The conflict continued-not between Isabelle and Agnès, but within Agnès herself.

She swallowed slowly, then inhaled through her nose and mouth at the same time – and repeated this about five times before finally sitting back, about two hand spans away from Isabelle.

“N-no. It was just a little bleeding. Nothing is wrong with me or the baby.”

“You still don’t seem to understand the situation you’re in.”

Though her head hung low as if in shame, her words were remarkably bold.

Isabelle, unsure whether this woman was fearless or simply clueless, leaned back against the arm of her chair.

“So it’s one of two things – either you were put up to it by Madame Saint-Mang, or you were so unhappy with your station, doing nothing but menial work, that you decided to do it yourself.”

“I-I already told you… it wasn’t me…”

“And yet your voice cracks like that?”

Isabelle added with a relaxed, almost amused smile – and the veins on the back of Agnès’ clenched fists stood up.

As expected – that was the extent of her nerve.

And this time, Isabelle was certain.

She decided to go a little further.

“Then let me ask you one more thing.”

“I-I won’t be able to answer anything.”

“It’s a question that even a ten-year-old locked in a basement could answer – so how is it that you, a grown woman, cannot?”

With a faint clink, Isabelle set down her teacup.

Then she crossed her arms just below her chest and leaned toward Agnès.

“Whose domain is Antmaren, Agnès?”

“It-it belongs to Monsieur.”

“Yes. You’re not stupid. Just passive.”

As someone who was used to being treated with deference, Agnès took Isabelle’s words as a deep insult, and her eyes began to flash with anger.

But of course, Isabelle was not the type to care.

“Even if he’s been branded the greatest disgrace in all of Châteaubienne, he’s still a royal – with a title and land to his name.

A wandering provincial can’t just call himself the Duke of Latvien.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Are you in a position to urge me?”

At those words, Agnes’ lips tightened.

The pink hue that had stained them, as if crushed petals had been applied, had now faded.

As she had hoped, Isabelle went on.

“Arnaud is still the king’s brother and second in the Jalbert line of succession. Though it’s a disrespectful thought, if the King were to meet an untimely death, it’s Arnaud whom the Council would call upon.”

“I’m well aware of that!”

“For someone who aspires to be his wife and the Duchess of Latvia, raising your voice in my presence suggests otherwise – so I felt the need to remind you.”

Even though she was always the one being interrupted, Agnes didn’t stop trying to be bold. Eyes wide open, she lifted her chin with all her strength.

“I-I don’t… I don’t know!”

“Really?”

Isabelle fought to stifle her laughter at the overly defiant attitude. The truth was that Agnes wasn’t really brave. If she were truly fearless, she wouldn’t resort to such a timid display, relying solely on her status.

She was reminded of the servants of Moerne who, despite brushing their hair like a ragged horse’s mane, never skipped the time required for proper adornment.

“If you continue to ignore me…”

“You really don’t seem to understand. Allow me to enlighten you – listen carefully.”

Isabelle decided to treat Agnes as she treated her servants.

“It means that if I were to compile all your actions and charge you with lèse-majesté, there would be no one willing to save you. I know it was the King who had me and my husband imprisoned here, but do you think he would bother to save a mere tool like you?”

“…”

“I know you have support, but I also know that support is nothing more than the wife of a minor provincial noble.”

“That’s…”

“Ah, you mean Baron Saint-Mang? The gambler who’s so strapped for funds that he resorts to smuggling.”

Agnes opened her mouth to speak, but couldn’t formulate a proper retort. Instead, she tore at the edge of the sofa in frustration. Isabelle thought to herself that invoking charges of lèse-majesté had been a good move.

“I won’t bother asking who’s behind you. I’ve already found out. And I don’t need you to confirm it.”

“Then what do you want from me…”

basement, and be silent at once. If you do as I say, no news of this will reach Madame Saint-Mang.”

Isabelle knew well that what Agnes really feared wasn’t being charged with lèse-majesté and exposed to the ridicule of the guards, nor that Isabelle and Arnaud might one day gain power in the capital. What Agnes feared most was Camille.

“If she finds out I’ve discovered this, you’ll be in a lot of trouble too, won’t you?”

