Chapter 9

There were nights she couldn’t sleep, imagining it. If she’d given birth to that child, would she still have been loved? She needed to escape the memories that threatened to choke her. Olivia spoke.

“They look truly happy together.”

Ah.

She regretted her words as soon as she said them. The old lady’s gentle eyes met Olivia’s. If it sounded like lament, Olivia wished she could take it back. She wasn’t pure or naïve enough to expose her emotions so openly. Even if she tried to hide them, this shrewd lady would see through everything.

“They were, indeed.”

Fortunately, the reply came calmly. There was no sign of pity, nor any hint of blame for Olivia’s lack of response about yesterday’s events. With a serene face, the old lady said,

“The two of them… were very close.”

In the silence, Olivia felt as if she was being reproached for her discord with Lenahan—perhaps an overly sensitive reaction. She considered speaking again but kept her mouth shut. Behind her stood a maid.

The servants’ mouths were lighter than paper and spread news far and wide. How many days would it take for a rumor that started in the distant Terez estate to reach the far-off capital? As usual, Olivia naturally linked arms with the old lady, smiling brightly like a friendly mother-in-law and daughter-in-law.

“Now, I should go see the guests off.”

“Shall we?”

It seemed that, should they suddenly become actors performing on stage one day, it wouldn’t be awkward at all. The old lady was a seasoned actress, and Olivia was a talented one herself.

* * *

Considering the convenience of a pilgrim setting out on a long journey, the head housemaid skillfully packed Vincent’s luggage. From freshly laundered clothes to enough water to last a day or two, some fermented bread that wouldn’t spoil, and a bit of fodder for the horse.

Olivia hadn’t paid special attention to these details. Fitzhend Hall had plenty of other matters, and such things were the responsibility of the old lady and the head housemaid. Olivia had tried to do more, but was told Vincent refused. For someone in his early twenties, he was mature, according to Lady Greta’s assessment.

“Thank you for all the generous favors you’ve shown me.”

“It’s nothing. Please visit again anytime.”

Just before mounting his horse, Vincent exchanged brief farewells with the old lady at the main hall’s steps, and his eyes met Olivia’s. After the old lady stepped back, Olivia took a step closer.

Their eyes met, and Olivia offered a faint smile.

“I hope you finish the rest of your pilgrimage in good health.”

“…Thank you, Countess.”

It was a perfectly formal and courteous farewell, flawless in every way. Though brief, it felt long. As soon as Vincent’s calm gaze dropped from her, Olivia felt the tension in her back relax.

As Vincent gave a small nod and turned away, Olivia quietly called out to the departing guest.

“Sir Vincent.”

He stopped. Olivia descended a few steps and faced him again, now at eye level thanks to his height.

“I enjoyed our conversation in the Glass Garden.”

“So did I.”

“The handkerchief you lent me… I’ve washed and returned it to you.”

Vincent paused as he looked down at the hand Olivia held out, then gazed at her and answered simply,

“Thank you.”

For a moment, their hands touched. Olivia felt a heated flush on her lips, as if she’d been burned. She considered stepping back, but was more conscious of the eyes watching from behind, so she remained still. She had something to ask and spoke softly.

“Why do you carry that handkerchief around?”

She was curious—did he remember it was the one she’d given him? The answer came immediately.

“People in the North tend to rely on superstitions.”

It was an odd reply. Looking down, Olivia saw the calluses on his fingers as he carefully folded the handkerchief and tucked it inside his robe.

“This is like a talisman for me.”

“…Is that so.”

Olivia’s ears grew hot. She was surprised that Vincent still kept such a childish handkerchief, and even more so by how precious he seemed to regard it. It felt strangely ticklish, like someone stroking the back of her hand. The question that had been stuck in her throat slipped out impulsively.

“Will we meet again?”

“Yes, soon.”

The answer came without hesitation, making Olivia’s eyes widen. Vincent was smiling faintly. It was the first time she’d seen him smile—so brief, she almost doubted her eyes.

“Then, farewell.”

Vincent bowed to the old lady behind Olivia and walked away. The unexpected guest departed quickly.

Fitzhend Hall became quiet once more.

After Vincent left, Annie spoke to Olivia endlessly until evening, even in the rattling carriage.

