It was a letter from Ilyana, the future Lady of the House of Imanoria and wife of her cousin Phillip.

It must contain the news that played a major role in her decision.

It was a letter she was afraid to open.

And yet it was also a letter she needed to read again.

It was clearly a letter of request, and as a noblewoman of Imanoria, she had a responsibility to see what was in it.

Isabelle lifted the hardened wax seal and removed the cream-coloured letter.

Then the words she hadn’t even wanted to see in her dreams were revealed.

Phillip is dead.

“Haah…”

Isabelle folded the letter back up, unable to bear how cruel it all was.

Not that it mattered – she’d see it the moment she closed her eyes anyway.

‘Phillip’

He came to her, cutting through the darkness.

His face was so young, almost unbearably so.

What he held in his hands was surely a butterfly he wanted to show Ilyana.

The two of them had loved things that flew since they were little.

The boy walked past Isabelle.

The next thing that came to her mind was the image of Phillip visiting Zaphcada Castle the day before she left for Châteaubienne.

“Don’t worry about your mother, I’ll do my part till the day I die. So just stay healthy, Eli. A year at the most, I promise.”

“Is this really right, Phillip? Is it right to be sent off like this just to avoid a war?”

“As long as everyone is safe, Elisabeth. As long as no one gets hurt, that’s enough. Be content to be alive. That’s the only answer.”

Phillip spoke calmly to her, her eyes red with tears.

He kept rubbing his sweaty hands, stroking lips that had nowhere to go…

He was also afraid.

Phillip was twenty-one years old.

If she’d known things would turn out this way, she would have forced her way to Imanoria, no matter what.

She should also have written to Phillip.

Even if she had nothing but lies to tell, she shouldn’t have put it off.

Now that it was all in the past, it filled her with regret.

But despite the weight in her chest, no tears came.

Had she run dry long ago?

She found herself tearing at her hair instead of sobbing, and the absurdity of it all made her give up and get to her feet.

“Where did I put the brocade…”

Normally it was the servants’ job to rummage through the storeroom, but this wasn’t the time, and she didn’t feel like asking anyone.

As long as she rolled up her sleeves, there was no need to worry about ruining her dress.

The powder room, built into the corner of her chamber, was narrow.

As a result, even the pile of half-unpacked luggage was visible at a glance.

A layer of white dust had settled on it – clear proof that it hadn’t been touched.

After running her hand over the pile a few times, Isabelle finally found the fabric.

She unwrapped the cheap packaging and took out the brocade.

She had bought it to make a shawl for snowy days, but Antmaren had proved warmer than expected, so it was only right to send it to Imanoria instead.

All that remained was to write the accompanying letter.

Isabelle leaned the cloth against the side of the cupboard, then opened a drawer and took out pen and paper.

Dear Ilyana,

I’m sorry to hear about your husband.

Please forgive me for the delay in replying.

The shock was overwhelming. I couldn’t bear the thought that the three of us would no longer be together.

I can’t imagine how much worse it must be for you.

You’ve probably gone without food for a while.

Ilyana, you always put your fork down when something happens.

But you have to eat, Ilyana.

When you read this, ask them to make you some köfte.

You don’t have to be careful with food now, do you?

I know you probably can’t even bring yourself to touch it.

I couldn’t either.

But you have to eat.

You have to force it down.

I say this out of concern, Ilyana – don’t worry about things here.

It won’t be cold, even in winter.

This place isn’t like the northern regions, like Chamfera.

Many things have changed.

I can’t write down everything, but the bottom line is – I’m safe too.

So take care of yourself.

Do your best to let it all out, at least for the sake of the children.

I can’t stop worrying.

It’s because I know you too well.

Phillip couldn’t have found peace either – he knew you too well.

I’m afraid you’re even putting off letting yourself be saved.

That’s why, Ilyana, you must help him now.

Live well, with all your strength, so that he can finally rest.

I will do the same.

I’ll fight to survive, with everything I have.

You know that, don’t you, Ilyana?

That’s all Phillip ever wanted – for us to go on living.

And that hasn’t changed, not even now.

So please, stay alive. No matter what happens.

Don’t spend your nights alone.

Don’t sleep through the afternoon.

Walk in the morning.

Show the children the sea we once called home.

In the end, just stay alive. That’s all I ask.

I can’t bring myself to write any more, Ilyana.

But you know – sincerity doesn’t only come in long, poetic words.

I miss you.

I miss Irini and Rex too.

They’re not ill, are they?

Write to me whenever you can.

