Strictly speaking, Alathea’s death meant little to anyone but her.

At dawn, the servants brought the luggage cart into the courtyard. 

The investigation hadn’t even finished. 

In fact, Isabelle didn’t believe her husband when he said he was looking for the sniper. 

‘You need men in charge when you’re running an investigation.’ 

So when he told her they had to go, she left the castle without a fight. 

Resignation had become second nature to her – there was no other choice.

Her hat pulled down low, she was walking towards the carriage when she heard laughter in the distance and turned her eyes in that direction.

“Lord Arnaud, you will ride with me, won’t you?”

It was Camille, clinging to her husband’s arm and whimpering playfully. 

Isabelle’s eyes narrowed instinctively, but after meeting Arnaud’s she couldn’t bring herself to look that way again. 

“All right, Camille.” 

she heard him say – for she had seen Arnaud’s eyebrows knit in irritation.

Not long after that, he was pulling Camille towards his assigned carriage, and no one questioned it.

And so the three-day journey to Antmaren was Isabelle’s alone. 

Clutching the small box containing a handful of Alathea’s ashes, Isabelle spent those days fighting the inevitable drowsiness and enduring the journey in silence.

Although the carriage stopped whenever a wheel broke or Camille made demands, Isabelle never got out.

And, not surprisingly, no one cared about Isabel. 

Maybe that was for the best. 

She wasn’t in a position to say much anyway. 

It seemed that even the servants knew that any sign of concern would only be met with refusal. 

After three and a half days of travelling, the procession finally arrived in Antmaren well after midday. 

Isabelle, who had been unable to sleep all night because of the steep, winding roads, had only just dozed off by morning. 

When she awoke, they were already outside the cathedral. 

She hastily put on her hat and stepped out of the carriage – only to see Camille smiling as brightly as ever, with the same unreadable, pleasant expression. 

Isabelle’s brow furrowed at the sight as Camille casually reached out her hand.

“Madam, we’ve arrived. This is the Oretique Monastery.” 

“I will go alone.” 

“The path is uneven. You’ll need help, madam.” 

At that, Camille wrinkled her freckled nose slightly and spoke in a playful tone, as if she might giggle at any moment. 

Given the circumstances, there was no way Isabel could look kindly on this behaviour. 

People had died and yet she was smiling as if there was something to be happy about. 

“Come on, take my hand.”

Her cloak had slipped as she held up her arm, but Camille didn’t seem to mind. 

She even gave the hand she was holding a little playful wave. 

Isabelle just shook her head. 

She’d rather walk through Chamfera in nothing but her chemise than accept help from her husband’s mistress. 

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll go alone.” 

“Hmmph-” 

Camille pouted and shook her shoulders like a sulking child.

Isabelle looked down at Camille with slightly parted lips. 

A clear expression of what on earth are you doing? 

Her reaction was blatant, but once again Camille didn’t seem to mind. 

She even took Isabelle’s hand and gave it a gentle tug. 

“It’s my first time attending to you as a maid—if you reject me like this, it would be quite embarrassing.”

Isabelle stood there, neither getting out nor back into the carriage,  just staring intently at the woman in front of her. 

Her gaze was far from friendly, but the smile on Camille’s face showed no sign of fading. 

It was Isabelle who spoke first.

“And why are you my maid?” 

“Is there any reason why I shouldn’t be?”

Camille tilted her head as she asked. 

There had been many cases of maids becoming mistresses, but never the other way around. 

Isabelle got out of the carriage completely, then looked down at Camille, who was several inches shorter than her, and replied. 

“Normally a maid is chosen by the person who employs her. It’s not a position you can volunteer for, Camille.” 

“But still…”

“Besides, you don’t have the status for it, do you?” 

With those words, Isabelle narrowed her eyes and looked Camille up and down, causing the woman’s face to immediately turn into a pout. 

Unlike Isabelle, whose pale complexion and ash-grey hair often made her appear cold.

Camille was a warm beauty, with lightly tanned skin and deep red hair. 

“Camille has a title, Madame de Chateaur.” 

It was Arnaud who broke the silence. 

Dressed in a deep navy justaucorps with intricate gold embroidery, his appearance was in stark contrast to Isabelle’s plain white dress.

Camille, dressed in a similar deep blue cloak, could easily have been mistaken for his wife. 

They looked more like a couple.

“I would prefer you to call her Baroness de Saint-Mang from now on, not Camille.” 

It seemed he had even gone so far as to marry her off to another nobleman, making her his official mistress in all but name.

