Her eyes narrowed, of course. Isabelle, with a look mixed with suspicion and confusion, turned the paper over and rubbed it, trying to make sense of it. Marie remained silent.

“I don’t believe you would play such a trick on me.”

“I have no intention of betraying your trust, Lady Isabelle. That has not changed.”

“Then how do you account for this letter?”

Isabelle picked up the blank page and waved it slightly. Even with her touch, there was nothing to smear or reveal on the paper.

Marie was still silent, and just as Isabelle’s impatience was about to make her jump from her seat, Marie handed her a tray.

On it was a thick, partially melted candle.

“What is this…”

“Lady Isabelle, you are far more intelligent than I am, so surely you will be able to read it.”

“What?”

It sounded as if she were relaying someone else’s words. At first, Isabelle furrowed her brow, unable to grasp the intent, but soon her thoughts began to shift.

There was only one person who needed to send her a message.

“Roture said that, didn’t he?”

“Yes, Lady Isabelle.”

Her guess was correct.

Marie nodded immediately. Without hesitation, Isabelle picked up the candle and held the blank sheet behind it.

After a moment, letters began to appear on the scorched paper. It seemed the message had been written using juice from lemons or similar fruits. This method made it impossible to read the contents without exposing the letter to heat, and it was unlikely for someone to deliberately bring it close to a flame.

The scorch marks spread to the edges of the paper. Isabelle blew on it gently and then began to read the revealed writing.

To Madame de Latvien,

Did Loui make it out all right?

That poor child… he left without ever getting the chance to be forgiven.

Even if I had ten mouths, I couldn’t utter a single word in his defense.

And for you, Madame… there’s nothing I could say that would be enough.

But here you are, in Oretique. And this is the only moment I have to confess.

Out of old habit I find myself writing this letter.

But not by my own hand – I don’t know how to write.

From the first word to the last, I’ve borrowed Jean’s hand.

I am deeply sorry for that.

By the time you read this, Madame, I will be gone from this world.

It has been a pitiful life.

And yet… I leave it with a little more value than I lived with.

Whether it’s by God’s grace or just another cruel joke, I don’t care anymore.

This is enough for me.

I am not a brave soul like you, madam.

I just live and die the way I was born.

The pen I put down now will soon be replaced by a rope in my hand, and I will struggle as I close my eyes for the last time… yet I do not feel wronged.

I was just on the wrong side.

And so, before I meet my end, I lay it all bare.

This is my first and last request for your forgiveness, Madam.

As you have always believed, I did not sleep with Monsieur.

I did not bear his child.

It’s true, I kissed him, and I did so willingly… but that was all. There was nothing more.

Of all the things you’ve learned about me, very few were ever true.

And if anything has finally become clear to you now, this is the truth.

Since you already seem to understand, I will no longer speak in riddles.

Every single thing that has caused you pain, every torment that has bound me – all of it, without exception, was done under their orders.

Forgive me for not speaking her name.

You are far wiser than I – wise enough to read this letter.

So I know you already know who she is.

I was a maid chosen by “that woman”. She promised me an immense reward if I would throw myself on Monsieur. For someone like me, who had left my mother in the care of the Trephiné sanatorium, it was an offer I couldn’t refuse.

Shamefully, I succumbed.

Even after witnessing Madame’s devastated expression, I didn’t stop. 

And yet, there is one thing I can say with certainty—I never shared a bed with Monsieur.

He had collapsed. After Madame fainted, Monsieur, too, became unresponsive. 

I was thrown into confusion, but that woman and her companions were not. 

As if it were nothing out of the ordinary, they calmly chewed on herbs and left Monsieur unconscious on the ground— 

while turning to me with threats.

They ordered me to act as though I had been with him. 

To pretend I was pregnant.

That is the reason I’m revealing everything now. 

Madame has learned the truth about me, and before long, that woman will too.

But I do not believe she will punish me. 

No—she will go after my mother. 

Because it was my mother who was used to blackmail me from the beginning.

And so, I must die.

If I die, my mother will be safe. No matter how hard I try to live, it will only bring harm to her.

How cowardly I am.

Meanwhile, Madam, you are a righteous person. I believe this letter will allow you to change many things. That’s what I trust, and that’s why I surrendered to you.

My urgent circumstances have made my words unnecessarily long. I don’t know if Jean transcribed this well…but if he did, I’m sure he included this sentence:

There are no real priests in Oretique, so I confess everything to you, Madame.

Stay well.

From Agnes.

***

Agnes was indeed found dead. Despite reading the letter and hearing the anguished cries, Isabelle kept her promise to Marie not to leave her room. It was only in the morning that she discovered Agnes, who had hanged herself.

Beneath her floating feet lay another corpse – this one with Jean’s face.

It was too horrible to describe.

He had died with a rifle muzzle in his mouth.

At this horrible sight, Isabelle neither flinched nor screamed.

She simply made the sign of the cross – the old faith they had both once trusted.

“Amen.”

She didn’t forget to instruct that Jean’s death be declared an accidental misfire and Agnès’s a drowning, before sending their bodies to Arananteuil.

