Chapter 73

9 – Marianne’s Truth – 12

 

There is something I have long pondered.

If I could start my life over, where would I begin?

 

Of the many mistakes I have made, which ones would I choose to undo? Yet, no matter how much I think about it—no matter what I might redo— I feel that if I remain who I am, those mistakes would inevitably remain mistakes?

Diverging paths ultimately circle back to the same destination—provided they don't end in a dead end.

In other words, perhaps the outcome is the same, regardless of the path chosen.

 

Even if—as Ruby taught me—choosing not to choose was itself an option...

Even if I chose to stay put rather than move forward, I could not remain in the same place forever.

 

Or perhaps the place I believed to be the beginning was not a starting point at all, but rather the destination—the “end”—all along.

 

****

 

Eventually, we graduated from the academy and set out on our separate paths.

It was a stroke of good fortune that I had the chance to speak with Ilya, even briefly, on the day of the graduation ceremony. I was waiting for my carriage outside the academy gates when she suddenly called out to me.

 

“Lady Marianne... My younger sister was so delighted with those sweets you gave us. They were absolutely delicious, too. Thank you so very much.”

 

It seemed she had remembered my request to hear her thoughts—something I had assumed she’d forgotten.

As I stood there, too stunned to reply, she offered a smile and bowed with her customary elegance. I knew I ought to say something, yet the words wouldn't come. What I finally managed to force out was:

“It is I who should be thanking you. Thank you for such a delightful time.”

It was a banal, uninspired response—the sort of thing one says merely out of convention. An awkward silence settled between us.

It felt as though our walk together through the city had been nothing but a dream.

Soon, she said, “Well then, farewell,” and—just as she had on *that* day—stepped into the carriage that had been waiting for her and departed.

 

I was left behind amidst the dust. The ending was too sudden.

There was nothing left in my hands, and I couldn't give anything away. I realized now that there really was nothing between us.

 

“Good day, Lady Ilya. See you again, someday, somewhere.”

After she was gone, I was the only one who heard my voice falling to the ground.

 

“...I'm sure someday won’t come. I won't see you again.”

 

Immediately after graduation, I moved into Evan’s household—and the days flew by in the blink of an eye.

Around that same time, Ilya married into the marquess’s family—a truly illustrious house. As a distinguished old family held in high regard by the King and widely renowned, the union between Ilya and Soleil was a major public event.

Portraits of the couple were displayed on street corners, and special edition newspapers announcing their marriage were distributed. Newsboys entertained the crowds with colorful tales of how the two had met; whether fact or fiction, the story went that they had been introduced by their parents and fallen in love the moment they laid eyes on each other.

Ilya was head over heels for Soleil, and he was equally smitten with her; they had eyes for no one else, deeply in love and eagerly awaiting this very day.

The fairy-tale nature of the story—Ilya, hailing from the third-ranking house among the counts, marrying into a marquess’s family of significantly higher status—delighted young girls across the social spectrum.

 

She was, for all intents and purposes, the heroine of a fairy tale.

 

It seems we have drifted worlds apart without me even realizing it.

We did cross paths at various soirees after we had both married, though I cannot say if Ilya was even aware of my presence.

The gap between us was vast now: the foremost family among the marquises versus the leading family among the barons.

Unless she spoke to me first, I was not permitted to so much as offer a greeting. Moreover, unlike me—who was always conscious of her—she was busy engaging with ladies of equal or higher standing, and our eyes never once met.

Unlike her student days, she now carried herself with true social grace, deepening ties with the high nobility. I watched from afar as she smiled—a gentle, ladylike expression.

I admired her attire—elegant and refined rather than ostentatious—and though I felt brighter colors would suit her better, I was in no position to offer such advice.

In any case, she likely had no need for words from me.

As the wife of a marquis’s heir, she was no longer a mere follower of trends; she had become a woman who set them.

 

We will never stand in the same place again; the stages we occupy were different now.

 

Despite a lingering touch of sadness, I steeled myself and turn away. It was Evan who gently asked, “What is troubling you all of a sudden?” I clasped his arm firmly, and together, we walked freely.

We savored the music at a leisurely pace and danced whenever the mood strikes. We passed the time chatting with close friends, cherishing our own lives without the burden of pretense.

 

This was fine. This was exactly how it should be.

 

Even after that, Ilya remained a frequent topic of conversation in high society. It was said that she increasingly worked alongside Soleil on diplomatic matters; her proficiency in languages ​​was likely a result of the studies she had pursued during her student days.

 

At one particular banquet, Ilya reportedly saved the life of a visiting state guest—a figure of paramount diplomatic importance from a friendly nation—who had been on the verge of a fatal incident. Although the visiting party had provided advance notice regarding dietary restrictions, the interpreter had apparently failed to convey the details accurately. Consequently, the chef was unaware that a specific ingredient—strictly forbidden for this occasion—had been included in the meal.