Even if I’m slow, I’ll always write back.

I’m sorry if my words were too hard.

I’m worried about you and praying for your safety.

P.S. I chose the softest one I could find.

It should be about a full roll.

I’m sorry that’s all I can give you now.

From Antmaren,

Isabelle

The ink was dry and it was time to fold the letter – but Isabelle was too absorbed in tracing each name.

Phillip, Ilyana and her children, Rex and Irini…

Irini must have learned to walk by now.

The last time Isabelle had held her was before she left, when she was two years old and Rex had just started to read.

Thinking of them made her miss her niece and nephew terribly.

And she missed Ilyana, who used to come to her and take the children in her arms.

Did they even know that their father was dead?

She had hoped that those young, innocent faces would be spared grief, but tragedy had finally found its way to them.

***

And just like that, a week had passed.

In fact, it had been a week since Isabelle had locked herself in her chamber.

It was enough to look out into the garden from time to time, enough to eat her meals at the window.

The desire to go out had long since gone.

So nothing had really changed.

And even if something had, it was hard to feel it.

Especially since Arnaud had allowed her to send someone to Ilyana.

Though in truth, Moerne must have received the news first.

‘A prisoner pretending to be imprisoned… Who was really imprisoning whom?’

When she thought about it, the whole situation was absurd.

With a small, bitter laugh, she scooped up a handful of water – only to let it spill through her fingers.

“Madam, please give me your other arm.”

As always, Marie attended to her without complaint.

Instead of nodding, Isabelle simply held out her raised arm.

The rose water trickled down from her collarbone to her wrist.

It was like a first and last confession.

After that, Marie said nothing more.

Whether it was because she had no expectations of Isabelle, or because she knew she had no right to, Isabelle couldn’t say.

‘Whatever the reason… a whole week of silence is enough.’

She decided to leave it at that.

She didn’t want to get lost in thought as she sat in the water.

One of her thighs was unusually red.

It was from a wound that had just begun to scab.

She was just beginning to wonder when new skin would grow when Marie finished trimming her nails.

“You should come out now and get dressed.”

“All right.”

“Monsieur is on his way. He says there’s something he needs to discuss with you.”

At the unexpected news, Isabelle looked at Marie with slightly widened eyes.

Soon Marie was helping her to her feet, wiping the water from her body as she continued – though her next words were a little different from what Isabelle had expected.

“Wear the dried rose dress, madam. It goes well with your hair.”

“More importantly… what could he possibly want with me?”

“Well, that’s not for me to know, madam.”

To think that Marie had softened was a complete illusion.

She passed the responsibility back to Isabelle as she tightened the straps of her chemise.

Not really wanting an answer, Isabelle simply lowered her head and let Marie’s hands do their work.

Just as she had said, there was a certain elegance to the reflection in the mirror once the muted pink skirt and robe were over the pannier.

Covering the bruise on her neck with a white scarf completed the look.

But it was all too much for Isabelle.

It was the taste of a woman from Imanoria – someone who would only tie a single ribbon and dispense with a corset altogether.

She turned around a few times, feeling uncomfortable. Even the scarf felt uncomfortable.

“Isabelle.”

The door finally opened and Arnaud stood silently in the doorway.

Judging by his redingote and the tricorn hat on his head, he had probably just come from riding.

“I was under the impression that there were no riding grounds in Héréthique.”

“The entrance to Antmaren is well maintained. It’s good for a few rounds.”

Though short, he didn’t bother.

He just walked past her, taking off his dark brown leather gloves.

Isabelle, unimpressed, made her way to the opposite side of the room.

Once seated, silence fell – as expected.

It was quiet, but not lonely.

Their faces alone were loud enough to fill the room.

He seemed to have something to say.

The way his lips kept moving, wordlessly, made it obvious.

Arnaud had never been good at hiding things, and even now, at twenty, he still wasn’t.

It always made her smile.

Arnaud wasn’t the only one who hadn’t changed.

A few minutes later he finally spoke.

“There will be a mass soon to mark the tenth anniversary of the Ribeon massacre.

I want you to take charge of the preparations.”

Author’s note:

Köfte – A traditional Turkish dish made from ground meat mixed with spices and vegetables, shaped into balls or patties and grilled or fried. It’s similar to Western-style meatballs.

Jupe – Part of Rococo-era dress, this is an underskirt worn beneath a robe as part of formal women’s attire.

Redingote – A type of riding coat, the word comes from French, adapted from early 18th-century English fashion and introduced to France.