Chapter 78

9 – Marianne’s Truth – 17

 

And then...

I did not remember how I made it back to the estate. All I knew was that, before I realized it, I had finished bathing and was lying on the bed in my room. Curled up like an infant, I was weeping.

A maid wiped my face several times, but it was of little use; the tears kept spilling over as fast as she could wipe them away. At the same time, my body shook so violently—my teeth chattering uncontrollably—that it felt as though I had been abandoned in a land of bitter cold.

I huddled there, clutching my hands tightly against my chest. Even with no one to pray to, I could not help but pray.

 

Please, don’t die.

 

Ilya was already dead. Even though I knew it, I still found myself wishing—begging her not to die, to stay alive.

Over and over, I offered up prayers that could never be answered, while constantly telling myself that she was already gone.

It was the same on the way back from the prison, and even after I had returned to the estate.

I remembered nothing—not when I had parted ways with Alfred and Franz, nor whether I had even exchanged proper farewells with them.

I heard later that Franz had apparently seen me home. I was told nothing of Alfred’s whereabouts—nor of Johann or the fourth knight.

All I knew was that I would never see them again.

 

“…Marianne. Won't you at least have something to drink? You’ll wither away if you go on like this.”

 

It was Evan, just returned from work, who spoke to me after I had spent a full day and night weeping. Climbing onto the bed in his outdoor clothes and peering into my face, my husband voiced his regret over the time he had missed, saying, “I should have stayed by your side, no matter what else demanded my attention.” He looked pale, as if he had witnessed *that* scene with his own eyes.

When I reached out as if seeking help, he clasped my hand in return. Tears fell again at that warmth; no matter how I struggled, I could not suppress my sorrow.

“Here, have a drink.”

It seemed a maid had brought fruit-infused water to the bedside table, for a refreshing scent wafted past me.

 

Yet, the foul stench of the dungeon seemed to still cling to the air around my face.

Triggered by the memory, I recalled the sight of Ilya’s final moments and retched right there on the spot.

Having eaten nothing, I brought up only bitter stomach acid. It was agonizing. Eventually, there was nothing left to expel; I wanted to retch, but couldn't. My stomach seemed to be spasming, making it hard to catch my breath.

I heaved repeatedly, yet nothing came up.

Without a thought for getting dirty, Evan wrapped his arms around me and rubbed my back. Never before had I found such reassurance in the embrace of those arms.

And then, the thought struck me.

There had always been arms there to hold me—my father, my mother, and—at times—Evan.

 

As for Ilya?

 

“…I tried… I tried so hard to save her…!”

It wasn't as if I had abandoned her. There were the four knights and myself; though not present at the scene, Evan—as well as my father, Cynthia, and Wilhelm—had all lent their aid.

And yet, she had died all alone, in a place like that, in a way like that.

“I know, Marianne. You did your absolute best. There was nothing more that could have been done… tragic as it is.”

I thought this while held tight in my husband's arms.

 

―――――You didn't see that scene.

 

No matter how much he cared for me, or how much he felt as though he had been to that prison with me... having witnessed that hell, it is impossible to say we did your absolute best. After all, the blood had not yet dried. Had we arrived even an hour or two sooner, the outcome might have been different. Couldn't the infiltration of the prison have taken place a little earlier, rather than in the dead of night? In that case, the rendezvous with the knights could have been set for the evening.

No—more than that...

What if I had asked my father for help just one day sooner? Or what if Alfred had come to our home much, much earlier?

 

Above all else... if only I had acted the moment I learned Ilya had been captured on the street.

Could I have saved her life?

 

“It's... my fault...”

“Marianne.”

“It's my fault...”

“Marianne.”

“I could have... saved her...”

“...Marianne!!”

 

The shout that rang out close to my ear was laced with a level of rage I would never have imagined coming from Evan. It was a tone of voice I had never heard from him before.

“You're wrong, Marianne. There are things even you cannot do. Saving a single life demands so much—it wasn't just *you* who fell short... We all did. It was a single moment of hesitation that drove her to the brink.”

Does that mean she could have been saved if not for that one split second of doubt? My vision blurred further as I spiraled through a futile cycle of self-questioning, incoherent words spilling from my lips uncontrollably. My heart felt as though it might burst from the agonizing, soul-rending grief.