It was Ilya who, in the midst of the banquet, noticed the presence of the prohibited ingredient.

Displaying remarkable quick-wittedness, she reportedly had the plate removed in a completely unobtrusive manner.

 

It seemed that during a conversation with a guest, Ilya had happened to hear about a certain ingredients that they could not eat. It was information she was able to glean precisely because she could understand the meaning of words without the aid of an interpreter. Even when dealing with the same fruit, our country and our allies used different names; conversely, the same name might refer to an entirely different fruit.

 

Although the banquet fortunately concluded without incident, the matter was naturally viewed as a problem. Yet, even then, Ilya managed to smooth things over skillfully.

As a result, while some individuals lost their jobs, none faced criminal punishment—an extremely rare outcome in such situations. Even I, who have no involvement in state affairs, was aware of that fact.

 

I recall the sight of Ilya at the academy, always reading books in foreign languages. Piles of volumes, fingers stained black with ink. A furrow between her brows, and a mouth set in an expression that looked anything but happy.

Just how much knowledge had she crammed into her mind to prepare for entering the Marquis’s household?

 

“…You really do like Lady Ilya, don't you?”

 

As I pored over the newspaper I had brought home, Evan gave a wry smile.

It contained a story about the dress she had worn to an evening gala; its silhouette was so unique that it had captivated the interest of the ladies present. Apparently, it had been imported from abroad.

“I couldn't help but be curious about it, after all.”

Seated on the sofa opposite me, the master of the house rested his elbow on his crossed knee and remarked, “Well, her name is frequently mentioned among merchants, too.”

Although he had never blossomed as a knight, it seemed he possessed a remarkable aptitude for business.

He had apparently doubled the family fortune, greatly delighting my in-laws—and my father, too. My father—a man who was cold to everyone except my late mother and me—offered my husband unreserved praise, a rare occurrence indeed. Seeing my bewilderment, Cynthia laughed and suggested that perhaps, deep down, my father was simply happy to have gained two sons.

 

“Is Lady Ilya involved in any business ventures?”

“Well, not exactly. It seems she offers advice to businesspeople from other countries who are considering starting a business in our nation.”

“Oh, really? That is truly impressive!”

“Indeed.”

 

My husband smiled as he ate a cookie with jam on it, saying how delicious it was. Just watching him made my heart feel warm and at ease. It might not be the kind of burning, passionate romance people usually talk about, though.

Still, the thought of spending the rest of my life with this man didn't feel like a bad thing at all.

The baby I gave birth to last year would soon be turning one.

 

I suppose the shape of happiness differs for everyone. But I am happy—and to anyone looking on, it must surely show.

 

“Mama!”

 

I lifted up the child the nursemaid had brought to me. A soft, sweet scent wafted up, filling me with a sense of contentment once more.

“Oh, your speech is getting much clearer,” Evan said, stroking the child's small head before casually brushing his hand against my cheek.

Happiness is not something formless.

And yet, here it was—existing in a form so distinct and tangible.

 

Once, a maid I had brought with me from my family home murmured in a voice tinged with admiration, “You are truly happy, My Lady.”

Indeed, I am. I am deeply grateful for the immense blessings I have received—blessings I owe to my parents.

 

―――――And so, time passed.

It happened just as my daughter was about to celebrate her third birthday.

 

“Apparently, the daughter of some noble was attacked by bandits.”

 

Evan spoke to me as I set out for town to buy a headdress for my daughter.

He added that, although I would have an escort, I should exercise great caution.

When I agreed, noting that the times were dangerous, he saw me off with a final, earnest reminder not to let my guard down.

Once in the carriage, while making idle conversation with my lady-in-waiting, I took the opportunity to instruct her that we must always travel in groups of at least two—whether on personal or official business—and to bring a male attendant along whenever possible. I felt relieved when she nodded solemnly, and I resolved to stay vigilant myself.

That said, I wasn't doing anything out of the ordinary; I was simply making an effort to remain alert. In short, it was a minor matter to me—the idea of ​​someone being attacked by robbers felt like an event belonging to a completely different world.

 

I didn't even bother to verify who had been attacked by the robbers or what had become of the woman.

To be honest, I cannot recall the details of the conversation I had with Evan at that time. It was a trivial matter—the sort of thing that simply dissolves into the stream of everyday small talk.

Information, too, slips right through one's fingers the moment it fails to spark interest.

It is like a tiny air bubble floating on the water's surface; left alone, it vanishes without anyone ever realizing it was there.

 

“Something feels... ominous.”

