It was Arnaud. He looked like he had just gone for a walk, lightly dressed. His tousled, curly blond hair stood out and poked into his eyes.

Isabelle, who had turned her head blankly at his sudden appearance, still couldn’t comprehend what was happening, even after Laurent scrambled to his feet.

“M-Monsieur.”

But she couldn’t just sit there. Isabelle stood up, clutching her skirt.

Then she saw Arnaud’s flushed, stained face – it looked like that of a shepherd who had lost his sheep. Not even his crook, just the sheep.

His lips moved constantly as he looked back and forth between Isabelle and Laurent, and perhaps realizing that he was being overly emotional, he clasped his hands behind his back and assumed a haughty posture.

“How pathetic Alathea must be, Isabelle.”

“What are you…?”

“Seeing you use the maid’s memorial as an excuse to look for men – that’s what I thought.”

This time her face turned red. Only then did Isabelle realize that her husband suspected something between her and Laurent.

“N-No, Madame would never…”

“Silence, Duc.”

It was Laurent who protested first.

He winced and waved his hands in denial, but at Arnaud’s next words, he obediently shut his mouth.

He even stepped back, forgetting to maintain his forward stance.

“Did I ask you?”

“No, you didn’t.”

He seemed to be projecting contempt rather than jealousy, but the way he flicked back his fringe in irritation made it clear – that ship had long since sailed.

The glare he had directed at Laurent soon shifted to Isabelle.

“So, Madame de Châtour.”

That disgusting title came with it.

No wonder the heat in her face wouldn’t go away.

Isabelle bit down hard on her lip.

“Go on, make your excuses. Why were you sitting so close, so lovingly?”

“We were just praying. Laurent was kind enough to join me, that’s all.”

“What I’m asking is what led up to that. Why were the two of you praying together all the way out here in such a remote place?”

His words came at her like rapid fire, hard to tell if it was jealousy or pure malice.

No excuse would work with this man.

No-at least in this matter, Isabelle had done nothing to be ashamed of.

There was no need to explain herself, so she answered like a sigh.

“I came to offer a prayer that I hadn’t been able to offer. I couldn’t follow the funeral procession because of my injured leg.”

“And where was Marie, who should have been at your side? At least Camille should have accompanied you, Isabelle.”

“The new maids are nothing like Alathea. Whether it’s the one you assigned or the one Versica did.”

“Then you should have let me….

At Isabelle’s words, he cut himself off with a choked sound, as if he were spitting out something disgusting.

It wasn’t a complete sentence, so Isabelle scowled, trying to make sense of it.

What she managed to piece together left her stunned.

“You mean I should have called you?”

“If you didn’t have an attendant, shouldn’t I have been next in line?”

“You? The one who spent the whole day ranting about Anmadre and fainted, forgetting what day it was? The one who didn’t even make it to mass?”

Her voice rose now.

It was the first time she had ever shown so much anger, and her husband’s face clearly showed his surprise.

But she couldn’t be meek – not when he questioned her virtue when he hadn’t even come to mass.

“Mass? What mass?”

“Before you criticize me, you should have at least shown your face. Wasn’t it the fair *you* promised, Arnaud?”

“Isabelle, what on earth are you talking about? There was a mas today?”

He wasn’t even pretending anymore.

With a short sigh, Isabelle turned her head away, showing him her back.

She didn’t want to talk to him at all – but the matter had to be cleared up.

“I didn’t know Anmadre could cause memory loss.

Only memories of me, apparently.”

“Isabelle!”

“Duc and I are just friends, so please don’t harbor any pointless suspicions.”

He remained silent for a while, and then, just as Isabelle was about to walk away-grabbing her skirt to get up-he muttered a quiet remark.

“Soon every servant of the Hérétiques will belong to Madame.”

Her footsteps stopped abruptly.

When she turned sharply, he wore the sourest, most spiteful expression he could muster.

It didn’t help much, given his face, but Isabelle could tell – Arnaud was doing his best to provoke her.

‘At the age of twenty-something, really…’

Her husband seemed to be regressing rather than maturing. He was only two years older than her, but at that moment, Arnaud couldn’t have seemed more pathetic.

Her first emotion was anger, but even that – she couldn’t deny it – was partly her own fault.

That lie from Calvador had pierced her like a dagger, too.

So Isabelle said nothing.

“Why don’t you deny it?”

“Because you wouldn’t listen anyway.”

“So you do know.”

That attitude seemed to annoy Arnaud.

With a sneer, he let out a laugh and put both hands on his hips as he spoke.

“Even if you manage to charm everyone here, I won’t be one of them.”

He opened and closed his heart too easily. The occasional kindness he showed – and now this sudden change – must have come from that temperament.

If he wanted to show his claws, he shouldn’t have looked at her like that. Isabelle saw his pupils flicker.

As the standoff dragged on, it was Murier who approached.

“Ahem.”

Murier cleared his throat and looked between them.