 

―――――In the cell, I could not bring myself to touch her.

I was afraid; that was why I couldn't do it. Faced with the prospect of a gruesome death, I faltered. Even though I had been granted a moment to bid her farewell, I stood frozen—unable to move even a fingertip, let alone reach out to her.

Once again, I felt a deep sense of disappointment in myself.

 

“Marianne. This is not your fault.”

 

My husband said that, but... how can anyone say this isn't my fault? I ought to dry my tears this instant and rise up to clear her name and exact retribution. Instead, I find myself mentally constructing futile “what-ifs” about how I might have saved her. I envision countless ways I could have rescued her—only to be confronted, time and again, with the stark reality that she is already dead.

 

“No one could have saved her.”

 

A reality far too cruel to bear.

“Marianne. Once you've had some water, you need to eat. Please—take care of yourself.”

If I close my eyes, darkness descends, shielding me from sights I do not wish to see.

Ignoring my husband's plea, I retreat once more into the confines of the bed.

 

After that, I remained mired in gloom for days on end.

It was a week later that Evan, unable to bear watching me consumed by sorrow any longer, finally contacted my family home.

Cynthia arrived without delay.

“Lady Marianne, shall we go for a walk?”

It was she who drew back the curtains that had remained closed for so long. As I looked up at her—her suggestion made with a blend of modesty and firm resolve—she practically forced me into a sitting position. It was a display of decisiveness rare for a lady's maid; Evan had likely anticipated this very approach.

While I sat in a daze, she finished dressing me; then, with a gentle tug on my arm and the words “Let us go,” she led me from the room.

As we walked down the corridor, Cynthia kept a firm hold on my hand, offering little in the way of words, yet staying close by my side.

Her generosity was truly like that of a mother. Another tear fell.

Despite the mountain of duties awaiting her as the mistress of the Count’s household, she spared time for me. When I asked why she would go to such lengths,

“I am simply doing for you what you once did for me,” she said with a smile.

She had said much the same thing when I visited her family home to persuade father—that she owed me a debt of gratitude. Yet, I had not done anything particularly special for them.

I had simply chosen to do what I wanted to do, for my own sake.

 

“Lady Marianne.”

“Yes?”

“There was once someone I loved with all my heart—though I have since lost him. Losing him was a truly agonizing ordeal; I felt certain I would never be able to recover. Yet, I came to realize something: the gifts I received from having met him far outweighed the pain of losing him.”

 

She went on to say that the joy she had gained from that encounter was profound enough to transcend all suffering and sorrow.

“You, too, will understand this someday,” she said, her eyes narrowing gently.

 

From that day on, she visited my home faithfully for a full month.

 

As time went on, though the pace was slow, I began to get out of bed on my own more frequently, and my appetite improved. Eventually, Cynthia—apparently deeming me recovered—stopped coming to see me.

With a modicum of strength restored, and still burdened by an unshakable fatigue, I shut myself away in the archives to uncover the truth behind Ilya’s death.

 

I compiled the information I had gathered onto paper while simultaneously poring over publicly available documents concerning her. It was Cynthia who brought them here for me; I had asked her to make the request to my father. Naturally, he hadn't been pleased about it, but he had apparently provided them—albeit reluctantly—reasoning that I would likely come across such public records eventually anyway.

And yet...

No matter how much time I spent studying the material, I found nothing that could overturn the facts already known to me; I gained no new information whatsoever. The only conclusion to be drawn from the compiled documents was, as ever, that Ilya had been condemned for a crime she did not commit, having fallen victim to a carefully laid trap. Of course, that conclusion stemmed solely from my own belief in Ilya. If one were to accept *only* the information in these documents as fact, she appeared to be nothing short of a genuine villain.

 

In that case...

Was there any way I could get in touch with Alfred?

He would surely have access to information unknown to me.

Perhaps I should speak to the guards assigned to my household. Since they were fellow knights, they might well have some means of contacting one another.

 

Just as I was about to leave the room—feeling rather astute—the door was flung open from the outside, forcing me to step back. It was Evan. He promptly ushered me back inside.

His face, etched with anguish, loomed right before mine; his eyes were bloodshot.

