Isabelle froze.

A name that no one dared speak – except when Arnaud let it slip – had just fallen from the lips of a complete stranger in a nun’s habit.

“You speak Châteaubienne remarkably well. I’d heard you were exceptionally bright from a young age, but I didn’t expect it to be to this extent.”

The nun spoke with the distinct accent of the Chamféra nobility. It was so refined that she could easily be mistaken for someone from Moerne.

Only then did Isabelle understand the sense of familiarity she’d felt towards the nun.

At best, she must have been a fallen noble.

Isabelle raised her head, unable even to moisten her parched mouth.

Her breathing had stopped – how could there be any saliva?

A black veil framed the nun’s face over her dark habit.

With most of her features obscured, there was little to be gleaned even by looking directly at her.

But as Isabelle continued to watch, the nun stepped closer and opened her palm.

There was what looked like a flag.

“This belonged to Lord Arnaud when he was a child. It was originally part of a small boat, but now only this sail remains.”

Whichever way you looked at it, it resembled a flag – but the moment Arnaud’s name was mentioned, whether it was a sail or a flag no longer mattered.

Isabelle picked it up carefully.

Her hands were large for a woman, but the sail was wide enough to extend just beyond Isabelle’s middle finger.

The body to which the sail had once been attached looked very expensive. It wasn’t usual for a toy boat to have a sail of that size.

‘Unless it had belonged to a prince or young duke…’

There were other signs that the sail had belonged to him.

The initial ‘A’ was embroidered along the edge. All four of Charles’s children had used different initials, and the only one of them who had loved the sea was Arnaud.

Isabelle’s mind raced.

There weren’t many who could keep a royal child’s belongings for so long – but if she had to narrow it down to the one who probably knew him best, it could only be the nanny.

“So it’s Madame de Lemoiselle, not Catherine.”

Isabelle had heard about her too. First from Arnaud, then from the noblewomen of Moerne.

She was the first wife of the late Count de Lemoiselle and the mother of Patrice de Lemoiselle, the current Count and a prominent figure in Moerne.

Perhaps because of her reputation, her title was always accompanied by a series of elaborate descriptions.

The most important of these was the fact that she had looked after young Arnaud.

“Even an old woman with white hair can recognise worthy people. As expected, you’re sharp.”

Her assumption was correct.

Lemoiselle acknowledged her own title without hesitation, and that dignified bearing stirred many thoughts in Isabelle’s mind.

“We’ve never spoken privately before. Did you find out purely by deduction?”

Lemoiselle seemed quite fascinated that Isabelle had recognised her. Her eyes lit up as if she’d just discovered a hidden gem.

But Isabelle couldn’t return the feeling with the same warmth.

Because of what she’d heard – everyone in Chamféra and Moerne remembered that the Countess de Lemoiselle’s last public appearance had been during the trial three years ago.

The defendant had been Arnaud.

He was accused of having murdered his father, the former King Charles XI. It was said that he fought all the way to the courtroom, resisting until the moment she was brought in.

That was before the Countess agreed to testify.

“The nanny shouted that she couldn’t handle him any more. That was when I realised that my brother was really guilty, Isabelle. That’s the kind of man Arnaud was.”

Henri had told Isabelle that too, back when she was Élisabeth, before she had become who she was now, when she had wanted so desperately to believe in him.

“Even in death, I will remember him that way, Your Majesty.”

Of course, Isabelle hadn’t believed it.

Henri wasn’t stupid enough not to recognise sarcasm when he heard it.

After that, Isabelle was locked up for five days.

The memory flared up like an infection.

It was too difficult to suppress, so after several deep breaths she finally opened her mouth.

“I heard many things. I wasn’t sure if they were true. That’s why I kept looking for you, madam. I even sent people several times.

“Since I became a nun, I haven’t looked for anyone or answered any summons. It’s only natural that you couldn’t find me.”

Lemoiselle’s voice also began to soften.

The Countess clearly knew what Isabelle had come to confirm.

It was clear.

“You took your vows only five days after the late Count died.”

“You’ve heard a lot, Princess Élisabeth.”

“Because it was so puzzling.”

Although the distance between them was gradually closing, Isabelle’s gaze remained sceptical.

She couldn’t read them.

People from Chamféra often skipped introductions, getting down to business before any formalities.

And yet the countess had simply hesitated for several minutes.

Just as Isabelle’s curiosity was beginning to turn to impatience, the woman finally spoke.

“It seems I’m the one you find puzzling.”

“What brings you to me and not to Arnaud himself? If it were me, I would have gone to him first.”