It was his way of telling them to stop talking.

He looked so much like Henri’s footman watching them that it was almost comical.

“Go back and finish your letter.”

“Don’t give me orders.”

Despite the sharp reply, Arnaud had already turned to face Murier.

Whether this was a sign of his own volition or the result of countless threats was unclear – though given that he was one of Henri’s men, the former seemed highly unlikely.

“Attend to Monsieur.”

He had only been staring at Isabelle, but now he clicked his tongue loudly and began to walk to the other side of the garden. Servants hurried after him.

“Madame.”

Without so much as a parting word, Arnaud left. Murier, however, did not follow him, but approached her.

Only then did Isabelle take her eyes off Arnaud.

“I came because I also have business with you, Madame.”

“And how did you know we were here?”

Murier didn’t answer her question.

He simply nodded to Marie and motioned for her to accompany Isabelle.

“Let’s go, Madame.”

“Let’s go, Madame.”

Marie echoed softly.

Isabelle reluctantly began to walk, but she couldn’t help but worry about Laurent, who still hadn’t lifted his head.

“Laurent, earlier…”

“It’s an urgent matter.”

But even this short moment wasn’t allowed.

It was Murier who cut her off, preventing her from even saying a word of thanks.

Despite the lack of a proper goodbye, Laurent looked up and smiled.

The sight made Isabelle’s chest tighten.

And so, like someone being taken away, she left her seat – leaving only Laurent behind.

***

“Good afternoon, madame.”

“Yes.”

The residence was modest, so the faces she encountered were mostly the same.

At first, she hadn’t been treated very kindly, but once she began to offer greetings – if only with a glance – they eventually began to return them.

Accepting the greeting, Isabelle walked past them to the door of her private quarters.

But it didn’t look the same as when she had left.

The door was slightly ajar.

“Is… someone in there?”

“You’ll find out when you go in. Let’s go, Madame.”

Once again, Murier did not give her a proper answer.

He just gave a subtle nod to Marie, who had followed.

A wave of fear washed over Isabelle.

She pushed Marie’s hand away and opened the door herself.

There, standing beside the sofa with her hands folded, was a woman.

The white bonnet on her head identified her as a maid.

She seemed to be trembling slightly.

Isabelle looked back and forth between her and Murier in confusion.

“Who is she? She seems to be a maid, but…”

“Please, sit down first.”

Isabelle tried to approach the girl to get a closer look, but between the butler’s insistence and Marie’s gentle guidance, she had no choice but to go to the chair first.

The only small relief was that the girl had stepped in front of her.

Isabelle narrowed her eyes and studied the maid carefully.

Her faded dark blonde hair, the freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose, and her unusually full, charming lips-it all added up to a look that was rustic yet undeniably pretty.

But that wasn’t the only thing Isabelle needed to know about this maid.

“Could it be… that you were with Arnaud… in the bedroom…?”

The memory, once hazy, now came back with startling clarity.

She was the one – the maid Arnaud had lined up that night, the one he had tangled tongues with.

Now her face matched the memory perfectly.

“I… I have committed a grave sin…”

The moment Arnaud’s name left Isabelle’s lips, the maid hunched her shoulders as if she might drop to her knees and grovel at any moment.

Isabelle looked back and forth between Murier and Agnès.

Her vision and thoughts blurred at once – her pupils, her mind, everything was spinning.

“Ah…”

“Madame, can I get you some water…?”

Instinctively, Isabelle reached for her forehead, and almost at the same time, Marie offered her a glass of water.

She didn’t even have the strength to say she was okay, so she took it and swallowed a sip.

And then it finally came back to her – this girl was the mademoiselle who had pleasured Arnaud that night.

-“Murier… what on earth is this…?”

“Shall I speak, or shall you?”

With that, Murier looked at the maid, who was as pale as death – not unlike Isabelle herself.

She looked as if she couldn’t say a word, and Isabelle couldn’t imagine what on earth she was supposed to say.

“Um, I… that is, I…”

As expected, the maid could only stammer.

Seeing this, Isabelle lowered her hand from her forehead and gave a small wave to either side – a gentle gesture signaling that she would pass the turn, that it was okay.

“So you speak. What’s up with you bringing this girl before me?”

“Ah, well.”

Murier, apparently also judging that the maid was incapable of answering, stroked his white beard and began to speak as if he’d been waiting for the chance.

“Don’t drag it out.”

“It’s… rather shocking news. Especially for you, Madame. I’m also terribly sorry to be the one to deliver it.”

Isabelle’s frown deepened at the vague wording.

Murier had always been the kind of person who never got right to the point.

“I don’t like preambles.”

Only then did he remove his hand from his beard – a signal that he would finally speak plainly.

‘What could this be about?’

She had never really been anyone’s wife before, so she had no frame of reference.

But Murier’s next words shattered any expectations she might have had.

“This girl is carrying the child of the Duke of Latvien.

In other words, she is pregnant.”