As I stood there in bewilderment, he asked in a trembling voice what exactly I was doing.

Urged to sit in a chair, I studied my husband closely and gasped at the unsettling aura he exuded. Standing over me and looking down, he radiated an uncontrollable anger that I could feel viscerally, leaving me shaken.

After all, he had always been on my side.

Sensing something truly terrifying, I nonetheless answered the question honestly, without trying to gloss over the truth. I told him I was investigating the truth behind Ilya’s death.

Then—

“That’s enough!” he roared, his voice so thunderous it felt as though the ceiling might collapse.

I flinched instinctively. Usually, he would have immediately apologized for startling me, but this time, his expression remained stern and unyielding.

 

“Do you know what’s been happening to your daughter these past few days?”

“…What?”

 

Caught off guard by the question, I was at a loss for words. “My daughter?” I tried to stand up instinctively, but my shoulders were held down.

 

“She had a high fever… and was suffering terribly.”

“No!" I tried to rise again, but once more, I was held down and couldn't move. “She’s all right now,” my husband said, leaning down to embrace me.

 

“But… she could have died.”

 

He revealed the truth in a voice so faint and fading that the anger I had felt moments ago seemed like a lie; hearing it left me feeling as though I’d ​​been struck on the head. The sharp sound of my own intake of breath echoed in the air. “It wasn't just this time. You were always so consumed with Lady Ilya... completely disregarding me and... our daughter.”

While she was delirious with fever, she was calling out for you.

Hearing that, I was seized by an urgent impulse to hold my daughter close. Yet, bound tightly as I was, I couldn't even manage to get down from the chair.

 

“I understand that you want to know the truth behind Lady Ilya's death. I know just how precious she was to you. ...But she is gone.”

“!”

“That's right. She died. No matter how much you struggle now, she isn't coming back. Yet you remain held captive by the past?”

“...”

“So, what are we supposed to do in the meantime? She and I—we can't go on living without you...”

“...Evan.”

“Can you even see me?”

 

Do you love me?

 

My husband, who had always struggled with an appearance that made him look younger than his years, was self-conscious about his behavior seeming juvenile as well. Consequently, he made a conscious effort to conduct himself with an almost exaggerated air of composure. He would keep his voice a shade lower than when speaking to me, minimize his gestures, and adopt a manner—like that of an elderly gentleman—that some might even perceive as brusque.

Yet now, he asked me this in a voice thick with tears and palpable sorrow.

 

“…I… I cherish you deeply.”

“Mm. I know. You’re kind, after all. You’d never treat me callously.”

“Evan…”

“I love you. That’s why… all this time, I thought it was enough for me simply to love you. But sometimes… it feels so empty.”

“…!”

“You know, ever since I was little, I’ve tried so hard to make you love me. …You didn't know that, did you?”

“After all, you had no interest in me,” he murmurs, burying his face in my shoulder.

 

“I know perfectly well that you don't love me right now. But... if that's the case... then try. Please, try to love me...!”

Pleadings to truly see him—and our daughter—forced me to realize with painful clarity just how deeply I had hurt Evan all this time.

As his arms loosen, I reached out as well. When I embraced him in return, I felt his body trembling.

 

In the corner of my vision, I saw the stack of materials I had gathered regarding Ilya. They were within arm's reach—documents I had intended to read over again later.

But there was nothing left for me to do.

...That was what I told myself.

 

Come to think of it, when was the last time I hugged my daughter? I was horrified that I had forgotten what should be the most important thing in the world. That's right. I had someone to love, and I was certainly loved.

I'm happy.

It must be so, it must be so. Everything I wanted is here and I didn't want anything else. I know I'm blessed. That's why.

 

Why Ilya?

Why was it only Ilya who vanished from my life?

 

It was because I hadn't truly faced her.

“I vow to love you, Evan.”

“Marianne...?”

“I swear that, no matter what happens from this day forward, I will love you.”

My eyelids burned. I squeezed my eyes shut to hold back the tears sliding down my cheeks.

I didn't want to lose anything else.

 

Then I must face this.

I must live solely for Evan and our daughter.

 

*

*

**

***

 

“......Grandmother? How are you feeling?”

“......I'm doing very well.”