“Are you really going, Madam? There’s no need for you to go. You’re the lady of the house, after all. I don’t know what that cunning witch is plotting, but can’t you just talk to Lady Greta?”

Olivia didn’t answer, knowing it would be useless. Waiting until nightfall was difficult. She pretended to forget, but the letter kept pricking at her mind like a thorn under her nail. When the sun set and darkness fell, Olivia finished her preparations. In truth, there wasn’t much to prepare. She didn’t need to dress formally—just enough not to look shabby: a calm, dark green chemise dress and a small platinum necklace with a sapphire. Though summer was near, the evening was chilly, so she draped a thin white robe over her shoulders.

“I’ll allow you to come along, but don’t even think about entering the annex with me.”

“Madam!”

“I won’t say it twice.”

Handing Annie the letter had been a mistake. Originally, Olivia had planned to go alone, in secret. Just in case, she wrote a brief note to the old lady and left it in her room. She wasn’t worried about her safety—Heather Genoa wasn’t a reckless woman, and if she’d meant harm, she would have tried many times already. Still, one part of the letter lingered in Olivia’s mind.

‘It’s a very urgent matter.’

The coachman, rubbing his sleepy eyes, drove the carriage without complaint at the sudden summons. Even though the annex was part of Fitzhend Hall’s grounds, it was not close to the main house where Olivia lived.

Olivia quietly scanned outside the carriage window. The surroundings were blanketed in low mist. After about thirty minutes, the coachman’s whip fell silent and the carriage slowed to a stop.

It was the annex entrance. Not as grand as the main house, but the front was built with white marble in a refined style, comparable to a minor noble’s mansion. Olivia cornered Annie, who tried to follow, and opened the carriage door before the coachman could approach.

Heather Genoa was already waiting outside.

“It’s been a while, Countess.”

The moment Olivia heard her voice, it was mesmerizing—slightly husky, tinged with sensuality, but not vulgar. The thin nightdress, draped with a fine shawl, emphasized Heather’s voluptuous curves. Heather held her skirt in both hands and curtsied formally.

“Thank you for answering my letter.”

* * *

The annex’s drawing room, Heather Genoa’s home, was just as Olivia had imagined. The room was adorned with red blackout curtains trimmed with silver tassels, and the furniture was harmoniously arranged—neither too modest nor excessive. The overall atmosphere was both formal and comfortable, elegant and dignified. Before Olivia knew Heather, she recalled what was said in society:

The country’s greatest courtesan. A woman who could make any man kneel with a single glance.

“I’m sorry I can’t serve you properly. The resident maid is in the capital.”

“…It’s fine.”

At the mention of the house in the capital, Olivia was stabbed by a sharp pain. Perhaps Lenahan was there. A self-mocking question arose.

Did he know she was here? In the house of his beloved mistress?

Heather poured tea with flawless manners and sat across the table from Olivia. The tea was clearly of the highest quality. Olivia pretended to accept it, then set it down. Seeing this, Heather asked carefully and politely,

“Is the tea not to your liking? Shall I bring a new pot?”

“It’s fine.”

Olivia replied coldly and glanced around. The room, darkened by blackout curtains, was lit by candles with lampshades. The flickering light made Heather look much younger than her mid-thirties.

She could easily be mistaken for someone in her mid-twenties. Witch—one of Annie’s nicknames for this woman—came to Olivia’s mind. Heather’s wavy red hair was as smooth as flawless rubies, and her mysteriously sparkling green eyes were mesmerizing. Still, Olivia couldn’t help but think of a snake flicking its forked tongue—perhaps her own ugly jealousy.

“…Miss Genoa.”

Calling her, Olivia slowly recalled the last time she visited here. Three years after her marriage—seven years ago, when Heather first arrived in Terez.

The next words came after a brief pause.

“I’m not close enough to you for idle chit-chat, Miss Genoa.”

Olivia stiffened her back, hoping to appear calm and composed. She prayed Heather wouldn’t see how much Olivia wanted to strangle her. Even if Olivia appeared wretched, she hoped to keep her last shred of pride.

“I didn’t come here at this hour just to drink tea and relax.”

“…….”

“So, tell me why you called me here.”

Fortunately, Olivia’s voice didn’t tremble.