“…Your Grace?”

When Damian trailed off mid-sentence, Isabel called to him, puzzled.

“It’s nothing,” he replied softly, steering the conversation away.

“I will make sure they are more careful from now on. Are there any other foods you dislike? It would be best for me to know.”

“Ah, I…”

“Please, don’t feel burdened. Speak freely.”

After a brief hesitation, Isabel answered carefully.

“I—I’m allergic to peaches… and bananas.”

“Peaches and bananas?”

“Yes.”

“When did you discover your allergy to bananas?”

“I found out… when I was talking with a friend as a child.”

“I see. I will make sure that is noted as well.”

His tone remained as gentle as ever.

But his expression had become rigid.

Damian hadn’t known about her banana allergy, but he was aware of her peach allergy. She had told him about it once, a long time ago.

“When I was little, I thought peaches were sour fruit, like pineapples.”
“Peaches?”
“Yes. A friend told me. I still remember how shocked they were, asking how peaches could possibly be sour.”

Back then, she had spoken in the same light, almost amused voice. The woman in front of him now spoke in a similar way.

If she had found out about her banana allergy at the same time, why had she only told him about her peach allergy?

Even if he asked her, she would probably say she didn’t remember. It wasn’t a serious matter. Perhaps she simply hadn’t thought it important enough to mention.

And yet, the unease lingered.

Her dislike of salmon troubled him more than it should have.

‘I’m overthinking this.’

The uneasiness soon dissolved. It felt strange to become so sensitive over something so trivial.

Damian dismissed the thought and refocused on the meal.

***

Once her ankle had healed completely, Isabel went for a walk with Damian through the glass conservatory. He had insisted on accompanying her as he was worried that she might lose her footing on the unfamiliar paths if she walked alone.

Instead of using her cane, she lightly held onto his forearm as they strolled along at a leisurely pace. She tried her best to ignore the firm muscle she could feel beneath the thin fabric of his sleeve, and the steady warmth of his presence beside her.

Then she heard it.

A cat’s cry.

Her ears pricked up instinctively at the sound. When it came again, soft but distinct, she stopped without meaning to.

She loved cats.

A small, unexpected thrill stirred in her chest.

“Head maid, why is there a cat in here?”

Just as she began to step toward the sound, her body stiffened.

“My apologies. I will have it removed at once.”

Damian’s voice had an edge to it that she had not anticipated. The sound of hurried footsteps followed, and then the cat let out a sharp, distressed hiss.

Without thinking, Isabel tightened her grip on his arm.

“D-Do you dislike… cats?”

Why chase the poor creature away? It was just a small animal wandering through the conservatory. She wanted to protest, but hesitated in case he truly despised them.

Damian turned towards her, looking baffled.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re afraid of cats.”

“…What?”

“Aren’t you?”

“…No.”

He sounded genuinely confused.

“You once said you were frightened of them. That you had been bitten before.”

“Ah—? Oh…”

Isabel’s reaction was immediate and obvious. She faltered.

Damian quickly retraced his steps, searching his memory for any flaw in his words, but he could not find one.

“I—I didn’t like them at first, but the more I saw them, the cuter they seemed.”

It was the most awkward explanation imaginable.

There was a brief moment of silence between them.

“I see.”

“….”

“You seem to have changed quite a bit since I last saw you.”

He mentioned it casually, as if it were an afterthought.

Isabel rolled her eyes instinctively. The hand not holding Damian’s arm curled into a fist. Her palm was damp with sweat.

Fortunately, he did not question her further. She assumed he had dropped the matter.

***

“Can a person change so suddenly?”

“…Pardon?”

That was the first thing he said after summoning Wilton without explanation. Caught off guard, the attending physician, Wilton, blinked in confusion.

“I’m asking whether someone can start liking something they disliked only yesterday.”

Wilton considered for a moment.

“Tastes can certainly change, Your Grace. You used to hate cucumbers as a child, but now you eat them without complaint. Preferences often change over time.”

This subtle reminder of Damian’s famously fussy youth earned Wilton a sharp, warning glance. Pretending not to notice, he calmly lowered his gaze to his teacup and took a measured sip.

“And what about someone who has lost their memory? Can a person truly change overnight? Can something that once frightened them so deeply as to cause trauma simply cease to frighten them?”

At the mention of memory loss, Wilton surmised that the question must concern the Grand Duchess. He felt a flicker of curiosity, but forced himself not to pry.

He answered calmly.

“Occasionally, patients with amnesia forget traumatic events that once tormented them, enabling them to live normally afterwards. For example, someone who developed claustrophobia after a particular incident may no longer be afraid of enclosed spaces once they have forgotten about it.”

When Wilton had finished speaking, he fell silent.

Damian leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers lightly against the desk — a long-standing habit of his whenever he was deep in thought.

Isabel had once feared cats because she had been bitten by one as a child.

If Wilton was right, then perhaps she no longer feared them simply because she no longer remembered what had happened.

“Has something happened to Her Grace?”

“…No. Nothing.”

With a small gesture, Damian dismissed him.

Recently, he had harbored an absurd suspicion that the woman beside him might not actually be Isabel Ester — a suspicion he had scarcely dared to voice.

And yet, it did not seem entirely impossible.

The Isabel before him now was nothing like the Isabel he had once known. The confidence that had once defined her had vanished, replaced by timidity. She avoided showing her face whenever she could. She even stammered when she spoke.

