“We must hurry and repair the chairs. We didn’t borrow many from Möbien.”

“Yes, madam. We’re also working quickly to restore the confessional booth.”

It was a somewhat strenuous morning.

Murier was unusually insistent in asking her opinion, and he avoided private conversations with Nicolas alone. It was puzzling, but with Mass fast approaching, Isabelle focused solely on the preparations.

“Sisters, please check if there are any problems with the altar. It’s a bit risky for me to climb up there myself.”

“Understood.”

The Countess was nowhere to be seen. The youngest nun said she was reading through the liturgical book, looking for missing parts. Since it was the thickest book of all, it would take at least three hours.

Thanks to this, Isabelle could finally feel at ease.

Worry was second nature to her – she had even considered asking the Countess for help, given her lack of hands. With her eyes fixed on the main gate, she spoke.

“How many noble houses do you think will be attending?”

“Only a few from the southern diocese, it seems.”

“I would like to know exactly how many and which houses are coming.”

When no answer came, Isabelle frowned and turned to the steward.

Even thoroughness had its limits, it seemed. Murier bowed his head as he replied.

“I haven’t been able to confirm that yet… my apologies.”

“Duke of Eurbonne, Count of Garon, Count of Dorgogne, Baron of Mareille, Marquis of Noriac, Baron of Japin.”

It was Arnaud who interrupted Murier in mid-sentence, appearing suddenly. Judging by his naval justaucorps, it didn’t look like he was on a casual visit.

“These are all from the southern diocese. I know this area better than most.”

Isabelle looked at him silently.

Just looking at him made her heart beat faster. Whether it was because she had learned the truth – or because her feelings hadn’t changed – she couldn’t tell.

Arnaud immediately showed signs of nervousness. He glanced at Murier beside him, then rubbed his hands against his waist – even though there was nothing on them to wipe.

And yet he was the one who had spoken first.

Feeling that she should answer, Isabelle parted her lips.

“I appreciate your help.”

“I’m only helping because I’m worried you’re going to screw things up. I don’t think that’s something to be happy about. Ask me anything about the southern nobles. Don’t ask just anyone.

At the same time, Arnaud scratched the back of his head twice – something he had always done when he was embarrassed, even at seventeen.

He hadn’t changed a bit. For the first time, Isabelle felt she could speak to him in a friendly way.

“Then please come with me to the confessional. It’s not about the southern nobles, but… I’d like to talk to someone else about it.”

She saw it – the brief twinkle in his eyes. Though he grumbled, his feet were already turning toward her.

“As you wish.”

She bit her lip – not out of frustration, but because she was afraid she might smile if she didn’t.

Isabelle was beautiful, but not very expressive in a charming way, so when she bit her lip, it was often mistaken for anger.

Arnaud might have thought the same, but he was too busy trying to find the right moment to stand next to her.

He had always been a man whose eyes darted around eagerly. That he still hadn’t outgrown it at twenty wasn’t exactly endearing – it was almost too much. Isabelle had to clench her teeth to keep from grinning.

“I’ll show you the way. You’re probably still unfamiliar with the place.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

Isabelle replied with a smile. Arnaud, who had just watched his wife with a dazed look, cleared his throat and started walking two steps ahead.

The sight of him sparked a mischievous urge. She didn’t want to walk behind him.

Isabelle widened her stride to catch up with her husband, and when Arnaud noticed his wife matching his pace next to him, the back of his neck instantly turned red.

As she remained at his side, Arnaud no longer tried to increase the distance.

It had been so long since they had walked in lockstep.

They refrained from speaking until they passed through the doorway. Both knew that what made this moment so sweet was the silence itself.

“This is the place.”

Unfortunately, a moment was only a moment. The ticklish sweetness vanished the moment Arnaud opened his mouth.

Disappointed, Isabelle’s gaze naturally dropped.

The confessional was dark, and Arnaud seemed to assume that she was avoiding eye contact out of fear.

For Isabelle, who had always had a bold streak, darkness was nothing more than darkness – but Arnaud had always been the one to unload all his worries on her alone.

“Murier”

“Yes, Monsieur?”

