Isabelle woke up a full day later.

In fact, she was almost forcibly woken from her unconscious state by Marie. Having slept dreamlessly for the first time in ages, Isabelle dressed in all black – a matching robe and jupe – and left the room.

Mourning clothes and her mantilla were items she always kept close to hand, but as she watched them being loaded onto the carriage, she’d never imagined she’d need them so soon.

‘In the end, I wore them almost as soon as I arrived.’

Occasionally catching glimpses of her black sleeves, Isabelle lowered the arm holding her rosary box and tried not to look.

Today was Alathea’s funeral mass.

Oddly enough, Isabelle had forgotten her promise. It was only when Marie brought out the mourning dress that she remembered their conversation in Calvador.

“When we reach Antmaren, I’d like to build her at least a modest grave.”

“As you wish.”

How could she forget? 

It wasn’t just one thing that refused to come back to her.

When she opened her eyes, the only thing she could grasp was the fact that she wasn’t dreaming. 

It was as if someone had erased the whole day before. 

She tried to remember, but what wasn’t coming just wasn’t coming.

By the time Isabelle descended the stairs to the antechamber, she had given up trying to remember yesterday.

“Ah, you’ve arrived.”

As she approached the altar, a priest greeted her. 

He was an elderly man, his black cassock contrasting sharply with his snow-white hair.

Isabelle smiled faintly and held out her hand. The deep creases in his palm were clearly visible as their hands met.

“You come from the Moebius monastery at Arananteuil. You’re a monastic priest, aren’t you?”

“I am Sébastien. I’ve come in the name of the abbot.”

“I am Isabelle Charlene de Jalbert. But please, just call me Madame.”

“Latvien… would that mean you’re from Imanoria?”

She had remembered it many times before, but this was the first time anyone had said it out loud since her arrival in Oretique.

Although Camille had once spat out Imanoria in a mocking tone, there was no malice in the monk’s question.

When she nodded slowly, Sébastien’s lips parted slightly in surprise. Although there wasn’t a single familiar thing around them, the monk acted as if he knew her somehow.

The silence that lasted for several minutes was finally broken by a hand reaching between them.

“Hello!”

It was none other than Camille. Naturally, the priest’s gaze shifted to her, and the two exchanged greetings.

After Murier’s introduction, she offered her name in return, but the priest still did not release her hand.

He just stared at Isabelle, his eyes so wide that deep lines formed on his forehead.

“I am Camille de Saint-Mang. I serve Lord Arnaud.”

“Ah, so you’re the one…”

They shook hands again, but the priest’s expression was noticeably less warm than when he greeted Isabelle. 

A mistress had no official duties – nor did she have any formal rights. 

One of those forfeited rights was the ability to exchange proper introductions with a clergyman. 

Even in a world where popes took mistresses, such things were the province of the powerful. For an ordinary priest like Sébastien, it was hardly a welcome thought.

‘Am I really different?’

The thought stirred in her mind.

The fact that she had never shared a bed with him was known only to a few, and Isabelle was still undeniably the King’s mistress. So why did Sébastien only seem to be displeased with Camille?

But that thought quickly faded as Isabelle noticed something – Arnaud wasn’t at Camille’s side.

“Where is Arnaud?”

She approached and asked Camille, who was fidgeting absently with the hand the priest had just released.

“He doesn’t seem to be feeling well, even when I asked him to come, he refused.”

She wondered if it was a lie – but given the way Arnaud had always treated her, it didn’t seem impossible. Isabelle let out a deep sigh and turned her eyes to the altar.

Just then, a familiar scent hit her nose.

“You.”

“Hm?”

“Are you smoking Opion?”

It was a scent similar to the one Arnaud used to smoke in Calvador – and it was coming from Camille.

Isabelle had been sensitive to scents from birth – more than anyone else. And smells had a way of bringing back many things.

Including fragments of the previous day.

The first thing that came to mind was the image of Camille, dressed in a chemise, chewing on what looked like a cigar. She couldn’t quite remember where or when she’d seen this scene – but she had.

As she stared at Camille with an almost accusing look, Camille met her eyes briefly, then lifted one corner of her mouth in a faint smirk.

“Sharp of you – but no. It’s Anmadre, something Lord Arnaud enjoys.”

Back in Imanoria, a merchant’s servant visiting Zaphcada Castle had once shown her what Opion looked like.

But it wasn’t Anmadre. The scent was all wrong.

Anmadre was a powerful painkiller – far too poisonous to be used casually. No one would use it unless the pain outweighed the value of their own life.

‘For the scent to cling to someone else…’

Isabelle’s expression darkened instantly.

