There is no death without an impact. Even the news of someone she had never met made her gasp. Anyone would have reacted that way, unless they were as hardened as Louise.

Marie, who had been quietly watching her, slowly began to speak.

“Like you, Madame, she hanged herself. She died while you barely survived…”

“And was her death your fault?”

Marie fell silent. An unfamiliar embarrassment spread across her forehead. Usually she closed her mouth when confronted with something she didn’t want to face. But what Marie seemed to be remembering now was a past she couldn’t even bring herself to want.

She moistened her lips, which showed no signs of being bitten, and hesitated. It was only after this was repeated several times that the maid finally spoke.

“It was clearly my fault, Madame.”

She couldn’t help but stare blankly. No other reaction came to mind, so Isabelle continued to stare at Marie, frozen in place.

“I expected you to think of me as someone of that level, but this is surprising.” “…I thought so, but to hear it directly is another matter altogether.”

At these words, Marie stopped her hands from clenching and unclenching. A deep sigh followed.

She seemed to have a lot to confess. Since there was no urgency, Isabelle decided to wait for her.

Marie soon confessed.

“It wasn’t something I did as a lady’s maid. I had neither the status nor the authority to do it. It was just something that happened when I was just a servant.”

“Then what you could do must have been quite limited.”

“The mademoiselle I served didn’t trust her maids – unless they were insignificant, like a common housemaid.”

Isabelle could understand this mademoiselle’s point of view. She herself had rejected ladies from prominent families in favor of Alathéa, the daughter of a lowly knight.

But that was thanks to her mother, Cassandra, who had been remarkably generous.

It was customary for the mother to choose the maid for a mademoiselle, not a madame. Thus, the role of the maid depended entirely on the mother-daughter relationship.

The maid could become either an inseparable companion or a burdensome caretaker who was overwhelming even on her own. For this particular mademoiselle, the maid was undoubtedly the latter.

“They weren’t exactly a close mother-daughter pair, were they?”

“She was always looking for a way to escape.”

“And you didn’t help her.”

Marie nodded slowly. It was no surprise; Isabelle had expected it. She crossed her arms over her chest.

It was a signal for her to go on.

“…To be perfectly honest, I was helping her mother. Quite actively, in fact.”

“You must have had a hard time serving two masters.”

For Isabelle, trust and affection were two very different things. She trusted Marie, but she didn’t care for her. A clever maid like Marie was surely aware of this.

Realizing she was being mocked, Marie bit her lip hard.

Still, it was no small feat to continue speaking.

“Strictly speaking, my master was the madam. Outwardly, I served her daughter, but…”

“I understand.”

“I never really comforted her. Not even once. Even when she held on to me and cried, I told Madame everything as it was. Including the day she finally tried to run away.”

This wasn’t a confessional, and Isabelle wasn’t a priest, so her frown was natural.

For the first time in a while, Isabelle spoke sharply. Lately, she hadn’t had the energy or the reason to treat Marie coldly.

“I think I understand why she hanged herself, Marie.”

“It’s just as you imagine.”

“Is that why I saw this Mademoiselle?”

Silence again. The lack of an answer implied the truth. It would also explain the tears Marie had shed at the sight of Isabelle, who had barely survived after attempting to hang herself.

Ending this conversation proved particularly difficult, leaving Isabelle with nothing but a deep sigh.

The silence was abruptly broken by a sudden knock at the door. Marie opened it to see an unexpected face.

“Monsieur.”

Dressed in a loose, undecorated shirt, Arnaud cleared his throat in Marie’s direction before approaching his wife. True to her nature of picking up on unspoken signals, Marie soon left the room, leaving the two of them alone.

Despite earlier predictions that Arnaud would not recover until the following evening, only a faint shadow remained on his face.

“You should rest.”

“An empty remark.”

With that, Arnaud reached out to touch the ends of Isabelle’s hair. She felt his knuckles brush against her back, light but unmistakable.

Isabelle was not superhuman. The occasional tremor in her shoulders was almost inevitable. Arnaud seemed to notice as his hand, running through her hair, began to move in smaller, fragmented motions.

“I won’t do anything.”

“So rest assured.”

Did he think she was afraid? The thought stung her nose with emotion. Isabelle squeezed her eyes shut and then opened them again, trying to control herself while she still could. She hastily assumed that this simple act would be enough.

Even then, Arnaud hadn’t said anything. It seemed as if only resentment would come out now.

That too was Isabelle’s assumption, but the truth was that she didn’t know Arnaud as well as she thought. There was nothing she could do about it.

She could do nothing but stare at the outstretched hand. It wasn’t until Arnaud personally placed it in her hand that Isabelle raised her head.

“These are Anmadre leaves. They are notorious for their potency, but… when the pain is unbearable, nothing compares to them.”

