At that moment, Isabelle stopped looking at him.

Her gaze had been so direct that Arnaud reacted almost immediately.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Didn’t you tell me to stay in reflection?”

Since coming to Antmaren, Isabelle had never acted as a lady of the house.

Most of the documents had been read and processed by Murier; her own role had been limited to signing things that had already been checked.

So she had assumed that this meeting would also be under Murier’s direction.

It was irresponsible, yes – but reality had made her do it.

“Fulfilling your duties is also a form of reflection.”

Arnaud replied with a slight shrug, every word laced with suspicion, as if he were conducting an interrogation.

It made Isabelle pick at her freshly trimmed nails.

“So you intend to doubt me to the end.”

“I see no reason not to.”

“Then why entrust something like the Mass to someone you find so suspicious?”

Arnaud had no answer.

He just turned his head and bit his peach lips.

The two of them weren’t just stuck – they were regressing.

She’d had enough of these cryptic games.

Facing him directly, Isabelle spoke clearly.

“I can’t take it.”

Driving his wife to the edge of a cliff, only to pull her back when there was nowhere else to go – that was what he had been doing for weeks.

And she no longer wanted to be caught.

“Don’t disappoint me again, madam.”

“That’s exactly why I refuse.”

Arnaud furrowed his brow as if he didn’t understand a word.

Frustrated, Isabelle bit her lip before speaking.

“If a single bottle of wine went missing, I’m sure you’d accuse me of treason. So tell me – how could I have the courage to oversee a mass?”

“That’s not what I meant!”

“Then what did you mean?”

Arnaud kicked the sofa in anger and Isabelle, refusing to back down, stood up and brushed off her skirt.

“You had someone search my body, didn’t you? I cried, screamed that I didn’t do it, and you never looked back!”

“That’s…!”

“Even days after I tried to hang myself, even when I was locked up for over a week, nothing changed! You didn’t even hesitate, did you? You never even planned to come!”

The raised voices had already sent the servants scurrying away, but Isabelle didn’t even notice and continued to shout angrily.

Then Arnaud grabbed her by the shoulders. A storm rose in his blue eyes.

“Isabelle, what are you talking about? You tried to hang yourself?”

Ah. That expression again.

“So tired of it…”

The wave crashed over her in an instant.

Before she could react, her throat was underwater.

Surviving wasn’t the same as escaping – and deep down she knew she was only meant to float.

Even in death, she would remain afloat in the tide of those blue eyes.

And in the next life – would you still be so cruel?

How much more of her will he drown before he’s satisfied?

“Aren’t you tired too?”

“Answer me first.”

“You won’t believe me anyway. So don’t ask.”

“Isabelle!”

Arnaud’s voice broke as he shouted, as if he’d reached his breaking point.

But Isabelle could only stare at him, dazed.

Her hands moved of their own accord, slowly pulling the scarf away from her neck, driven by nothing more than instinct.

And with that, the rope marks she had tried so hard to hide were exposed.

The bruises stood out against her pale skin.

“What… what is this?”

He recognised the marks instantly and stared between Isabelle’s neck and eyes, his hand hovering over her throat, shaking uncontrollably.

His eyes didn’t say he didn’t want to believe it – they said he couldn’t.

Which made Isabelle resent him all the more.

She slowly took his hand and lowered it, then spoke:

“I apologise for my disgraceful behaviour earlier. I forgot for a moment that I am a criminal. Whatever resentment you have – I deserve to accept it without protest.”

“Isabelle, I didn’t come here to hear that…”

When Isabel stepped back, Arnaud came closer.

And the closer he came, the less she could bring herself to look at him.

Their eyes never met.

“Resent me all you want. But I have one request.”

“What are you talking about, Isabelle?”

“Just… please, no more. Stop shaking…”

She didn’t even get to finish the sentence – her throat closed too soon.

Tears cut thick, silent paths down her cheeks.

Isabelle quickly put her hand to her eyes, but strangely, that was when the sobbing really began.

She thought she had no more tears to shed – a foolish assumption.

How long had she cried in silence?

“…Elisabeth.”

Not Madame de Châtour, not Isabelle – but Elisabeth. She should have been startled, but tears don’t stop that easily.

The grief was too vague, too heavy, and Isabelle began to sob louder.

And then long, strong arms were wrapped around her.

He was trembling too – like her.

“I don’t know.”

“Huu, huu…”

“Sometimes I remember nothing. It’s as if I’m wandering through a sleep without dreams.”

The voice that rang in her ears was undoubtedly Arnaud’s.

It was different from the clear tone he had as a child, but it was unmistakably his.

“When I wake from sleep, you’re always crying. And beside you lies the weight of my ever-increasing sins. I swear I don’t remember anything…”

As he spoke, Arnaud pulled his wife into a tighter embrace. The bandage brushing against her hair was still vivid, as if his wounds hadn’t healed yet.

What could she think?

She wanted to believe him – even the most absurd lies.

***

There was no place that had declined so rapidly, and yet no place where the sunlight shone so abundantly.