“Bring a lamp. We should at least be able to see where we’re going, don’t you think?”

As expected, Murier was right behind them. For him, Isabelle and Arnaud standing close together was practically a dereliction of duty, so he followed them everywhere. Since he wasn’t the kind of man to disappear just because they told him to, neither Isabelle nor Arnaud bothered to scold him.

“It’s still daylight. Why not just inspect it with the door open?”

Unlike Marie, Murier wouldn’t move unless he was explicitly told what to do.

If it had been up to Isabelle – who didn’t like unnecessary fuss – she would probably have just nodded. In fact, she was about to enter without the lamp.

“Ugh, if I tell you to bring it, just bring it. Stop being annoying.”

But her husband was different. Arnaud’s face immediately turned into a scowl, and Murier, undeterred, stared back at his master boldly.

“It will take time.”

“Then run.”

“I have a bad leg.”

“Not my problem.”

Isabelle pressed her lips tightly together-not out of irritation, but because she was trying not to laugh. Murier being at a loss for words was just too amusing.

Snorting like an angry bull, Murier turned on his heel without so much as a goodbye. And yet he refused to run.

‘What a ridiculous old man,’ Isabelle thought.

“Ridiculous old man.”

Apparently Arnaud was thinking the same thing. The only difference was that he was saying it out loud.

Either way, it was amusing. Isabelle looked at Arnaud with the brightest expression she had ever shown.

“He’s not afraid, is he?”

“If I ever return to Moerne, I intend to be the first to throw that old man into the dungeons. No one can match Murier’s contempt for the royal family.”

He looked genuinely amused. The way he stood at an angle, the mockery in his tone – it all felt warmly familiar.

When she laughed out loud in agreement, Arnaud burst out laughing just as heartily.

“Let him spend the rest of his life ‘recovering’ in prison. That way he won’t have to move his leg at all.”

“Let’s wrap him in chains instead of bandages. With big, heavy weights. I’ll help you, Arnaud.”

Arnaud’s mischievous laughter was more comforting to her than any answer in the world.

It felt like a dream. For some reason, she felt on the verge of tears, so Isabelle lifted the corners of her mouth to suppress the emotion.

Then Murier appeared. He was casually swinging the lantern from his arm.

At first he was slow and relaxed – but the moment he saw Isabelle and Arnaud together, he pretended to be in a hurry. The leg he’d pretended was injured moved just fine.

Isabelle had laughed several times today. Although the steward had always been a thorn in her side, after hearing Arnaud’s words, even he seemed a little funny.

Just as she was about to turn away, she instinctively smiled.

“…Nanny?”

His voice reached her.

The back she had started to turn away moved back on its own. Unlike before, his voice was trembling.

Sensing that something was wrong, Isabelle quickly looked in the direction he was staring.

Arnaud was looking into the confessional.

Something has happened.

That’s what Isabelle instinctively felt. The person making eye contact with her husband was none other than the Countess, Lady Lemoiselle.

Now she must be Sister Catherine-his second mother.

The Countess was not in the study, but in the confessional. The sunlight in this place was unusually strong, and even from outside one could clearly see Lemoiselle holding the door, standing expressionless, face to face with Arnaud.

With Murier standing behind her, Isabelle had no time to lose. Without a second thought, she began to pull Arnaud away.

“Arnaud, right now you need to…”

“This is it. This is it. It’s my nanny.”

She did her best, but it was impossible to move his tall, solid frame. It was as if his feet were rooted to the ground. Arnaud mumbled like a man possessed.

“It’s my nanny… it’s really her. It’s Lemoiselle. Isn’t it, Isabelle? It’s Lemoiselle…”

She couldn’t bring herself to say no. His eyes looked too heartbroken.

If she could, she would have grabbed him and run. Even if it meant being called a madwoman – it would have been the best option.

But Arnaud was much too big, and Isabelle had a deep wound on her thigh.

She turned quickly. There was Murier, clutching his glasses and watching her closely. Her heart pounded wildly.

They had to run. They had to – but…

“Nanny!”

“Sister!”

The one fleeing the scene wasn’t the couple, nor was it Murier – it was Countess Lemoiselle, the one facing them both.