So it was true – he really had been smoking Anmadre all the time, day and night.

Having seen and heard enough to leave no room for doubt, Isabelle believed Camille’s words without question.

How bad has it gotten?

But grief and resentment were two different things. 

If he had promised to attend the funeral mass, then he should at least have stayed away from Anmadre yesterday. 

“I don’t want to delay any longer.” 

Biting her lip, Isabelle spoke firmly as she walked towards the coffin. 

At her words, the small crowd immediately gathered towards the centre. 

Isabelle placed the small box she was carrying inside the empty coffin. 

Normally a body would have been placed inside – but there hadn’t been time for that in the procession to Antmaren. 

It was an unorthodox arrangement, but the bishop of the southern diocese had given special permission. 

Perhaps he felt sorry for Thea.

As Sébastien stepped forward, the mass began.

The main prayer was short, and when the priest opened his eyes afterwards, he glanced between Isabelle and the coffin, as if to signal that it was time for her to say goodbye.

“Alathea.”

Isabelle nodded and placed her hand gently on the box. It hadn’t been that long since she had died, and yet Alathea’s face was already beginning to fade from memory.

Although she hadn’t shed any tears during the main prayer, they were finally running down her cheeks now.

“Farewell. Be safe.”

As she pressed a kiss to the box, it really did feel like the time had come to let her go.

Isabelle returned to her seat without even fixing her veil, still wiping away the tears that wouldn’t stop. She reached for her handkerchief.

“Here…”

Just then, someone handed her a handkerchief.

Looking up, she saw a man she didn’t recognise.

Quietly, she looked into his green eyes. Judging by his clothes, he didn’t seem to be of high rank – but then, none of the servants she’d seen had looked as striking as him.

Perhaps her gaze was too direct, for the man hastily pressed the handkerchief into her hand, turned his head and bowed deeply.

It was puzzling, but wiping her tears came first, so Isabelle decided to accept it for now.

Meanwhile, the procession began – but not quite in the way Isabelle had expected.

Murier stepped forward and began to remove the box from the coffin.

“W-wait a minute. What do you think you’re doing?”

“Burying the coffin as it is would be a waste. Oretique is not a land of plenty, and your maid was not a noble of Châteaubienne, was she, Madame?”

“What did you just say?”

Isabelle’s face flushed with anger, but her anger meant little to the people of Antmaren. So Murier didn’t even look in her direction.

“Let us go, Father.”

He simply urged Sébastien on, who hesitated, looking back and forth between Isabelle and Murier. The priest seemed to be the only one who cared about her, but with two strong attendants pushing him forward, there was little he could do.

Isabelle, unable to follow the procession, collapsed trembling before the altar.

“Madame!”

This was Alathea’s last journey. She had to follow.

But her legs wouldn’t move. Had it not been for the man holding her, Isabelle would have fallen face first to the ground.

“How could they do this? How could they be so cruel?”

“……”

“She’ll be buried without a body – she won’t find peace even in death… with bullet fragments still in her, with nothing! What did Thea ever do to deserve this?”

To pour out her grief to a stranger – not her husband, not her father – was humiliating in itself. But when it came to grief, Isabelle was not to be outdone by Thea.

Overwhelmed with grief, she cried out.

But her breath kept catching in her throat, making it impossible to cry properly. The man held her silently as she sobbed, and her cries spread through the chapel like a prayer of mourning.

“I should have taken her place. I should have died instead, with nothing to say, nothing to leave behind…”

“N-no, Madame. That’s not true.”

“I was probably the only one who ever prayed for her. A sinner like me, making the sign of the cross… My prayer meant nothing – it was because of me…”

“But I prayed for her too. He who sees all will surely embrace Lady Thea.”

Thankfully, the man did his best to dispel Isabelle’s despair. The effort was evident in the way he tilted his head to focus on her.

Looking up at him through tear-filled eyes, she broke down even more and buried herself in his arms.

“Clothes can dry, but tears cannot.”

“Hhh… hic…”

“If you don’t let it out, you’ll drown in it.

A large, warm hand slowly ran down her back. 

Perhaps this – this very gesture – was what Isabelle had been craving for the past three years. 

Even if there had been an intention behind the comfort, she would still have cried.

“Feelings bear no sin.”

Even if the one offering the comfort was a complete stranger.

The man didn’t try to stop her as she clutched at her chest, beating it again and again. 

He simply waited patiently for her sobs to subside on their own.

Author’s note:

1. Jupe: A petticoat worn under a robe, part of Rococo-era dress.
2. Monastic priest: A male monk who has received priestly ordination.
3. ὄπιον (Opion): A Western transliteration of the Greek word for poppy, often referring to opium.