As she told the story, she often reminisced about her husband. Each time her eyes would narrow with nostalgia, Isabelle would hold the lady’s hands tightly, a gesture of empathy.

“It was shortly after the birth of my second son, Emmanuel. His Majesty himself came to Trépinet. He even playfully scolded me, asking how I could ride a horse at home with a newborn.”

“So it’s true that your husband and His Majesty were close friends.”

“That is true. Lady Marguerite and I were also close. She entrusted me with the care of young Arnaud.”

The Countess’ lips curled into a pleased smile. She looked just like the nanny Arnaud never tired of praising.

“The late King came with his eldest son. He trusted him very much, you see – the eldest.”

“You must mean His Majesty, the present king.”

“Indeed. So we offered each of them peaches-as a gesture of admiration for their honored visit.”

It made sense, considering that her father, Theodore, always avoided nuts; she could guess what might have happened, but for now she chose to listen.

“There was no problem with young Lord Henri, who was ten at the time. But there was a problem with the late King. Perhaps he found it strange – just as he was holding the peach and putting it to his nose to smell it, it happened.”

“He couldn’t breathe…?”

She nodded slowly.

“The royal doctor came immediately. They removed the fruit and opened the windows, but there was no sign of his breath returning. He suffered like that for several tens of minutes.”

“Was it the doctor who ordered that to be done?”

“Yes. He had a deep interest in the East, and he immediately realized that the peach was the cause. Thanks to this doctor, we weren’t accused of anything like poisoning.”

“But in return, His Late Majesty was left with a weakness.”

“And so the fact that His Majesty is very incompatible with peaches was known only to five people: the late king, my late husband, myself, the royal doctor, and His Majesty the current king. We were under strict orders never to speak of it. Even the present king was given that order.”

Isabelle began to think about the whereabouts of those five people.

The late King and the former Count de Lemoiselle had died, and she didn’t know who the royal doctor was. Only Lady Lemoiselle and Henri were left.

When Isabelle’s eyes shifted restlessly, the lady gently regained control of her hand.

“And in the last tea His Majesty drank, there was peach extract. A very strong dose, too.”

“Not Sharlomenetio, but fruit extract?”

“That’s right. His throat got swollen and he died.”

Isabelle’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. This was completely different from the official story.

Sharlomenetio was a flower found only in Imanoria. While its leaves were harmless, its roots were extremely poisonous and always under the strict control of the Archduke and Archduchess. Since it was a poison that could only be obtained through smuggling, it was inevitable that Arnaud would be framed as the culprit.

“Do you know what happens to someone who is poisoned with Sharlomenetio?”

She thought she might have learned it around the age of fifteen. Isabelle jogged her memory with all her might.

“They say the throat swells up first. Very quickly. Of course, the person can’t breathe, and eventually they collapse and go into convulsions. If no treatment is given within thirty minutes, then-ah!”

It was exactly the same reaction the late King had shown after touching the peach.

The answer had been with her all along. If someone who stopped breathing just by touching it had ingested a concentrated extract…

“Someone who knew that peaches were a deadly poison to the late king used that fact to frame Lord Arnaud.”

“Then the real culprit…”

“Has finally ascended the throne.”

Henri Philippe de Jalbert!

To think that he had even killed her father. A wave of conflicting emotions washed over Isabelle – relief that the real criminal was indeed Henri, and dread at the thought of having to face someone so ruthless.

“Everything fell into place perfectly. The late king died in the company of his second son, who had just returned from Imanoria. And aboard that son’s ship, a pouch of Sharlomenetio was found.”

“It was something my mother had given him. She never thought he would use the root. The leaves are often used for dyeing…”

“I don’t blame you, so don’t worry.”

Lady Lemoiselle said, gently rubbing the back of her hand. Thanks to that, Isabelle managed to hold back her sobs.

“We were the ones who found the deceased king that time as well. Lord Arnaud was holding his collapsed father. Of course he called for help, but all the royal guards had been sent to the Dauphin’s quarters…”

“Was the doctor who was said to be interested in the East the one who treated him?”

The Countess shook her head. It was a gesture that said more than words.

“…He had already made his move, hadn’t he?”

The direction of her head shake changed to a nod. Just like Isabelle, who couldn’t even bring herself to say Henri’s name, the countess responded only with gestures.