Suicide was something that not even the lowest monk would admit to.

The mule with the body on its back left Hérétiques twice as slowly as usual, as if it knew what burden it was carrying.

As if in mourning.

And Isabelle was no different.

On her way back to her quarters, Isabelle stopped by Arnaud’s bedroom, only to be met with coldness.

“Madame, Monsieur said he doesn’t want to see anyone right now. He seems to be mourning the news of Agnes’ death.”

The tone was polite, but it was clearly a dismissal.

Isabelle said nothing, just looked at the servant and imagined Arnaud behind the door – just as silent.

She knew it was a lie.

If he had been able to say what he liked or disliked, he would never have turned her down.

That much was certain now.

“…If he doesn’t want to let me in, then I guess there’s nothing I can do. Very well.”

The servant nodded, smiling.

How could he be so calm?

With no choice, Isabelle returned to her inner chambers.

During the day there was nothing she could do – but at night it was different.

As soon as it got dark, Marie helped her out of her clothes, and Isabelle did the same for Marie.

Marie’s skirt was a little short.

The chemise underneath offered no more coverage, and Isabelle shyly twisted her exposed ankles, obviously self-conscious about how much skin was showing.

Unlike Isabelle, who had the status to sit still and be waited on, Marie had to be on her feet all day, moving around Hérétiques.

A long, flowing skirt would have been a luxury she couldn’t afford.

In a voice barely louder than a breath, Isabelle murmured.

“Marie, I haven’t worn anything this short since I was nineteen…”

“If it were any longer, you wouldn’t be able to walk. You know that well enough, don’t you?”

Still, Marie concentrated solely on removing her own shoes.

Once she had handed over her heeled mules, the two had become perfect replicas of each other.

This had been Marie’s idea, while the trick of sprinkling flour on her hair to imitate ash-gray curls had been Isabelle’s suggestion.

It was a method once used by Châteaubienne nobles who admired silver hair.

“You said the key was hidden in the lock, right?”

“Yes. Just reach in a little deeper-you should be able to feel it.

But you must come back immediately.”

“You worry too much.”

Even as she fumbled with anxious hands over Isabelle’s clothes, Marie finally moved toward the bed under repeated urging.

Lying in the bed of the one she served was no easy task.

It was only after a long moment of hesitation that Marie finally slipped under the covers and pulled them up to her head.

She didn’t forget to leave the rose tea cup half full – just as instructed.

Only when she was sure the covers were in place did Isabelle find the courage to close the door behind her.

The lantern in her hand swayed slightly.

Switching it to her other hand, Isabelle crossed the hall, carefully and quietly.

She had timed her movements to coincide with the guards’ shift changes so that no one would see her.

And the servants of Hérétiques were never very quick on their feet anyway…

But what gripped Isabelle wasn’t the fear of being caught, nor the urgency of time.

Her fear ran deeper – so deep that even her gums trembled.

For no one had screamed.

The roar she had expected… the sound of something crashing… had never come.

And that made Isabelle’s footsteps all the more distinct.

How loud could soft shoes on carpet really be?

And yet it was the silence that frightened her.

The distance wasn’t far, but she was already late.

Before she realized it, she was standing in front of Arnaud’s inner chambers.

Even with the door right in front of her, Isabelle hesitated for a long moment.

Only after a few slow, calming breaths did she finally open it.

There was no need to bring the lantern closer – the room was already lit.

And so Isabelle immediately saw him – Arnaud.

‘What is this…’

Arnaud’s condition was devastating – twice as bad as the letter had described.

He was on his knees, his head buried in the bed above him.

The soft, tousled golden curls were unmistakably his.

The servants beside him made no effort to help their master up; they were too busy chewing on something.

And it wasn’t as if there were no familiar faces among them.

Among them was Mario.

He seemed to be chewing the antidote already – there was a cigar in his hand, and judging by the open console, he had probably taken it from Arnaud’s things without permission.

‘Thinks he’s the master, that bastard…’
Only vulgar words came to her mind.

Since she was wearing Marie’s clothes anyway, Isabelle felt no need to maintain her dignity, and she bit down on even worse curses in her mind as she glared at him.

A pungent scent wafted through the crack in the door – it was clear they had lit some lightroot.

Which meant that whatever he was smoking had to be the antidote.

There was supposed to be another version from the East besides the Partaye, so it must have come from their supplier.

Her insides churned with anger – even more so when she overheard the conversation that followed.

“Where do you think Lady Camille went? She wouldn’t have gone to Baron Saint-Mang, would she?”

“She probably went back to that quickshot bastard. I don’t understand what she sees in him – I could please her a hundred times better.”

Isabelle strained her ears even more.

Judging by his tone, Mario seemed to have someone he hated even more than Arnaud or Isabelle.

She briefly wondered if there was any way to find out who it was – but thanks to a tactless subordinate, there was no need to wonder for long.

“Who’s the quickshot?”

“You know, the so-called best man of Chamfera. Henri Philippe de Jalbert, of course.”