 

As I dozed in the rocking chair by the window, my granddaughter spoke to me. Round cheeks and long eyelashes; her sparkling gaze bears a striking resemblance to her mother's. She was a bright child, soon to celebrate her fifth birthday.

 

“Are you sure it's alright for you to come all the way here? What about your studies?”

“It's perfectly fine. My tutor has given me high marks for how quickly I pick things up! Besides, Mother asked me to come and check on you, Grandmother.”

“Oh, my—fufu. I wonder if I can convince you that there's no need to worry about me.”

“It isn't just Mother; Grandfather is worried about you, too.”

“Evan is? Even though we saw each other just a little while ago?”

“Grandfather is simply concerned about you. He mentioned that you haven't seemed quite yourself these past few days.”

“I see...”

 

It must be because of the dream I had three days ago.

A scene from the past—an event from long ago that I could still recall with vivid clarity—haunts me by appearing in my dreams. Not a day or night goes by without me thinking of it.

The moment I close my eyes, I am instantly plunged into a sea of ​​blood. Frozen in place, my eyes behold the corpse of someone dear to me.

I scream and reach out, yet my fingertips claw only at empty air; I can never touch her.

In the dream, I am just a fraction braver than the real-life version of me, who stood motionless and could only gaze upon her death.

And yet...

Even in my dreams, I cannot touch her, nor can I speak to her.

 

As always—now and in the future.

 

“I plan to take a stroll in the garden later, so I shall be quite all right. You should return to your own room. Don't you have other things to attend to?”

“I have already finished them. So, I shall join you in the garden, Grandmother.”

“My, how lovely. That would be wonderful.”

 

I set the unfinished shawl that had been resting on my knees onto the table. Although I rose slowly, I found myself unsteady on my feet for some reason; a maid supported me, saving me from a fall. My legs and back have grown so frail.

Lately, I had become acutely aware of my body’s decline. According to Evan—who remained hale in both body and spirit, still enjoying pastimes like horseback riding and hunting—the secret to a long life was simply to eat delicious food and do what you love.

It was hard to believe, yet I wondered if, in time, I would grow accustomed to this fatigue that seemed to arise from nowhere.

 

“By the way, Grandmother, did you know? I hear the new monarch from the neighboring kingdom is coming to visit us next week.”

“Oh, is that so? It is a queen, isn't it? That country had been plagued by civil strife for so long... It seems the political landscape has shifted dramatically.”

“Apparently, she is quite young.”

 

As I continued this idle chat with my granddaughter, I found myself reminiscing about the past.

 

Even though Ilya had clearly been murdered by someone, a notice was later posted in the streets announcing that her execution had been carried out. This was presumably done to cover up the fact that an intruder had managed to break into the prison and kill the captive.

By then, however, public interest had already waned; few people stopped to look at the broadsheet posted on the wall. Despite the incident having once caused such a stir, it was the sort of event that could be forgotten so easily.

Yet, at the same time—

It casted a long, dark shadow over the futures of those who had been directly involved with her.

 

It was two years after Ilya’s death that I heard Soleil had fled the Marquis Nortis’s household.

Apparently, he had caused a commotion at a common brothel sometime before that—though I did not know the details. I had no interest in the matter, so I simply let the information pass me by. Perhaps because of that incident, the Marquis’s family had long since washed their hands of him.

Although the Marquis’s family—having lost their heir—adopted a child from among their relatives, a change in the monarchy coincided with their troubles, and they fell into a steady decline. Ilya’s family had met a similar fate.

 

Alfred was the one who weighed most heavily on my mind. It seemed he left this country and crossed alone into the neighboring land.

No one knew what became of him after that. However, I once heard a rumor that someone resembling him had been spotted within the ranks of the revolutionary army.

Why would he throw himself into a war in a foreign land? It was utterly baffling. One might speculate that he had given up on life and acted out of desperation, yet there was no way to prove he was actually with the revolutionary army, and the evidence was flimsy at best. It was likely just a case of mistaken identity—a mere coincidence of resemblance.

 

My own family, meanwhile, remained unchanged. In fact, Evan’s business met with tremendous success, and he now even enjoyed close ties with the royal family.

 

Chapter 77                                                      Chapter 79