Loui was a child with a small appetite.

It didn’t seem to be by nature, but rather by habit – he was used to eating little and giving way to others.

Even when told, “It’s not going to run out just because you have one,” he never ate a whole treat in one bite.

Instead, he would take one or two small bites and then offer the rest to Isabelle – over and over again.

His face lit up so brightly whenever he gave Isabelle something she couldn’t bring herself to refuse.

She was too busy accepting and eating everything Loui gave her.

Fortunately, at least his taste was no different from that of other children his age.

Even when he was offered a treat, he would eagerly take whatever she gave him in return and munch on it happily.

He especially loved candied orange slices and freshly baked madeleines.

Isabelle watched the child for a long time.

And Arnaud, sitting next to her, seemed no different – unable to take his eyes off Loui.

It seemed that Marie had grown fond of the boy as well – she said she wanted to let him sleep in her quarters just for tonight.

It was exactly what Isabelle had hoped for.

Arnaud offered to take Loui there, a sign of how much he had grown to like the child.

“Goodbye! I’m leaving now!”

“Come back whenever you get bored, Loui.”

One hand clasped tightly in Arnaud’s, the other waving, Loui smiled brightly.

Isabelle kept her eyes on the little boy the whole time.

Until he finally gave in and let Arnaud carry him until they were both out of sight – she watched them without looking away.

“Lady Isabelle, shall I prepare your bath now?”

“Please do.”

It was Marie who got Isabelle’s attention again.

Since her husband had left to see Loui off, Marie, with little else to do, suggested the evening bath she often prepared.

Perhaps a soak would help clear her head a little. Isabelle nodded without hesitation.

While Marie went to heat the water, Isabelle undressed, her mind racing with many thoughts.

What had she seen in Loui?

Perhaps it was her nephews, left behind in their homeland – or the childhood friends she once played with.

Isabelle had a habit of obsessing over the smallest things – to the point of forgetting where her own hands were.

Marie knew this habit well, and gently placed a hand on Isabelle’s back, who hadn’t even noticed her approach.

“I’ll loosen your corset for you.”

“Ah, yes-thank you.”

Her neatly manicured nails brushed the fabric.

In the silence of the private chamber, this sound was the only thing that filled the air.

With the soft rustle came her breath, returning little by little.

Only when her chemise had slipped down to her toes did Isabelle sink into the tub.

The towel that had wet her shoulders landed gently on the back of her hand.

Marie’s hand that had held it was just as gentle.

With her eyes half closed, Isabelle looked around the room.

It was hard to believe that this modest chamber belonged to the wife of a Monsieur and the Duchess of Latvia.

What could she do?

Resignation was just another name for growing up.

“Lady Isabelle.”

Just as stray thoughts began to fill her mind like steam rising from her toes, Marie called her name softly.

Somewhere along the way, Marie had begun to call her Lady Isabelle – preferring it to the more common title of Madame.

It left a faint bitterness in Isabelle as Marie now seemed to recognize Isabelle as her true name.

Even in that fleeting moment, her mind raced with countless thoughts as she replied.

“What is it?”

“It’s nothing important, really. Just…”

Even though she claimed it was nothing, her words trailed off.

It was just like Marie – and yet somehow not like her.

Isabelle let out a small laugh between her teeth.

“You say that, but you still take your time, don’t you?”

“With everything going on, I guess I’ve picked up the habit.”

Isabelle could only nod in agreement.

At the same time, memories of everything she had been through fluttered past her eyes like pages in the wind.

Afraid that those thoughts would overwhelm her again, she took Marie’s hand gently and urged her to continue.

“When I brought the tea in this morning…”

“Yes?”

“For the first time… you two looked like a real couple. Like you even had a child together.”

Her mouth fell open – not in shock, but more like a soft click of surprise.

Marie continued to wash her arm as if it were nothing.

The only one left standing was Isabelle.

She had never been truly affectionate – not until now.

There had been moments, yes, but they had been fleeting.

Holding a small child in her arms, leaning against him, her hands brushing over the child’s, smaller than both of theirs – she had wanted that more than anything, and yet when it finally happened, she hadn’t even noticed.

She had become more used to grief than to joy.

It didn’t embarrass her – it just hurt.

Isabelle forced a smile.

“You’re stating the obvious, Marie. We’re already husband and wife, aren’t we?”

“I hope you stay that way. Seeing Monsieur’s face today… it reminded me of the one I left in Chamfera.”

Marie’s smile, on the other hand, was natural.

She must have her own circumstances, of course, but there didn’t seem to be any pain left in her memories of him.

For the first time in a long time, Isabelle felt envy.

She, who had never once envied Louise’s abundant jewels or her status as queen, now found herself envying Marie – someone far inferior to her in both wealth and social standing.

“…Someday I’ll make sure you meet him. So don’t worry.”

“As long as it’s within the bounds of your safety, Lady Isabelle… then I look forward to it.”

Isabelle responded by holding her hand even tighter.