The moment she mentioned Arnaud’s name, the Countess’s face darkened – no, it turned as black as the depths of a coal mine.

There was no need to ask why.

“In front of him, anything I said – anything at all – would just sound like an excuse… I just didn’t have the courage.”

Lemoiselle spoke in a voice that was slowly fading.

The emotions she had held in check were now so overwhelming that she began to sway, as if her former composure had never existed. Isabelle quickly supported her and helped her to a chair.

Then she opened the book and dipped a pen into the ink.

She also took out a few sheets of blank paper – just in case Murier or Marie should suddenly burst in.

“The moment the door opens, look at the book. I’ll put the pen within reach.”

“It seems that the surveillance is quite strict.”

“To the point where no one can be trusted. You should also refrain from using the title ‘Princess’, Catherine. The soundproofing in Hérétiques is terrible.”

“It’s no different from Moerne. Just a passing thought.”

She was well aware of her imprisoned state.

She should have nodded in agreement, but even then she couldn’t bring herself to swallow her pride.

Changing the subject was the only option left.

“You’ve waited long enough, haven’t you?”

That, too, seemed to be the countess’ only option.

In their shared effort to appear composed, the two women were very much alike.

Feeling a sense of kinship, Isabelle looked at her, hoping it wasn’t just her imagination.

“To get straight to the point… I came here to atone. Just as you must have suspected.”

“No need to ask who it’s for, then.”

“You’re sharp.”

Lemoiselle smiled bitterly.

Her expression was that of someone who had already crossed the river – there was no going back.

Then she tucked a strand of white hair back under her veil.

She’d heard the woman wasn’t even past sixty, and yet the backs of her hands were already wrinkled and liver-spotted.

“I heard the news from Father Sebastien. But I couldn’t do anything… My sons are still in Chamféra.”

Sure! Here’s the sentence translated into basic English:

“Arnaud and I were only married in a civil ceremony, I don’t know why the Count was…….“

“Because he was captured.”

At these words, Isabelle took a sharp breath.

The shock was so great that she forgot to exhale.

After all the times she had been deceived, she still didn’t really understand Henri.

Just as Isabelle had the Grand Duke and Phillip, Lemoiselle had her sons.

“Then you must know how much I really know.

Please promise me you won’t speak of it – at least for now.

Say you’ll reveal the truth when the time comes. That’s all I ask.”

Isabelle nodded repeatedly. That alone was enough of an answer.

The lady’s voice dropped even lower.

“You know my testimony was false, don’t you? You’re here because you didn’t believe it – I chose to believe it.”

“I never believed it.”

“Then you must also know the real cause of the death of His Majesty, the late King. I’m only asking because you said you never believed the official story.

But Lemoiselle wasn’t asking a question. She merely set the tone.

Once again proving her reputation for sharpness, Isabelle decided to keep her mouth shut.

“I’m relieved,” the old woman said quietly. “Knowing that someone like you is by His Highness’ side eases this old woman’s worries.”

“He would never kill. Not once in those two months in Imanoria did he show the slightest sign of it. I can still picture Arnaud praising His Majesty.”

“You are right. Lord Arnaud is not the real culprit.”

What followed was shocking.

“But his brother might be.”

It was as if a deep crack had opened in her mind.

Isabelle couldn’t even raise a hand to her lips, nor could she sigh – she could only stare at Lemoiselle.

By the time she could exhale the breath she’d been holding in, her senses seemed to have left her completely. It was the white-haired old woman who caught her as she collapsed.

“You must stay strong. Think why I’m telling you this, madam.”

For a long moment, all she could do was tremble. But as soon as the words reached her ears, she raised her head and looked at the Countess.

“How could he kill his own father… how is that even possible?”

“I couldn’t imagine it either at first. I knew him as a child.”

“I want to hear everything, Catherine.”

Isabelle clasped the woman’s arm, reluctant to let go.

The Countess took a few deep, steady breaths before finally beginning to speak.

“The late King could not eat peaches. He couldn’t even touch the flowers or go near them.”

Isabelle tilted her head at the unfamiliar term. It was a name she’d never heard before – not even from the merchants of Partaye.

Lemoiselle kindly offered an explanation.

“It is one of the fruits of the East. Even in Partaye, which is relatively close to you, few people know about it.”

“Then how do you know about it, Madame?”

“During my husband’s lifetime, I once offered peaches to His Majesty. There’s a monk I know – he brought them back from a missionary trip. There were only two, but he thought it right to offer them to the King.”