“How much, how much do you know?”

“I know more than you think.”

Isabelle tilted her teacup as she spoke, each movement exuding a calm elegance.

Though Isabelle was somewhat tense, her naturally cold demeanor ensured that Agnes wouldn’t notice. The deliberate narrowing of her eyes only added to the effect.

While Isabelle struggled to maintain her composure, Agnes was visibly agitated, rubbing her sweaty palms against her knees and struggling to maintain her concentration. Her expression was a spectacle in itself, with lips that had turned pale and showed no sign of regaining their color.

Isabelle had no reason to feel sorry for Agnes, who had been complicit in sending a child to the basement. She looked at her with detached indifference.

“Jean, come in.”

How long had she been waiting? With her back to Isabelle, Agnes called for the servant.

The same servant as before entered through the door. Judging by the noticeably diminished oil in the lantern, he had been in the basement.

“What… what do you need?”

“To escort Madame there.”

“Pardon?”

Jean was visibly shocked by the order. His dilated pupils betrayed his disbelief, as if he had been ordered to run across the fields and cut his own throat personally.

“But why… why there…?”

“Don’t ask!”

Agnes, growing impatient, snapped at him in irritation. Despite her nudging, Jean remained still, standing idly. When Agnes stopped speaking altogether, Jean turned his gaze to Isabelle.

“Madame, I apologize, but there really is nothing in the basement. If you’re looking for something, neither Agnes nor I can provide it for you.”

Isabelle’s brow immediately furrowed. She could already see the alliances behind this man.

Camille was always around – somehow, in some way. It was time to change her expression.

“So that’s how it is.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

Isabelle suddenly reached for her stomacher. Her actions startled everyone, but Jean’s reaction was noticeably different. There was a subtle hint of anticipation on his face.

What Isabelle pulled out was a piece of cloth.

Though the first glance may have deflated expectations, Jean’s eyes sparkled as he eagerly unwrapped the cloth she handed him.

Inside were five or six sapphire stones, each about the size of a thumbnail.

“The trade caravan will be here soon. Sell them as you see fit. This amount should be enough to adorn a noblewoman’s ring finger four times over.”

“When… when did you say they would arrive?”

“I already told you-soon.”

Jean, who had been shifting his gaze nervously between the jewels and Isabelle, hastily shoved the gems into his pocket before stepping out.

The size of the stones took up the entire bag, forcing Jean to remove everything else in it. Among the things he took out was a key.

Isabelle followed him.

There were no maids scrubbing the floors, no servants repairing misaligned windows in the hallway. With that, Jean boldly pushed open the bookcase at the end of the hall.

Creak, creak – the bookshelf groaned loudly as it shifted aside to reveal a single red wooden plank.

Jean removed the plank and turned to her. Without a word, Isabelle overtook him and walked boldly down the short staircase.

She didn’t forget to snatch the key from Jean’s hand as he reached out to open the door in front of her.

After a series of noises, the door opened and Isabelle, abandoning all pretense of elegance, moved decisively toward the corner.

“Loui!”

“Uh, mm…”

There was a child in the corner.

If Jean hadn’t handed her the lantern before he left, Isabelle wouldn’t have known whether it was a child or a sack of rags.

The child seemed to be trying to sleep.

As she put the lantern on the apple crate Loui had been leaning against, Isabelle willingly used both arms to pull the child into her embrace.

He had nothing covering his body.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry… I didn’t… I didn’t do anything, I didn’t…”

“No, no. I’m not here to hurt you.”

The child mumbled as if in a fit, so much so that it was unclear whether he was breathing or panting.

Isabelle pulled the small body closer into her embrace, speaking as if she believed that saying it would make it true, like a desperate soul clinging to hope.

“It hurts, it hurts. Please stop, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

Loui couldn’t calm down. His struggle caused his tattered clothes to fall apart even more. The more they did, the more red spots appeared on his body.

It didn’t take Isabelle long to realize that these weren’t new marks, but old wounds.

With one hand she gently patted the child, and with the other she carefully removed his stained and tattered shirt.

What had been hidden by dust and darkness now screamed out into the open.