It was hard to say this openly – looking forward to something didn’t always mean it was safe.

‘Will I really come out of this unscathed?’

As a gesture of gratitude, Marie gently washed her and stayed by her side until she was dry and dressed.

Being cared for like that naturally brought someone else to mind.

A warrior by nature, Alathea had always been clumsy at things like dressing or bathing – but her hands, cautious as if afraid of making a mistake, had felt much like Marie’s.

As autumn set in, drafts had begun to creep into their private quarters.

Perhaps concerned about this, Marie – despite Isabelle’s protests that she was about to go to bed – insisted on draping a patchwork quilt over her shoulders before leaving.

The door closed with a courteous bow.

Isabelle watched for a long moment, then turned her feet toward the bed with a faint smile.

“I left the ink here, but… oh dear…”

She regretted not bringing a candlestick, thinking, “If I had known it was hidden like this…”

Before she realized it, her search had led her to the cabinet room.

She lit one of the lanterns kept there, and after some rummaging, she finally found the ink and a paperweight.

‘How long should I dip the nib so it doesn’t blot?’

She really must not have written a letter in quite some time—
she had lost the feel for it.

Isabelle drew a few straight lines on a separate sheet of paper before finally writing the first sentence.

Dear Mother,

As always, I’ve been terrible at writing.

You must have been so worried without any news from me.

There’s nothing particularly new to report – which I suppose means I’ve been fine.

Everyone here continues to treat me kindly.

Some still keep their distance, but it’s not out of malice, so please don’t worry.

It’s not easy to get close to the lady of the house.

My husband is kind.

There’s nothing between us that should bother you.

I just want you to know that I’m safe.

Really, I’m fine.

I know it’s unlikely that I’ll hear from you again, but if this letter reaches you – if you can read these words and know that I’m okay – that’s enough for me.

Oh, and – there’s something I thought you might find interesting.

I recently met a cute little boy.

It seems he found his way to Hérétiques because he had nowhere else to go.

I didn’t let him get too close, but he’s so cute that I often find myself quietly watching him when he comes to help me.

You used to look at me like that when I was little, didn’t you, Mother?

I wonder – did you feel the same way?

If circumstances permit, please write back. I really want to hear from you.

And please let me know how Father is, too.

If that’s too difficult, could you at least write a single line – just to let me know that he’s in good health?

As soon as I get your letter, I’ll write back. I’m always waiting.

Being so far away has softened whatever resentment I once felt.

There’s no one left to blame.

I understand Father’s decision.

It wasn’t easy – it took time – but I have come to accept it.

It’s been a while since I made peace with it in my own way.

So please… let me hear from him. Even just a few words.

If he can’t bring himself to write, then please, Mother, write for him.

Tell him that his only daughter is here – still waiting, if only to hear that he’s well.

Reassure me however you can.

And if he feels the slightest bit of remorse for me… let him show it.

I know my words may sound bitter – but I promise they’re not.

Anyway, I’m fine.

I’m doing great.

I guess that’s what you wanted to hear the most.

And with little else to say, I find myself repeating those words over and over again – I am fine.

I hope you’ll forgive me.

I’m going to stop here and try to sleep now.

It’s time for me to put down the pen.

I end this letter with the hope that it finds you well.

I still love you both.

P.S.
Please take good care of Ilyana.
I’m sure her heart is in pieces. You must know it too, Mother—how close she and Phillip were.

From your daughter,
Isabelle.

Since the letter would have to go through both Versica and Henri, Isabelle hadn’t written anything about getting close to anyone.

She couldn’t afford to increase the number of potential targets.

But Cassandra was a wise woman – she would surely understand.

She would understand and be reassured.

Talking to herself, Isabelle pressed the paper down firmly with a blotter.

If she left it under the pillow or in the drawer, Marie would find it when she tidied the bed and give it to the postman on his way to Arananteuil.

Just for tonight, Isabelle wanted to dream about Cassandra – so she decided to put it under her pillow instead of in the drawer.

It was a superstition, but surely that much could be forgiven.

Wrapping the envelope in a stiff cloth so it wouldn’t crease, Isabelle placed it under her pillow, then laid her head on it and slowly closed her eyes.

No, she tried to close them.

Just as her eyelids were halfway closed, the doors to the living room and the powder room slammed shut, one after the other.

It was the kind of sound that couldn’t happen unless someone made it on purpose.

At that hour, the only people who would enter her private quarters were Arnaud or Marie – and the chances of it being the former were slim.

So Isabelle sat up immediately.

“What is it, Marie?”

With all the candles out, she couldn’t see her face – but Marie had come right up to her, allowing Isabelle to ask.

Marie was breathing heavily, as if she had run there.

Whenever she panted like that, Isabelle instinctively tensed.

Something had clearly happened.

“In the quarters… Loui, who was last seen making sure Monsieur had fallen asleep in his quarters, is nowhere to be found. We’ve even searched the servants’ quarters, but he’s nowhere to be seen…”