After returning to the private chamber, the three of them, including Murier, told many stories.

The presence of the old steward was rather annoying, but it didn’t matter. All that had to be shown was that nothing suspicious was going on.

The Arnaud described by the countess was far more cheerful than Isabelle had ever imagined.

She told of how he loved water so much that he would spend a whole day in front of the fountain at the Moerne Palace, or how he had once stuck his whole face into a fishbowl to see the tropical fish the Foreign Minister had given him – only to fall completely in. She also told how he played pirate games every day with his sister Eleonore.

Isabelle didn’t think any of this was a lie.

After all, even seventeen-year-old Arnaud – just released from Calvador and already in so much pain – had been that bright.

The more she listened, the more Isabelle found her head drooping. In the end, neither she nor Lemoiselle could meet each other’s eyes. Before their emotions became too heavy, they decided to end the conversation there.

“It seems that things have calmed down a bit… I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Yes, I suppose it’s time. You’ve endured quite a bit listening to the ramblings of an old woman, Madame.”

It was Lemoiselle who bowed her head first. Isabelle followed with a slight opening and closing of her eyes, and Murier stepped forward to escort the countess from the room.

Now only the steward and the lady of the house remained.

The atmosphere turned cold in an instant.

Murier spoke in a tone perfectly suited to the chill.

“I had heard that she was in Möbien… but I did not expect that she would dare to come all the way here.”

Isabelle’s eyebrows twitched. When she turned to face him, Murier stood with his hands behind his back – more insolent than before – as he continued.

“Even if there is nothing to be gained by confronting the Arnaud of today…”

“Lord Murier.”

His old man’s defiance was nothing new, but this time she had no intention of letting him get away with it.

So Isabelle cut him off sharply – along with the sudden use of Lord Murier.

At that moment, she no longer treated him as a steward under the House of Oretique, but as the man who had once been Henri’s hand and foot.

“One would think you were sworn brothers to His Majesty, the way you act so fearlessly.”

“……”

“I let you stay by my side all the time, thinking you might try to whisper some nonsense to His Majesty – but you’ve gone too far.”

Isabelle was the wife of a royal duke, with her own title and domain, and the sole heir to a principality.

The old steward who stood before her, on the other hand, had little to boast of beyond having once tutored Henri in his youth. He had a noble family, yes – but it was that of a minor provincial house, nothing to compare with Isabelle’s stature.

She had even treated Alathea, the daughter of a mere knight, without regard to rank – but before this man, she felt the need to assert her lineage.

“Follow me all you want, but you have nothing to gain. So stop picking fights and do your job.”

“I didn’t know Madame was so bold.”

“I don’t remember asking for an answer.”

Throughout their conversation, her gray irises had never flickered.

Isabelle knew full well that when that cold look combined with her pale skin, it could make winter seem twice as long.

She did everything in her power to show her hostility towards Murier.

Though she showed no signs of trembling shoulders or shrinking posture, the way Murier’s lips were tightened was unmistakable – not even his beard could hide it.

The tense private exchange that had gone on for some time ended when Murier raised his monocle slightly.

Obediently following Isabelle’s unspoken command to remain silent, he withdrew. And through the still open door, Marie stepped in.

“Madame, Father Nicolas would like you to inspect the altar again with the other sisters.”

As always, Marie didn’t say more than was necessary. Even though she had clearly noticed something different about Murier, she stubbornly stuck to just delivering the message.

Maybe it was better that way than being tied to just one person.

Isabelle nodded silently.

***

The following days were peaceful.

Even Murier, in spite of how things had ended, resumed caring for Isabelle as before. Since government officials had no role in the preparation of the mass, Camille was nowhere to be seen.

By the time Isabelle got used to falling asleep with the liturgical book in her hands, boredom began to creep in.

It was a feeling far too luxurious for someone like her – but it was real.

If there was one thing that bothered her, it was Arnaud, who kept his distance but watched her from afar every time she walked through the cathedral.

He had regained consciousness the very next day after his collapse, and from that morning on, he came to the cathedral and stood in the same place every day.

And he just stared at Isabelle endlessly.

Whenever their eyes met, his gaze was strangely devoid of any discernible emotion. It wasn’t even “numb” like before – it was the look of someone too confused to define what they were feeling, who had given up trying.

At first she considered talking to him, but sensing that little would come of it, Isabelle chose instead to be even busier than usual.

She spoke only to others. Only looked at everything that wasn’t him.

Was she alone in feeling that these actions were a form of silent struggle?

