Isabelle stared blankly at Murier.

She couldn’t bring herself to look at the girl.

“Say that again.”

“That maid is carrying the Duke of Latvien’s child.”

Even though she said it, she didn’t really want him to repeat it.

Isabelle lowered her head, her lips parted slightly, unable to close.

The feeling of misery was indescribable.

‘How could this be…’

Hearing rumors of a husband’s affair was one thing – but being confronted with it was quite another.

If only it had been a loveless political marriage – maybe that would have been easier.

She wished she had never wanted Arnaud.

Isabelle raised a trembling hand and wiped her face.

What answer could she give?

The fact that there was no one to turn to made her feel all the more pitiful.

No, it was the fact that she had to search for such an answer that made her feel truly miserable.

Perhaps Murier also felt some sympathy for her.

For the first time, he seemed to show concern for Isabelle’s well-being.

“Are you all right, Madame?”

Isabelle didn’t answer right away.

She just squeezed the corners of her eyes, holding back.

Then, raising her hand to brush back even the loose strands of hair from her face, she finally spoke.

“The Duke just slept with that girl yesterday. How could anyone know she was pregnant after just one night?”

She already knew – thanks to Louise – that a child was not something that could be conceived so easily.

The queen even resorted to the superstitions of heretics in her desperate attempts to bear an heir, but a successor never came.

She consistently failed to conceive.

Strictly speaking, it wasn’t that she always failed – she had suffered several miscarriages.

Whether it was Louise’s fault or Henri’s, there was no way of knowing.

But true to form, Louise – who blamed everything on the mistress – naturally placed the responsibility on Isabelle.

On the day her fifth false pregnancy was confirmed, Isabelle was punished by being forced to tighten her corset to the limit and endure it for forty hours.

In that condition, she even fell down the stairs.

And so Isabelle had reason to doubt.

Even the queen’s personal physician never conducted an examination until at least five days had passed.

“At the very least, you have to be late with your classes first.”

“Ah, well…”

At her words, Murier unfolded his arms and reached into his cloak.

What he produced was a neatly folded piece of paper.

With a puzzled expression, Isabelle took it and began to read.

Its contents were as follows:

Medical Report
Physician Hugues Nouvelier has examined Agnès, servant of the Hérétiques, and confirmed the cessation of her monthly courses.
Pregnant.

Hugues Nouvelier was the name of the retired former royal physician who had personally examined Isabelle when she first arrived in Châteaubienne.

The moment she saw his signature at the bottom of the page, she felt the air rush sharply out of her lungs.

“I hadn’t mentioned it before… but the Duke had slept with this girl several times in the past. So it’s not impossible. Fearing that you might doubt it, I even got Sir Nouvelier’s signature.”

At Murier’s words, she closed her eyes tightly.

It was information she didn’t want to know.

She should have just let it go.

A man who kept a mistress – why shouldn’t he be able to father a bastard?

Isabelle slowly removed her hand from her forehead.

“How thoughtful of you to tell me all this. I’m practically in tears.”

“How thoughtful of you to tell me all this. I’m practically in tears.”

“Because you didn’t believe it.”

“So? Why are you telling me this?”

“Even though the child is illegitimate, it has royal blood. A marriage must be arranged.”

In principle, every man in Châteaubienne was expected to live faithfully with only one wife.

Taking a mistress was not permitted by the Lord – it was a clear command written in the Scriptures.

Yet this was a world where even archbishops and cardinals had open mistresses.

If those who were supposed to embody the Scriptures were still committing adultery, what was to stop nobles from straying?

But Châteaubienne was, after all, a nation that worshipped the Lord, and the long line of Henri and Arnaud’s ancestors had sought ways – at least for the sake of appearances – to allow their mistresses to enter the Moerne Palace legally.

And so all the royal mistresses ended up marrying lesser nobles from the provinces, each gaining a title from the union.

Ironically, it was the mistresses who were expected to bestow these titles.

Madame de Châtour.

It was Queen Louise who had bestowed this humiliating title on Isabelle.

She remembered the queen signing the decree as if she wanted to snap the quill in two.

And now Isabelle found herself in the same position – forced to bestow a title on her husband’s mistress, just as Louise had once done.

“This is not the Moerne Palace, is it? And she’s not going to enter it. Is it really necessary to give her a title?”

Isabelle asked in a hushed voice.

It was a last, desperate attempt to preserve what little dignity she had left.

If she gave this girl a title, this night – this night – would be branded on her forever.

And maybe even everything before it…

“But he is the Duke of Latvien, is he not? Still a descendant of Jalbert. Some semblance of propriety must be maintained.”

‘Decency? In a prison like this?’

She almost laughed.

‘Decency when even appearances weren’t kept up?’

She remembered the corridor without even a proper frame on the wall.

Sarcasm rose to her lips, but Murier was a difficult man to deal with – so Isabelle decided against it.

“What do you want me to do?”

At her words, Murier gently helped the trembling maid to her feet and replied.

“You must give this girl a title and her own residence. I’ve brought a list of minor southern nobles – please choose one.”

Before he had even finished speaking, he gave a slight nod, causing an attendant to step forward and place a sheet of paper in front of Isabelle – a list of men who were nobles in name only.

“Pick the one with the least influence. I’ve already marked the more suitable ones – please use this as a reference.”

