The couple’s residence, attached to the cathedral, had once been the nuns’ quarters, later merged and rebuilt. Perhaps because the late King Charles had ordered its renovation, the interior was quite decent. 

As Isabelle followed Marc de Murier-Arnaud’s servant and caretaker up the stairs, she finally asked a question that had been on her mind since their arrival. 

“I noticed that there’s also a main building. Why are we staying here instead?” 

Surely the main residence would be more appropriate if they were to retain even a shred of dignity. Wherever they went, Ourethique was still a prison, but it was worth knowing. 

Murailles, who hadn’t stopped walking, replied without looking in his direction. 

“The main building is still being restored. Much of it was lost in the fire. It’s not fit for habitation.”

This meant that the main building still reeked of blood. Considering it hadn’t even been five years since the massacre, it was only natural. 

What a prison – grand in appearance, but a prison nonetheless. Isabelle bit and released her upper lip several times. 

In this case, the old man in front of her was no different from a jailer. 

“I hear you were His Majesty’s tutor.” 

“I served him during his time as dauphin.” 

“Then how did you come to Antmaren?” 

“Because I was his follower before I was his teacher.

There was a coldness in his tone. Isabelle could tell where Murailles’s loyalties lay. 

As expected, he was Henri’s man. Indeed, loyalists had been planted everywhere. 

Without further ado, Isabelle stepped through the door that had already been opened for her. 

“I’ll show you around, Madame!” 

Camille blocked her way. Naturally, she stepped in front of Isabelle and insisted on acting as her guide. 

It was obvious that refusing would only lead to more trouble, so Isabelle nodded reluctantly. 

When Murailles closed the door behind him and left, the room became Camille’s domain. 

With a voice full of excitement, she personally opened each door for Isabelle, one by one.

The first room she saw appeared to be a sitting room, but it still reeked of plaster that had not dried. 

Even when Isabelle raised her hand to her nose, as if suspicious of the smell, the servants made no effort to inquire about her well-being. 

She waved her hand a few times and cautiously stepped inside. 

There were panels along the lower part of the walls, but anyone could see that they had been hastily put together. The whole thing looked ridiculous. 

Most striking of all was the absurd sight of an oriental porcelain crane and a golden bird figurine sitting awkwardly on a console table. 

“Who put these here?” 

“I did!”

Unlike the nonchalant Camille, Isabelle looked slightly taken aback. 

To place luxurious oriental ornaments – fashionable at court – in a room like this was something Queen Louise would have done. 

Whether she noticed Isabelle’s expression or not, Camille continued effortlessly. 

“There’s the sitting room, the powder room, the bedroom and the wardrobe. I filled the wardrobe myself.” 

“I brought my own clothes.”

Even as her frown deepened at the already unpleasant impression, Camille remained as cheerful as ever. 

She really is a woman who knows no bounds.

As soon as Isabelle had decided to ignore her, Camille began to get on her nerves. 

“If you wear the clothes you wore at Moerne, Lord Arnaud will be furious. He despises everything about the court, you know.” 

“And he wouldn’t mind if I wore your clothes?” 

“Well, I’m one of Lord Arnaud’s people. They’re certainly better than something brought from the court.” 

She replied with feigned innocence, twirling her red curls – obviously styled with some effort. 

The sight of her was thoroughly unpleasant, but Isabelle didn’t want to cause any unnecessary commotion, so she turned her head away. 

“That’s enough. You may leave.” 

“I’ll help you get dressed.” 

“I’d rather not have your help.”

Camille didn’t react immediately to Isabelle’s words, but she was soon striding towards her. 

Her footsteps were loud enough to make Isabelle turn around, wondering what was going on – but before she could react, Camille had pinned her back against the wall, leaving her unable to stay on her feet. 

Her injured thigh simply wouldn’t support her weight. 

“I was the one at Lord Arnaud’s side for those three years. Whether you like it or not, you’ll have no choice but to accept my help.”

“I made him a promise. I’m not like you, Camille.” 

“It’s not Camille – it’s Baroness de Saint-Mang, you foolish Madame de Châteaur.” 

At that awful title, Madame de Châteaur, Isabelle felt something inside her snap. 

It was different from the way she hated hearing Arnaud call her Châteaur. This was pure humiliation. In a burst of anger, she slapped away the hand that had gripped her chin. 

“Are you going to insult me too? This wasn’t my choice. I wanted to explain everything when the time was right. You, Camille, are not in a position to speak so freely.” 

“When the time is right? And when will that be?” 

