Chapter 117

Lionel kept silent and stared at Richard. The cousin, who so bluntly brought up Clarette as if poking at Lionel’s weakness, was rather disgusting.

But there were many eyes watching in the cathedral. Lionel maintained a calm expression and answered.

“I came all the way to Genoa for the festival, so of course I should visit the cathedral first. Isn’t that the reasonable choice?”

“A lifelong skeptic suddenly visiting? That’s unusual.”

“That’s unfair. My heart was always ready to be with the Order. Unlike some people.”

“If you mean me, Your Grace, you’re greatly mistaken. I’ve always been a devout follower of the Ensila Order, from birth until now, unlike some people.”

Lionel responded even more cynically to Richard’s annoying reply.

“Well, anyone from Crowley’s family must be loyal to the Order. Your family probably built at least one wall of this cathedral.”

Richard grimaced at Lionel’s words, which touched on his family’s shame. He clenched his teeth, recalling his father and grandfather’s expensive faith, who had poured immense donations into the church.

And ‘you’—Lionel’s deliberately distant and condescending tone irked him greatly. Though Richard had started the conversation, he now wanted to escape Lionel as quickly as possible.

“Are you heading to the Imperial Palace now?”

Richard motioned toward the door, as if to tell Lionel to leave, but Lionel stood firm. The Duke tested his cousin’s intentions.

“His Majesty the Emperor personally invited me, so I should go. Are you staying here?”

Richard glanced over Lionel’s shoulder. Among the many people inside the cathedral, it was not hard to spot Clarette.

Among the artists at the easel, there was only one woman.

Richard smirked.

“I’m not an imperial guest like you, so I’ll join at tomorrow’s luncheon. Today, I plan to spend my time praying in the cathedral.”

Lionel wanted to grab Richard by the collar and drag him out of the cathedral. He didn’t want his scheming cousin to get even a step closer to Clarette.

“You’d better hurry, Your Grace. Are you planning to keep His Majesty waiting?”

But Lionel really had to leave. Being late for a banquet hosted by the Emperor was an unforgivable offense.

Besides, he couldn’t take Clarette out just because Richard was bothering him. That would only reveal how important she was to him.

Lionel carefully suppressed his urge to look back at Clarette. Instead, he listened to the organ music and hymns filling the cathedral, the murmurs and footsteps of the crowd.

This was the holiest place in the empire, packed with people. Richard couldn’t do anything reckless to Clarette here.

He couldn’t secretly harm her as he had in Earl Crowley’s hunting grounds.

“…I’ll be going, then.”

Lionel shook off his worries and walked away. For now, he could only trust.

Trust in this sacred environment, the followers of the Goddess, and Clarette’s wisdom and cautious nature to protect her.

* * *

Clarette had already begun sketching in a corner of the cathedral.

‘Hubert was a perfect saint. Such a model monk.’

The founding king of Rosenta, who built the kingdom with his bare hands, was hot-tempered and martial. His younger brother, Saint Hubert, was known for his scholarly and quiet nature. He was wise, systematized the Ensila Order’s doctrines, and served as an excellent administrator.

‘But he was so outstanding, he attracted a lot of jealousy.’

Some of the founding king’s vassals, wary of Hubert, slandered him. Clarette recalled the false accusation of poisoning that Hubert endured.

The day the king collapsed after drinking poison at a banquet, many people accused Hubert, the heir, of being the culprit. He was accused of trying to murder his brother and imprisoned.

‘Everyone turned against him, but he didn’t falter.’

Despite countless accusations and criticism, Hubert insisted on his innocence. The trial was rushed, and facing execution, Hubert prayed to Goddess Ensila for a miracle.

The Goddess responded, and the poisoned king awoke. The king prevented his brother’s unjust death and wisely found the real culprit.

Clarette was painting that very scene.

Hubert praying to the Goddess at the execution ground, the founding king appearing in a corner of the painting, and the accusers blinded by envy and jealousy.

She hadn’t chosen specific models. But while drawing the accusers, Clarette unconsciously thought of Marquis Rembart’s face.

‘There were so many.’

As Clarette moved her charcoal, faces flashed through her mind.

Other artists who mocked her efforts in the atelier as a child, servants in noble houses who suspected her of being a courtesan when she visited for commissions, nobles who dismissed her with condescending words.

The faces of the accusers pointing at Hubert resembled such people.

“Who’s that woman?”

“Did she come in by mistake? This is the cathedral, and it’s festival week…”

People passing by saw Clarette at the easel and whispered. Only invited artists were allowed in the cathedral during festival week, so she was again misunderstood.

“Ahem, excuse me.”

Perhaps because of this, a middle-aged priest approached Clarette and cleared his throat. When she looked up from her drawing, the priest spoke sternly.

“Miss, do you have the token sent by the Order?”

Faced with his suspicious gaze, Clarette was flustered.

“Token? Do you mean this?”

She confidently took out a brass brooch engraved with the Ensila Order’s symbol. The priest checked the inscription ‘Chosen Talent’ on the brooch’s edge and smacked his lips.

“Ah, you have it. But there’s a reason it’s made as a brooch. Please wear it visibly on your clothes.”

“Huh? But no one else…”

“I’ll tell everyone else to wear theirs as well.”

The priest acted as if Clarette had broken a rule. She knew the token was for entry confirmation, and none of the other artists wore it on their clothes.

“What are you doing? This is the cathedral. You must follow the rules.”

His tone was outright scolding.

Clarette sighed and reluctantly pinned the brass brooch to her chest. Only then did the priest look relieved and walk off to a distant office.

‘…Rules, huh.’

Clarette felt the unfairness of discrimination, but it was awkward to get angry. She considered adding another accuser to her painting.

“Oh, that must be her. Duke Valentin’s personal artist.”

“Really? Is she famous enough to be here?”

“They say her painting was exhibited recently. She painted Duke Valentin’s portrait.”

The brass brooch, signifying invited artist status, was very effective. Nobles who freely entered the cathedral during the festival glanced at Clarette’s brooch and chatted.

“That Duke was a soldier, right? So he wore a uniform for the portrait.”

“Wasn’t it more than a portrait? I heard it’s related to the Flandor Battle.”

“Anyway, it’s unusual. She’s an artist, after all—always trying to stand out.”

“If you paint by the book, you’ll never get noticed. I bet Duke Valentin helped get her painting exhibited…”

“Ah, of course. They must be close.”

“Should I go talk to her? The Duke isn’t here right now.”

The young noble men and women chatting behind Clarette were careless. She tried to focus on her painting, not looking back. There was no space left to add more accusers.

When Clarette finished drawing Hubert praying to the Goddess at the execution ground—

“Miss Clarette Sollier?”

A man approached her from behind, speaking. Apparently, someone from the group had gathered courage.

Clarette turned around, suppressing her annoyance, and was startled.

Neatly combed black hair and oddly shadowed violet eyes. Nothing like Lionel—his cousin.

Richard Crowley looked down at her, wearing a faint smile.