“...What do you mean?”

A few days later, while seeing Evan off at the entrance hall as he headed to work, I suddenly sensed an unsettling air about him.

He lightly stroked my head—I had tilted it in confusion—and murmured, “I hope it’s nothing.” When I asked what was wrong, he laughed and said it was nothing; he shook his head as if to cast something off, and his anxious expression instantly shifted back to his usual cheerful demeanor.

“Father, have a safe trip.” He smiled with satisfaction, remarking on how quickly girls learn to speak.

I waved at his retreating figure as he boarded the waiting carriage. Another day was beginning without incident, and it would surely end the same way.

 

What if? What if I had been able to foresee the events that lay ahead?

What would I have done? Was there anything I could have done? Could these small hands of mine have halted that mighty, raging tide of fate—rising up behind me, poised to swallow me whole?

 

I have thought about it, over and over again.

To think that these arms—capable only of reaching forward—could stop something that made no sound, showed no form, and gave not even the slightest hint of its presence... It was an utterly impossible task. After all, I couldn’t even bring myself to look back on those events.

 

Even so.

Even so, I keep thinking that I should have reached out my hand.

 

“Lady Ilia?”

At first, I was certain it was nothing more than a rumor. In high society, smoke sometimes rises even where there is no fire; I had assumed it was merely that sort of tale. Who could have imagined, then, that it was far from being idle gossip?

 

“That is correct... It seems she was involved in a crime.”

 

I frowned at a rumor whispered to me during a tea party hosted by a baroness. I laughed it off, insisting such a thing was impossible, and my companion played along. Although she tried to retract what she had just said by bringing up a different topic, I felt I could not simply let the matter drop.

“Surely, that is the last thing that could happen to the Lady of the Nortis family,” I corrected firmly.

I managed to gain everyone's agreement in the moment, yet a sense of unease still lingered.

 

The Nortis family has long held significant roles in national affairs—not just under the current head, but for generations—wielding immense power. Perhaps they had invited unwanted envy.

Even so, with such authority at their command, surely the Nortis family would protect Ilya—even if, hypothetically, she were truly implicated in a crime (though such a thing was impossible).

In any case, I reasoned that she wouldn't face any real trouble. I let out a breath, finding reassurance in that baseless assumption. There was nothing I could do, but I was certain Soleil would shield her.

Yes, that was what I firmly believed.

 

Yet, Ilya ended up being arrested for the murder of her own sister.

 

Out on the street...

Extra editions were posted, just as they had been when she married Soleil. Though the situation bore a resemblance to that time just a few years ago, the content was worlds apart.

Across a beautiful portrait of Ilya, the word "Murderer" was stamped in stark, black letters. Beside it was a sketch of a woman who appeared to be her younger sister, with a large "X" marked over her face. While this was likely intended to conceal the victim's identity, the article itself was shockingly insensitive.

 

What is happening?

Was the woman attacked by the robber Ilya’s sister?

Did Ilya orchestrate it? Why? What does this mean?

 

As I stood frozen, unable to process what was happening, I stumbled back, jostled by the throngs of onlookers gathering around.

I clutched the hand of the maid who was supporting me in a protective embrace. My body trembled uncontrollably—shaken to the core and terrified by a fear that seemed to seep from deep within.

 

Even as I stood there in a daze, a newspaper-selling boy beat on the back of his pot to draw a crowd.

*Clang-clang-clang-clang!*

Amidst the piercing metallic din, he recounted the details of this shocking incident with exaggerated, dramatic gestures.

 

The audience, all wearing uniformly grim expressions, spat out that the Nortis family was indeed stained with blood, and began whispering about whom they feared. Lowering their voices further, they indulged in all manner of gossip—calling her a "wicked woman," a "vicious woman," or claiming she had a violent temper and abused her servants. Though each individual voice was quiet, the collective murmur sounded like a roar. My ears caught every single word.

And every one of them was meant to disparage Iliya.

 

The place she had secured through such immense effort and suffering—

Was she to lose it all so easily?

 

Even though she wasn't here, I found myself imagining her present—hurt by their slander.

It was impossible for Ilya to have harmed her younger sister. I knew for a fact that this was a mistake, yet I couldn’t speak carelessly; the suspicion arose from the existence of concrete evidence that pointed directly to her guilt.

As someone who held a position of standing, I couldn’t afford to cause a scene or drag my family into the fray.

Above all, I lacked credible proof of her innocence that could overturn the allegations against her.

 

All I knew was that Ilya was an elder sister who deeply cared for her younger sister.

And I understand that she was a sincere person—sensitive and easily hurt, yet always mindful of others.

 

Yet, I was fully aware that none of that would be of any use in saving her.

 

Chapter 72