“Do I have to tell you?” 

“If you have something to say, say it to me. I’ll make sure it’s delivered.” 

“I’m not interested in borrowing a wh*re’s mouth.” 

“Oh? And you think you are any different, Lady Isabelle?”

At those words, Camille’s lips curved into a graceful smile. 

Isabelle knew only too well that she had no right to respond. She couldn’t slap Camille or raise her voice. 

Behind her, the Queen’s attendants watched with cold, piercing eyes.

At the mere memory of Henri’s threats, Isabelle’s head throbbed as if it were being squeezed. 

“Hehe!” 

Camille gave a cute little laugh at Isabelle, who was staring at her with her lips pressed tightly together, and then began to rummage through the shawl draped over her shoulders. 

“Anyway, I’m the one who served Monsieur for the last three years. Lord Arnaud seems to have long forgotten you, Madame, so if you want to secure your place, you might want to start crawling – at least in front of me.” 

“I was the one who spent my childhood with him.” 

“You mean those two months in Imanoria? It is truly impressive, madam, how you have managed to cling to such a short time all these years.”

With that, she pulled out a sealed cream-coloured envelope and handed it to Isabelle. 

“Tada – it’s a gift.” 

When she says it like that, it’s never just a gift. Isabelle snatched the letter from her hand. 

Although the flap was sealed, the crumpled edges of the paper clearly showed that it had been opened before. 

It was only when she saw that mark that Isabelle realised who the sender was. 

‘Mother…’

It was from Isabelle’s mother, the Grand Duchess Cassandra. 

Letters to Isabelle – her mother’s only form of contact – were always subject to multiple inspections. 

When she was a concubine, Henri had done this himself. But now, not knowing who had tampered with her letter, Isabelle asked in a sharp tone, 

“Camille, did you open this?” 

“The Marquis de Versica gave it to me. He said to give it to you.” 

Camille replied calmly. It seemed that the maids had given Camille the letter they had received from the Marquis de Versica.

She wondered why it hadn’t been given to her directly, but there was no need to dwell on the reason. 

Realising once again that she was nothing more than a prisoner in finery, Isabelle swallowed hard. 

“You may go now.” 

“If you’d like to write an answer, just give it to me.” 

With these parting words, Camille left the room. 

The sound of the door closing echoed through the room and the two maids, who had been stealing glances at Isabelle as she stared at the letter, quietly excused themselves as well. 

Now Isabelle was truly alone.

With her head still bowed, she opened the letter. 

Perhaps because her fingernails were all chipped, the paper didn’t lift easily. 

But once unfolded, it was unmistakably her mother’s handwriting.

To Elisabeth,

I hope this letter finds you well. Your mother is well and so is your father.

It’s been so many years since we last saw you. 

Still, I’m grateful – His Majesty has at least allowed us letters. 

That’s enough for me. I’ve learned not to hope for more. 

No one understands our situation better than we do. 

And yet, my dear child, I miss you terribly. 

Sometimes your father buries his face in the little cloak you wore as a child and weeps softly. 

As for me, I long for the simple act of braiding your hair again. 

I suppose, more than anything, I miss the little girl who used to giggle and say it tickled when I brushed her hair. 

That version of you – our little Eli – is the one I miss the most.

Your mother carries a heavy burden of guilt. 

Eli, you’ve done nothing wrong – please remember that. Live your life believing that. Everything that happened… it was our fault, not yours. 

I wish I could write more, but the paper is small. 

Wherever you are, I hope with all my heart that you find happiness. That’s all I wanted to say. 

I love you. 

P.S. You said you were in Antmaren, didn’t you? I hear it’s a place full of flowers.  It suits our sweet Elli perfectly.

“Your foolish mother…” 

That was how the letter ended. 

She misread the sender’s name, her voice thick with tears, as if submerged in water. 

Clutching the damp letter in her trembling hands, Isabelle buried her face in it. 

“Ugh… ngh…” 

Knowing that the letter wasn’t just for Isabelle, her mother hadn’t written anything like Are you struggling? or Is it hard?.

There was no end to Henri’s finger-pointing, so it was a wise choice. 

Instead, her mother had chosen to say that it was all her fault. 

At that line, Isabelle felt as if her heart had dropped all the way to her feet. 

It was a kind of signal – a silent acknowledgement that her mother knew exactly what situation her daughter was in. 

“Ah… Mom… M-Mom… hic… Mom…” 

Her tears wouldn’t stop. 

And the thought of once again having to carefully craft a response weighed heavily on her chest.