Chapter 3

There was no other choice in this situation. Olivia gladly accepted the unexpected kindness. When she and Annie got out, the man easily lifted the carriage wheel, solving the problem as if it were nothing.

The coachman, who had been rejected in his attempt to help, expressed honest admiration.

“That usually takes three or four strong men. Impressive, Sir.”

“It’s nothing.”

The reply was simple. Olivia observed the man more closely. The first thing she noticed was a faint scent of sandalwood—fresh and clear, like standing in a winter forest. Sensing her gaze, the man turned his head. Their eyes met.

“I’m glad I could help.”

He looked well over twenty. He had an air of detachment, the kind that comes from surviving many trials in life. There was no attendant with him. His outfit was neat but not expensive, so he didn’t seem to be a high-ranking noble. He didn’t mind stepping into muddy puddles, nor did his expression change when exerting great strength. Perhaps he was a trainee knight or a full knight.

What was peculiar was the subtle nobility about him—a dignity that never flowed from greedy upstarts or those who bought their titles.

“How should we thank you…”

The coachman, quick-witted, didn’t speak informally to him as before. As he hesitated, Olivia sensed it was her turn to step forward. She took half a step forward.

“Thank you for your help, Sir.”

“It was nothing.”

“If you don’t mind, may I know your name?”

She added the title at the end, more to test him than out of respect. In this country, only full knights or above were addressed as ‘Sir’. If he held a higher title, he would likely want to be addressed accordingly, and if he were a knight, he would accept it indifferently.

Instead of answering, he gave her a curious look. The distance between them was about a single stride. His gaze was jet black, impossible to read.

“Sir?”

She asked again. Before his obsidian eyes, Olivia felt like prey before a predator. It was odd. He was the one who had helped her. He showed impeccable courtesy and respect, and didn’t approach a lady before she spoke.

He broke the tense silence.

“My name is Vincent, Countess.”

He answered, cutting through the silence. ‘Vincent’, Olivia thought to herself. A knight with a name that sounded aristocratic. It suited him.

“I didn’t expect you to know me.”

Suppressing her surprise, Olivia asked. The man gave a brief smile, just enough to catch someone’s attention. For a moment, she wondered if she had imagined it. He quickly returned to a neutral expression.

“In the carriage marked with the Harper Earldom’s crest, sits a noble lady.”

“……”

“As far as I know, you’re the only one, Lady Olivia Harper.”

Olivia blinked. It was so obvious she felt embarrassed for asking. He didn’t add anything about having seen her from afar or recognizing her by her looks.

From his first impression, she could tell he wasn’t the type to make up stories or flatter. She liked that. If she was right, offering him a few silver coins as thanks would actually be rude.

At that moment, one thought popped into her head.

“I owe you quite a debt for our first meeting, Sir Vincent.”

“……”

“The estate isn’t far. Why not stop by the Earldom, feed your horse, and rest for a few days?”

She made the offer for two reasons. First, the brooch on his robe—a mark of a knight on pilgrimage. Second, the horse looked exhausted, as if it had been traveling nonstop for some time. Fortunately, Olivia was still a proper Countess, at least in name. She had a large mansion, abundant feasts, and guest rooms to spare.

“I didn’t help expecting a reward…”

Vincent pressed his lips together in brief contemplation, his gaze shifting to the horse, which was still catching its breath. After a moment’s thought, he looked back at Olivia and spoke slowly.

“…If you don’t mind, I’ll gratefully accept.”

It was an acceptance.

* * *

Up until then, Vincent had insisted he wouldn’t be a burden, but in the end, the unexpected guest found himself seated diagonally across from Olivia. Annie’s decisive comment—that it was far too cruel to make the exhausted horse bear a rider any longer—settled the matter.

Inside the carriage sat three people: the Countess, the knight, and the chatty lady’s maid. It was a combination that seemed unlikely to mix. Sensing the impending discomfort, Olivia, as the higher up, felt it kinder to show consideration.

She sat quietly, a little apart from the other two, and opened the poetry book she had left beside her. Annie, sitting next to Olivia, glanced at her, then, unable to resist her curiosity, spoke softly to Vincent.

“Sir Knight, judging by your accent, are you from the Northern region?”