After five days of throwing herself into work without finding any clarity, the day of the fair finally arrived.

With her gray hair neatly tied back and wearing a small-brimmed hat instead of flowers, Isabelle clasped her bare hands-without any engagente-and walked toward the arriving carriages.

***Angagente: Decorative lace or fabric accessory, often worn on the sleeves, popular in formal or court dress during historical periods.***

“The first carriage to arrive-is that the Marquis de Noriac’s?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“And the one behind it?”

She received an answer to the first question, but not to the second. When she turned, the maid was just wetting her lips, obviously not knowing the answer.

Isabelle was about to sigh-until she saw someone approaching from afar, and her breath caught in her throat.

“It’s the Duke of Eurbonne’s carriage. You can tell by the stag carving on the roof.”

It was Arnaud.

He approached wearing a black cloak with gold embroidery only on the sleeves and shoulders, an outfit strikingly similar to hers.

Isabelle looked at him silently, but when he came uncomfortably close, she lowered her head slightly and replied.

“Thank you for your help. However, I received a telegram that the Duke of Eurbonne is in Chamféra and will not be attending the mass.”

“Then it must be someone from Chamféra.”

At this disgusting name, Isabelle’s expression changed. At the same moment, Arnaud let out a sharp tch of disgust. It was only natural – both of them despised carrots and Chamféra with every ounce of their being.

The couple approached the procession almost in unison. Half in disbelief, half in fear.

Frédéric de Eurebonne.

The head of the Duke of Eurebonne family-the most prestigious house in the South-and the husband of Princess Eleonore.

There was no way that Henri would leave someone with such powerful support, second only to his own, unattended.

As they drew closer, the stag carving atop the carriage became clearer. Though not as magnificent as the royal couple’s, its splendor was enough to reveal its owner’s rank at a glance.

Isabelle shifted her gaze to the Marquess and Marchioness of Noriac, who had arrived first. Perhaps because it was a mass for the dead, their attire was no different from that of Isabelle and Arnaud.

“Monsieur, we haven’t had much contact. I am Noriac. Next to me is my wife, Madame Noriac.”

As soon as the introductions were over, Isabelle and Arnaud, as if by prior agreement, began to play their roles.

Arnaud turned to the Marquis de Noriac, while Isabelle turned to his wife.

“I’ve always wondered what kind of person you are. What a rare opportunity this is.”

“Madame Noriac, thank you for your kindness.”

Madame Noriac, with her soft expression and auburn hair, was a petite woman – two hand spans shorter than Isabelle. Although, to be fair, Isabelle was quite tall to begin with.

But that was all the information Isabelle could glean from her. Her gaze drifted sideways.

The Duke of Eurebonne’s carriage had stopped closer than expected.

Even before the door opened, the Marquess and Marchioness of Noriac quickly stepped back. Curiosity aside, manners came first.

“It is an honor to meet you, Monsieur. I am Frederic de Eurebonne.”

The man who stepped out of the carriage held his removed tricorn hat to his chest and bowed to Arnaud.

His slicked back dark brown hair revealed sharply defined features and his bearing had a commanding presence – it was clear he had matured since their last encounter.

Arnaud simply nodded without speaking.

Next it was Isabelle’s turn. Having met her before, Frédéric kissed her hand, looking up at her the entire time.

“Madame, you grow more beautiful every day.”

“I doubt I could compare to the Duke’s own wife.”

Her outfit was somber – what could be called beautiful about it? Though it didn’t seem to be mere flattery, Isabelle, as always, chose the most modest response.

Ironically, Isabelle was a woman who embodied all the ideals of beauty cherished by Châteaubienne: gray hair with irises to match, skin as pale as plaster, and a height and posture that allowed her to stand tall without the aid of heels.

Her already beautiful face, combined with all those features, had long made her the object of envy among the nobles.

Some showed it openly, while others watched her with fascinated curiosity. Queen Louise was a prime example of the former.

So Isabelle didn’t blush at the most sincere compliments – she was used to them. Without a trace of blush in her cheeks, she continued.

“The Duchess does not seem to have accompanied you?”

“Ah, well…”

At that, Frédéric scratched his neck – a common gesture when the reason is clear but difficult to explain.

Isabelle narrowed her eyes slightly and glanced sideways at the carriage he had arrived in.

Just then, a sharp, high-pitched voice came from behind her – a voice she would have twice preferred to the sound of something shattering.

“You haven’t changed at all, have you? Still hopelessly provincial.”