“They didn’t even know what a peach was – how could they possibly know the exact cause? Everyone was in that position.”

“So they put the blame on Sharlomenetio.”

“Especially since she was found on Lord Arnaud’s ship.”

It was too much information to take in at once. Isabelle raised her hand to about chest height, as if silently asking for time, and the countess waited patiently.

“Then, if you knew everything… why did you testify that Arnaud was the one who killed him, Madame?”

Was that the crime she had committed? At this question, Lemoiselle’s shoulders trembled.

This time it was Isabelle’s turn to wait for her. Perhaps aware that there wasn’t much time, the countess soon opened her mouth.

“As long as my husband was alive, we were determined to prove Lord Arnaud’s innocence. Especially my husband – he was so dedicated that he even handled and sniffed unknown herbs.”

“But…..”

“We even tried to summon that investigator again to get a peach. But my husband’s intentions only brought more trouble.”

Her lips trembled as she spoke. It seemed too painful for her to keep repeating the word *husband*. Isabelle tightened her grip.

“In the end, it was all the man’s fault, wasn’t it?”

It must have been too hard for her to say it herself. So when Isabelle said it out loud, Lemoiselle finally let her tears fall. Her voice was full of emotion.

“That day, as we were returning to Chamféra, a bomb was thrown at our carriage. My husband was killed in the explosion. I held his unrecognizable body in my arms, sobbing – until I was taken away somewhere.”

The subject was still unspoken, but having lost Alathea in a similar way, Isabelle didn’t need to ask.

Killed by an explosion – who would have thought? Her arms shook uncontrollably.

“The target was Calvador. I resisted with all my strength, but the moment that man Versica appeared, I couldn’t say a word.”

Her words had already begun to slur.

But now that Versica’s name had been mentioned, Isabelle understood the countess’s story.

“He grabbed my chin and said… ‘If you want your remaining child to live, you will cooperate. Obey silently.’“

What parent would choose justice over their child when that child was being held hostage? Reality was not like an epic poem.

“So I lied. I ran away. I was scared out of my mind! Arnaud was mine too, no different from the one I gave birth to. I’ll never be forgiven. Not even with my life…”

***

Under the circumstances, the Countess quickly wiped away her tears. She didn’t even think of dabbing her eyes with the inkwell.

Thanks to their efforts, the two women were able to greet Murier with perfect composure. The ledger they had deliberately left out in the open also helped. Perhaps he had just come to keep an eye on things – Murier asked a few questions about the situation and then left without much fuss.

“I should go now. I don’t think I can stay much longer.”

“Ah, wait a moment.”

The Countess rose as well, but the ever considerate Isabelle couldn’t bring herself to let Lemoiselle leave so easily.

It was as if she needed some kind of promise before she could feel at ease. The Countess raised an eyebrow, looking slightly puzzled.

“Is there something you’re curious about…?”

“Please avoid Arnaud, Madame. I don’t want you and him facing each other.”

She thought Lemoiselle might ask why – but she didn’t.

Instead, she simply gave a gentle, understanding smile. When Isabelle bit her lip, as if demanding an answer, Lemoiselle reached out again and took her hand.

“Didn’t I tell you? I don’t have the face to see him. I plan to bury myself in paperwork, so don’t worry.”

“You say that… but I know he’ll still be on your mind. After all, you thought of him as a son…”

“Of course I want to see him. I even see myself patting his head – how dare I.”

Her smile gradually turned bitter. The Countess’s eyes welled up again, but she pressed a hand over them to hold back the sobs.

Only after wiping her hands on her habit did Lemoiselle take her leave.

“Well then, Madame de Latvièn.”

The Countess wore no bag or tight corset. She wore only a worn nun’s habit and a veil.

And yet, Countess Lemoiselle’s bow was anything but lacking – it was a perfectly executed court bow that met every requirement of royal propriety.

Even the Duchess of Séritaine, who had taught court etiquette for thirty years, was no match for her, and Isabelle, on the receiving end, felt her own back stiffen.

“I wish you every success.”

With those last words, Lemoiselle left. Though her face bore the marks of time, the Countess’s back was straighter than anyone else’s as she turned and walked away.

She was the first person from Châteaubienne that Isabelle had ever truly admired.