“That’s correct.”

The ‘accent’ Annie referred to was the distinctive one of the Northern border.

While the capital’s accent, which regarded elegance as a virtue, was soft and drawn out, the Northern tone, shaped by the harsh frontier, was clipped and short. The practical atmosphere prevailed, and apart from a few nobles, people rarely bothered with formalities. The estate of Nihil was representative of this Northern lifestyle. People from other regions, including the South, often called Northerners simply ‘standoffish locals.’

Annie continued, 

“It’s rare to see someone from the North here in the South. It’s fascinating.”

“Is that so.”

Her gentle reply made Annie brighten. 

“Yes. I’ve heard Northerners are all good-looking.” 

She glanced at Olivia for agreement, adding quietly, 

“Though they’re said to be rather cold and blunt, too.”

The knight only nodded, perhaps because there was nothing to add. To sum up their characteristics so simply… Olivia recalled a letter from her younger brother, Elliott. In the Belote Empire, the North was an important border. In winter, biting cold swept in, and when the snow melted, minor skirmishes often broke out along the frontier.

Sometimes, barbarians from beyond the border would suddenly climb the walls with weapons and launch surprise attacks. Northern knights, for that reason, were famous for their ruthless efficiency. In some regions, lullabies warned naughty children that a Northern knight would come if they didn’t behave.

“Since you’ve come this far South, your pilgrimage must be nearly over.”

Usually, people would fall silent from fear at that point, but Annie was different. Like Olivia, she seemed to have noticed Vincent’s current status from his robe. Knights on pilgrimage were forbidden from harming anyone unless attacked first, as killing would defile the sanctity of their journey. What they did after, and how much blood they shed, was another matter.

“It’s almost finished.”

After Vincent’s curt answer, a brief awkward silence followed. Annie looked as if she wanted to continue the conversation, but the short responses left her with nothing more to say. It would be rude to ask a knight on pilgrimage about his exact region or affiliation.

Olivia found the renewed quiet rather pleasant. It wouldn’t be so bad to reach the estate like this. As she quietly turned a page, a voice broke the silence.

“Madame, do you enjoy lyric poetry?”

Surprised by the unexpected question, Olivia slowly lifted her head. Vincent’s dark gaze met hers, seated diagonally. He didn’t seem the type to care about poetry, literature, or philosophy. Even more surprising was that she was holding a book of lyric poetry, popular among young ladies and noblewomen, full of illusions about love. It was ironic, considering Olivia no longer held any such illusions.

She had bought the book on a whim and often picked it up, but had never finished it. She knew nothing about the poet or poetry itself. It was all the more curious—how could a man who wielded a sword know about lyric poets?

“That’s unexpected. Do you know this poet?”

“I’ve seen this book before. Occasionally.”

“…I see.”

When she replied with a question, Vincent nodded slightly. Olivia wondered if he had a younger sister. She naturally imagined a young lady who resembled him. Assuming they were from a noble family, if her brother looked like Vincent, she would surely have been the talk of the capital at her debut.

As Olivia imagined the face of an unknown young lady, Vincent spoke again, just as unexpectedly.

“If it’s not too much trouble, would you recite one of the poems?”

“That’s…”

As she hesitated, Annie’s voice interjected.

“Before you married, My Lady, your recitations were famous.”

“Annie.”

Olivia called her name—not out of annoyance for interrupting, but for the mistaken honorific. Annie persisted.

“It’s been so long since I heard your clear voice recite. Please, won’t you? Please?”

“….”

At that point, Olivia couldn’t refuse any longer. The memories made her want to do it. She thought of late summer days, reading poetry on the garden terrace, with cousin Cecile and Annie sitting side by side on the bench. The sound of insects and the scent of flowers made her feel she could get drunk on the moment. Days she wished to return to but could not.

Once she made up her mind, she didn’t hesitate. She turned another page. A poem caught her eye. She took a shallow breath.

“They made me angry,

Until my face turned blue.

Those who loved me,

Those who hated me,

They mixed poison in my bread,

Put poison in my cup,

Those who loved me,

Those who hated me,

But the one who tormented and angered me most,

Who made me suffer,

Was the one who neither hated me,

Nor loved me.”