What he handed her was a cigarette rolled from dried leaves. Thanks to the room being fully lit with candles, Isabelle was able to examine it closely. Its shape revealed that it was indeed the Calvador cigarette.

“I brought the ones I’ve already rolled. If you don’t want them, I can offer you regular tobacco instead.”

Since Isabelle only touched it lightly without any other reaction, Arnaud hurriedly added a few words.

“I hope you can forget it. I know it won’t be easy…”

It had been a long time since Isabelle had seen her husband so unsure of himself. His face reminded her of the time they had visited Imanoria, when his nerves had gotten the better of him and he had rehearsed a greeting over and over, only to fumble it in the end.

Isabelle stared intently into the mirror that reflected her husband. Even though it wasn’t a very large mirror, she could see him clearly because Arnaud was sitting right next to her. Fortunately, the chair was wide enough, otherwise they would have been uncomfortably close.

Isabelle glanced at him occasionally as he alternated between looking at her and the cigarette in his hand.

“Isabelle, I don’t want to…”

“No.”

Since she neither lit the cigarette nor handed it back to him, Arnaud raised his voice slightly, as if impatient. Only then did Isabelle answer.

“I’ve never tried it before.”

“Ah.”

It was nothing to be embarrassed about, but her voice trailed off. Hearing her words, Arnaud let out a sigh of similar volume. His gaze remained fixed, but his pupils dilated slightly, indicating that her reaction was unexpected.

“I hear Louise enjoys it, and when she does, it usually becomes fashionable…”

“Still, she wouldn’t have shared any with me, would she? You know her temperament well.”

At Isabelle’s answer, his gaze shifted to his lap. The way his lips were pressed tightly together, he seemed to be blaming himself for his assumption.

It wasn’t pleasant, but it was a small consolation for Isabelle.

“Well, if she had been gentle, she wouldn’t have lived with Henri in the first place.”

“Arnaud.”

Her hand moved on its own, resting on her husband’s knee, which had dared to say Henri’s name.

The word “dared” felt like an acknowledgment of his worth, which was uncomfortable, but for now she had to think of it that way.

“You never know who might be out there.”

“So that’s what you were afraid of.”

It didn’t take long for Arnaud to continue. He spoke like someone who only had a suspicion, as if he was waiting for Isabelle to confirm it herself.

The faint sound of swallowing echoed – so soft it would normally go unnoticed, but the deep silence made it audible. Isabelle’s reaction was significant. At least it was for Arnaud.

“In Calvador as well. Isn’t that right?”

“Arnaud, I just…”

“No one but us can hear.”

What followed was the sound of breathing. The difference this time was that both of their breaths had become heavy enough for anyone to recognize.

They remained face to face for a long time. When Isabelle finally had the courage to look up, Arnaud’s eyes were so clear that they reflected the candlestick behind her back. She couldn’t look away.

His eyes were the kind that forced you to confess everything. Even when she repeated to herself, Not yet, not yet…, his silent plea didn’t stop.

His gaze was far more brutal than any emotionless stare, and in the end, Isabelle closed her eyes tightly.

But she couldn’t shut out his breath. Even though she couldn’t see him anymore, it was useless to close her eyes. His heavy breathing brushed lightly across her small face.

“You…”

If nothing else, she could at least give in halfway.

“I know you didn’t kill anyone, Arnaud.”

She knew he wanted a concrete answer, but it was too early. So Isabelle decided to reassure him with slightly different words.

Her husband’s pupils immediately quivered. The more she looked at him, the more he seemed to be a remarkably honest man.

“You know?”

“I heard it from that person.”

“And you believe it?”

“You ask the obvious.”

No subject was explicitly mentioned, but Arnaud didn’t press her, and Isabelle showed no hesitation.

Her heart began to beat wildly at the thought that she had finally reached him.

“I can’t say anything deeper, Arnaud.”

“I may have lost you, but I’ve never forgotten you.”

Arnaud inhaled with a soft gasp. The words had been abstract, but it was clear he understood.

His lashes lowered, casting shadows across his blue eyes. Though his gaze had softened, it remained fixed on Isabelle.

Her hand reached for his face, which looked as if it might burst into tears at any moment. Only when her finger brushed the corner of his eye did she realize how warm he had become.

A moment later, their lips met.

Arnaud pulled her closer, even using his bandaged hand. Naturally, Isabelle did not resist.

Tongue met tongue, intertwining with merciless intensity.

His hand roamed over the sheer fabric of her chemise, far too thin to hide anything.

When her breath caught and her head tipped back of its own accord, Arnaud’s fingers found her ribs without fail.

And so, with no choice, she grabbed his hair.

Isabelle’s pale hands – reddened by the contrast – raked through his golden locks like a furious white horse tearing through a golden field.

In that moment, it wasn’t reality they had to follow, but instinct.

They fell to the bed in an instant, neither showing any intention of parting.

Too much time had passed, too much hunger for each other, for words to matter now.