But…

After hearing Wilton’s explanation, his doubts began to waver. Just as a person’s tastes can change over time, perhaps hers had too. Just as some amnesia patients forget the traumas that once haunted them and go on to live unburdened lives, maybe she had done the same.

The stammer could be explained, too. It might be nothing more than a symptom of post-traumatic stress disorder. During the long years of war, Damian had seen it countless times: soldiers who returned from the battlefield changed, with frayed nerves and broken speech, haunted by the horrors they could not forget.

Isabel was no different.

At least, that’s what he chose to believe at the time.

***

“…A physician?”

“Yes.”

“But I—I was told it’s impossible to restore my sight…”

“He is highly skilled. We cannot know unless we try. Would you consider being examined?”

Isabel’s right hand trembled faintly, though it held nothing. At his unexpected suggestion, she fell silent.

“If it is possible, I would very much like to restore your sight.”

Concern and gentleness were woven into his low voice.

Isabel lowered her head. She barely restrained herself from worrying at her nails out of habit.

“My father… also said he was l-looking for a physician who could t-treat my eyes. May I… speak with him first, and then we can… discuss it again?”

She spoke slowly, trying not to stammer. Damian’s gaze lingered briefly where their eyes would have met before dropping away.

“I wasn’t aware of that. In that case, I will bring it up with him myself.”

“N-No. I’ll speak to him… myself.”

Damian’s brow creased slightly at her quick response. For a moment, silence fell between them like cold water poured onto warm ground.

Even such a short sentence had got caught in her throat. Only then did she realize how sharply she had reacted. Steadying herself, she added more calmly.

“You must be busy. For now… please leave it to my father and me.”

Damian’s gaze fell upon her hand, which was clenched around the teacup so tightly that her knuckles had gone white.

Was this really such a strong reaction?

His eyes narrowed slightly at her unexpected sensitivity, but he quickly smoothed his expression.

She wore a veil even at mealtimes, unwilling to reveal her scars to others. Perhaps she simply did not want to reveal herself to unfamiliar doctors. That explanation seemed reasonable enough.

“Very well. If you require assistance, tell me at any time. I will help you.”

Damian gently took hold of the hand that was holding the teacup. Only then did Isabel realize how tense she had been. As she felt his warmth, she slowly relaxed her grip.

That very day, Isabel wrote to the Baron. Less than three days later, a reply arrived.

It read:

[How are you? I was just about to write to you myself! I have found a doctor who might be able to treat your eyes. They are said to be highly skilled. Come to the family estate when you can.]

At first, Damian was unhappy.

He was upset that his duties would prevent him from accompanying her. Moreover, he disliked the idea of her travelling such a long distance alone.

However, the next part of the letter left him with little room to argue.

It would be far more convenient for the doctor to travel north. Unfortunately, the doctor was already committed to seeing other patients. If Isabel went to see them instead, she could at least be examined sooner.

In the end, Damian reluctantly gave his consent.

Preparations were made without delay.

As Isabel stood hesitating in front of the carriage, Damian stepped closer and gently rested a hand on her shoulder.

“The carriage has been inspected several times. Nothing will happen.”

He assumed that she was afraid to ride again because of the accident. Isabel lifted the corners of her mouth in an awkward smile and quietly thanked him.

The carriage door closed and the carriage began to move.

Lowering her head, Isabel began to bite her nails. The tender skin beneath split and a bead of blood welled up.

It was not the carriage she feared.

There was another reason.

‘My eyes cannot be healed.’

The Baron had said as much himself. So why had he suddenly found a doctor who could cure her?

Isabel sensed there was another motive. She did not know what it was, and this uncertainty deeply unsettled her.

The carriage did not stop until it reached the baron’s estate. With Sarah’s help, Isabel stepped down.

The manor was unnaturally quiet. Despite having sent word ahead, no one had come to greet them.

Tap. Tap.

Only the sound of her cane striking the ground announced her arrival.

When the doors finally opened and she stepped inside, she could sense the presence of others.

“You have arrived.”

A white-haired man greeted Isabel. He was Arthur, the head butler of the estate. With an impassive expression, he guided her forward.

“The baron is on his way. Please wait in the drawing room.”

Isabel drew in a quiet breath and tightened her grip on her cane.

‘It’s all right. It will be all right.’

Repeating his reassurances to herself, Isabel followed him.

The corridor leading to the drawing room was lined with portraits of the Ester family. The gilded frames passed her by one by one, silent witnesses to generations of pride and legacy.

The last portrait was of her.

She had platinum-blonde hair, intricately braided. Her emerald-green eyes were so luminous that they could have been mistaken for precious gemstones. Her lips curved into a confident smile.

The woman in the painting was undeniably beautiful — beautiful enough to explain why so many noblemen had once sought her hand in marriage.

Isabel stepped into the drawing room and took her seat. A maid entered quietly, placed a cup of tea before her, and withdrew without a sound, leaving behind a heavy, oppressive silence.

The baron was later than expected.

The tension tightening around her chest now was unlike the restless anticipation she had felt on her wedding night. This was different. Sharper. Colder.

Unable to bear the suffocating stillness any longer, she finally reached up and removed her heavy veil.

Beneath her neatly braided platinum hair, her ash-grey eyes were revealed.

The radiant woman in the portrait had been replaced.