Antmaren was such a place, and so was its predecessor, Oretique.

But if there was only one place in Oretique where the sunlight could not reach, it would surely be the prayer room of the cathedral.

“The light doesn’t come in as much as I expected.”

Isabelle said as she stood in the middle of the prayer room, looking around at the altar and its surroundings, then turned to Murier.

“It’s because the architecture is so solemn. It was built eight centuries ago.”

“But it must have been restored?”

“Restoration is only restoration.”

Oretique was a place whose origins could only be traced by going back almost a thousand years.

As Isabelle had said, King Charles XI had ordered its restoration and embellishment, but the cathedral, solemn to the core, remained unchanged.

God may illuminate the surroundings, but he never comes to a place that is already illuminated.

It was a convincing phrase, but not entirely true – for there were exceptions, like her husband and herself.

“Let them prepare as much oil and as many candles as possible. Even if it means concentrating all the light on the altar.”

“Yes, madam.”

Murier bowed his head without resistance.

It had been three days since she had begun preparing the mass at her husband’s request, and Isabelle was managing Oretique quite well in her own way.

Although the state religions of Châteaubienne and Imanoria were different, their roots were the same, which made it possible. It also helped that she had abandoned everything from Imanoria – including her faith – soon after arriving in Châteaubienne.

Ironically, the tasks Arnaud had entrusted to her had helped her to forget him.

At night, when she might have remembered crying in his arms, she buried herself in liturgical texts and reference books. And during the day, her schedule was so full that even reflection had become a luxury.

For Isabelle, who had never been a particularly gloomy person, this was the better way.

“Wouldn’t it be better to pay more attention to the food instead? After all, other nobles will be attending.”

If only she didn’t have that chattering little sparrow by her side.

“…I brought you along purely for observation. I don’t recall asking for your input.”

“It’s not input – it’s advice!”

Was she really that oblivious, or just pretending to be?

Agnès had a way of making you close your mouth just when you’d opened it to scold her.

As annoying as she was – even more so than Camille – she was also clumsy enough that, unlike Camille, she didn’t feel threatened.

“It would be better if you wore a more modest hairstyle when you attend Mass. Remember that, Lotur.”

Nevertheless, that extravagant hair really needed to be addressed.

Decorating braided hair with flower petals was a common style in Chamféra, but it was completely inappropriate before the altar.

“If you were going to a ball…”

“There is no ball in sight.”

Not long ago, this woman could barely speak without trembling – how had she become so bold?

With that brief reply, she turned and walked away, the soft tap of her shoes echoing on the floor.

No doubt she’d be following her until evening.

Ignoring her, Isabelle made her way to the baptismal font on the left.

She had to see for herself that the restoration was complete.

Just then, a bellboy came running into the prayer room.

“Madam, the people from the monastery have arrived.”

“That was quick.”

It had only been two days since she had sent word, so Isabelle looked slightly surprised as she lifted the hem of her skirt.

“Let’s go quickly, Murier.”

“Yes, Madame.”

Agnès followed closely behind Murier as he quickened his pace, but now wasn’t the time to scold her.

Even if she spent the whole night reading liturgical texts and reference books, preparing for Mass was still a daunting task.

Even priests struggled with it – it wasn’t something she could do alone.

So she had contacted the nearest monestary.

The monastic order of Mövien – both monks and nuns – was located in the northern part of the neighbouring region of Antmaren. The only reason Isabelle had been able to ask for help in her own name was because she had good relations with the local lords, the Duke and Duchess of Yorbon.

The abbot of the monastery was certainly aware of this, and it didn’t take long for a favourable reply to arrive from Mövien.

Today was the day their members were expected to arrive.

“How many did they say were coming?”

“Three nuns, two monks and a priest.”

“I’ll show them to their quarters myself.”

Their conversation didn’t last long. As they walked through the door, they could already see two carriages parked nearby.

Isabelle straightened her shoulders slightly and stepped forward.

The carriage door opened a moment later.

“Well, well, Lord Murier.”

“Father Nicolas.”

“It’s been a while. Why didn’t you come to the feast?”

“You know how incredibly busy I am.”

But instead of greeting Isabelle, the priest, getting out of the carriage, decided to shake Murier’s hand.

Just as a strange sense of embarrassment began to harden Isabelle’s expression, Murier let out a soft sigh-“Ah…”-and moved to stand beside her.

“This is the Duchess of Latvien. You should greet her properly.”

“Ah…”

The priest, who looked as if he had just entered middle age, furrowed the shallow lines on his forehead and hesitated to raise his hand.

It was an unmistakable sign of disrespect.

His demeanour suggested that he didn’t even consider her a fellow human being. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment.

But Isabelle was no longer the Marquise of Châteaur, nor a Princess of Imaronia – she was now the Crown Princess of Châteaubienne.

There was no need for her to lower her hand.

Just as she opened her mouth to demand a proper greeting –

“Bow your damned head and greet her again before I break you – someone grabbed her shoulder and growled.”

As she turned her head, it was Arnaud.