Isabelle glanced between the list and the maid standing in front of her.

Looks wouldn’t matter.

That girl would never see her husband again.

The maid was trembling.

She hadn’t stopped shaking for a second.

It was hard to believe that this was the same girl who had boldly swallowed Arnaud’s lips that night.

“What is your name? Say it again.”

“A-Agnès.”

Isabelle slowly closed her eyes, then opened them before calling to the maid.

The girl jumped.

“Are you afraid of me?”

“What do you think I’m going to do to you?”

She hadn’t asked expecting an answer, but the maid seemed to take Isabelle’s every word and gesture very seriously.

She couldn’t even manage to fold her hands properly – the sight was almost laughable.

No – in truth, it was Isabelle herself who felt more ridiculous.

‘What would Camille have done?’

Taking a deep breath, Isabelle looked at the list and chose a title that best fit the sound of Agnès from the ones that had been marked.

“From this moment on, you are Agnès de Lotur. Wife of Lord Lotur, who received his title three years ago.”

“I-I am honored.”

“Unfortunately, you will not see Lord Lotur. You are his wife in name only.”

Murier added quickly – a clear warning not to even think about turning her eyes to the knight.

“Shall we set aside the western guest quarters as her separate residence? If you say so, we’ll begin repairs immediately. It’s small, but livable.”

Had Arnaud been an ordinary noble, there would have been no such provision – but he was a direct member of the royal family. That meant Isabelle would have to give part of the Hérétiques to Agnès.

“Very well.”

If that’s the way it had to be, so be it.

With her eyes closed, Isabelle gave a slight nod, as if to say, take care of it.

“Take the girl.”

“Yes, Madame.”

Agnès, who had kept her head down the entire time, was finally led out of the room by two maids who had recently become her fellow servants.

Isabelle watched that small, fragile figure retreating and wondered to herself:
‘Will that girl become like Camille too?’

One way or another, Isabelle would have to suffer.

Did she kneel before Henri for this ending?

Did she endure all of his cruelty just to get here?

Thoughts of death-thoughts she hadn’t even entertained in Moërne-began to quietly accumulate inside her.

***

For some reason, Arnaud invited Isabelle to dinner that night.

There was only one dining room in the residence, so sharing meals was inevitable-unless Arnaud chose to eat in his room or informed the chef ahead of time so they could dine separately.

Until now, Arnaud had always avoided facing her in that way.

After all the trouble he’d gone through to avoid her, it was almost absurd that he would now invite her to dinner.

But even more absurd was the woman standing in front of her.

“How about that pale pink robe? Since it’s a casual occasion, shall I prepare the mule slippers?”

Camille had shown up in the middle of the day, insisting on helping her pick out an outfit.

Even before a maid had arrived, she was already holding out robes, obviously just trying to get on her nerves.

‘Why is a maid only in name…’

Isabelle couldn’t understand Camille’s intentions – she only played the role of a maid when it suited her.

With a deep frown, Isabelle said.

“I’ll dress myself.”

“Oh, come now. It’s only right that I take care of you, Madame. I’ve been so busy looking after the Duke lately that I haven’t been able to look after you properly.”

As Camille spoke, Isabelle’s mind flashed back to that night, the night she had brought Agnès.

The same face that had towered over her, smoking what looked like a cigar, as Isabelle knelt before her.

Anger rose in her chest.

She remembered what had happened that night – but the story behind it made no sense.

It was a feeling born of frustration.

And so Isabelle said:

“I have just finished arranging Agnès’ stay and marriage.”

“Agnès…? Who are you talking about?”

“How can you pretend not to know? You of all people should know.”

Camille looked up at her, her wide green eyes growing even rounder.

The innocent expression on her face was truly frightening.

It wasn’t the same face that had looked down at her that night and exhaled smoke.

Isabelle couldn’t help but wonder – how could someone be so perfect at pretending?

“It was you who brought those women here that night.”

Isabelle spoke through clenched teeth, her voice deep and strained, barely holding back her anger.

Yet Camille continued to stare straight into her face – until Isabelle refused to look away either.

Only then did Camille begin to show her true colors.

“You stupid Madame de Châtour.”

The pale pink robe she had been holding slipped from her hand and slid down the front of Isabelle’s skirt.

Camille crossed her now free arms and smiled for a long moment, then pushed Isabelle’s arm firmly aside as she spoke.

“Even if I act like this, even if Arnaud were standing right here in this room – he would never punish me.”

“Let go before I break it. What on earth gives you such confidence?”

“It’s not just your home that’s gone, madam. Your conscience, your heart, your love, they are all gone. Isn’t it time you realized that? Monsieur has become a perfect playboy. Would it surprise you if he had depraved tastes?”

“You have crossed the line of rudeness.”

“And even if I did, there’s no one here to stop me. Isn’t that right, Marie?”

And just like that, she pulled Marie in – who had been standing behind her with her head bowed.

Marie didn’t say a word, but Isabelle knew that silence didn’t mean disagreement.

In the end, all she could do was grit her teeth. Camille was the kind of woman who’d return a slap with two.

So Isabelle grabbed the white robe hanging at the back of the closet and stormed into her bedroom.

Marie followed. Camille did not.

Before the door was completely closed, Isabelle tossed the robe aside with a rough hand.

“Damn it!”