Isabelle pressed her lips together as she looked back and forth between Arnaud and Camille. 

Even though she had said the words herself, the feeling of bitterness was only natural. She had to bear it – she had to… 

But to see that man pull Camille into his arms and flaunt their closeness with that smug smile – it made her feel like her heart was being scraped raw.

He looked as if he had already sorted out all his feelings – as if Isabelle was nothing more or less than a wife in name only. 

Arnaud continued. 

“I’m sure you will understand this lady’s feelings as you are in the same situation. I hope you’ll get along.”

“You – what on earth are you…” 

“Ah, but Madame chose to become a mistress of her own accord, so I suppose it’s different. My mistake in assuming otherwise.” 

“No, His Majesty-!” 

At Arnaud’s sneer, Isabelle couldn’t hold back her outrage any longer and took a step forward. 

His words had completely erased her earlier resolve.

But at that moment, a firm hand gripped her shoulder. 

“Calm yourself, Madame de Latvién.” 

It was Versica. 

He pulled Isabelle’s raised arm down and pulled Isabelle towards him.

Then he whispered in a voice only she could hear. 

“Don’t you think there are skilled snipers here too?” 

“Versica…”

“If you want to keep your husband’s head on his shoulders, you’d better keep your mouth shut. I should have had your tongue cut out and sent you on your way.” 

At those words, Isabelle’s gaze instinctively shifted to Arnaud. 

There was a hint of discontent in his eyes.

Did he think she and Versica were plotting something together?

Arnaud approached them.

“Versica, don’t even think about using my wife to get to me.” 

Wife, he said – using that word in a situation where it was the last thing he wanted to do. 

Even that felt cruel. 

When Isabelle bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, the old nobleman tilted his mouth into a crooked smile and replied.

“I am His Majesty’s loyal servant. I listen to no one but him.”

“And yet you haven’t died, even at your age.” 

Gritting his teeth, Arnaud turned sharply and walked ahead with Camille, passing the rest of the group. 

Only Camille kept looking back at them. 

Although she kept looking over her shoulder, she soon returned to Arnaud’s side, chatting away as if nothing had happened.

Isabelle then turned to Versica.

“Versica, I won’t say a word. Please – just once more – urge His Majesty to keep his promise not to take Arnaud’s life.”

“He is the one who killed the former king and tried to steal the throne from the heir. And yet His Majesty has spared him all this time. Isn’t that proof of generous and trustworthy mercy?”

Versica saw Henri not as a villain but as a misunderstood sage. 

That is why his praise of Henri hurt Isabelle far more than the queen’s tyranny ever did.

Among those stories, the one she hated most was how, at the age of seventeen, Henri had fired the royal heirloom weapon known as Jalbert’s Judgement, passed down through generations of the royal family.

As Isabelle’s expression twisted in discomfort, Versica, as he often did, casually raised his hand and patted her cheek twice. 

It was humiliating – but she couldn’t bring herself to react.

“I say it all depends on how you behave, madam. So behave, OK?” 

“Take your hand off me.” 

“Ah, that’s right. I have a present for you.” 

The moment he finished speaking, he turned and snapped his fingers at a servant guarding another carriage. 

At the signal, a woman in a plain brown caraco dress stepped out of the open carriage. 

Isabelle’s eyes narrowed. 

It was a maid called Marie – one who works as a servant in the Queen’s quarters.

“Her Majesty the Queen sent her. She said the girl wasn’t very useful, so she’d be perfect to report on your every move.” 

“Didn’t I say I wouldn’t speak?” 

“Well, with or without the girl, you wouldn’t be able to speak anyway, madam. In any case, I hope you keep her close.”

With these parting words, Versica climbed back into the carriage in which Isabelle had arrived. 

Before she could even ask what he meant by “with or without the girl”.

As she stood there, staring blankly at the back of the departing carriage, the maids approaching Isabelle bowed their heads and said:

“You must go inside now.” 

Only then did Isabelle seem to come to herself. 

The bowed heads of the maids trembled slightly. 

To those who knew nothing of Arnaud’s past, Antmaren would be hell on earth.

Yes… what sin have he committed?

Isabelle nodded slightly with a sigh. 

The sun was already past its peak, almost ready to set. 

“Let’s go inside.”

The maids followed Isabelle’s lead, and she walked just ahead of her. 

By the time they had crossed about half of the garden next to the cathedral, a tall bell tower came into view above them. 

‘They say it was built that high to reach the Lord.’

The thought made her laugh. 

Could there be a more deserted place than this? 

Lowering her head again, Isabelle quickened her pace.