sideways wind with his body while supporting her as she walked the muddy path. Catherine tried to walk without his assistance and replied curtly, “It’s winter, after all.”

Despite Catherine’s somewhat cold attitude, David nodded lightly and politely steadied her arm when she stumbled.

Thanks to his help, the journey to their designated position wasn’t particularly arduous. Despite the foul weather, the burial preparations seemed to have been diligently completed. Standing before the hole dug by the gravedigger, Catherine covered her face with a handkerchief as though wiping away tears and exhaled deeply.

If nothing unexpected happened, the burial would proceed smoothly. However, Catherine worried about what would follow after Saul’s coffin was buried.

When the funeral procession, led by the coffin, finally arrived completely at the cemetery, the priests and everyone including Catherine gathered around both sides of the grave.

While three or four strong young men who had carried the coffin from the front of the procession lowered it into the grave, the priest standing diagonally at the head of the coffin began reciting prayers for the deceased.

“Lady Cavendish, please scatter the soil.”

An assistant priest held out a clean vessel containing some of the soil that had been dug up, extending it before Catherine.

“Pray for the deceased,” the priest whispered. Catherine nodded slightly and took a handful from the vessel. The rain-soaked soil stuck to her gloves, somewhat muddy.

Holding the soil, Catherine stepped one pace closer to the grave. David followed behind her with the umbrella, causing their two shadows to stretch long over the coffin.

‘Farewell.’

Instead of praying for Saul, Catherine offered a brief goodbye and threw the soil onto the coffin.

Until that moment, no one could have anticipated what would happen. Thud. Pat. The clumps of soil fell onto the coffin lid like drum beats, and as David reached out his hand, waiting his turn to throw soil after Catherine—

Thump. A sound that should never have been heard.

“What is this…?”

No one could have imagined the miraculous, extraordinary event about to unfold before them.