Chapter 79

9 – Marianne’s Truth – 18

 

“Grandmother! Look, it's a butterfly.”

 

As I stepped into the garden accompanied by my maid, my granddaughter immediately ran ahead. Before I could even call out a warning about the danger, I tilted her head, following the gaze of the small hand pointing toward the sky. It was autumn—a bit too chilly for butterflies to be flitting about.

Yet, there was indeed a purple butterfly in flight. “What a curious color...” I murmured, a remark the maid walking beside me was quick to catch. Noting that it was a butterfly unlike any seen in these parts, the maid suggested they look it up in an illustrated guide later. Nodding in agreement, I accepted the bouquet the maid held out—one that had been prepared in advance.

I told my granddaughter—who was walking ahead of me with a bouncy step—to return to her room in thirty minutes, and instructed the maid to ensure the time was strictly observed.

“Grandmother! Are you going all by yourself?”

I had intended to part ways right there, but the little girl came running back, looking flustered. She threw herself at me in an eager embrace. As I reached out to stroke the top of her small head, the bouquet I was carrying got in the way.

She looked up at me with glistening eyes, clearly disappointed, and said, “I want to go too.”

“That simply won't do, my lady.”

I was at a loss for how to answer, given how dearly I loved her, but the maid stepped in to reply on my behalf.

Although the child pouted in dissatisfaction, she was by nature a sensible girl. After accepting my alternative suggestion—“Let's go for a walk together another time”—she returned to strolling through the garden.

 

I watched their retreating figures grow smaller before continuing on my way alone.

Thanks to the gardener’s meticulous care, the fallen leaves—however many might swirl about—never piled up enough to block the path. There was a pleasant sensation in the crunch of my heels against the earth.

I had been unable to go without a cane lately, but after following my doctor’s advice and practicing my walking, I have managed to reach a point where I could walk unsupported for about an hour.

And yet...

I felt a sense of gloom, remembering how I used to be able to ride a horse.

 

It was decades ago now, but there was a time when I was healthy and full of vitality. When I looked back fondly on those days and speak with other women who have aged alongside me, they often said that back then, they felt as though they could achieve anything.

I nodded in agreement, yet I found myself thinking of all that slipped through my fingers.

I should have been able to achieve anything, and yet, I achieved nothing.

I must have been arrogant back then. My healthy body was propping up a fragile spirit, leading me to believe I could accomplish things that were never truly within my reach.

 

Perhaps that was why. I had imagined that things would go more smoothly as I grew older.

In the end, though, it felt as if nothing had really changed.

I have reached this age without ever finding a truly close friend. There were certainly people with whom I might have formed a bond, but thoughts of *her*—of Ilya—would always cross my mind. I could never bring myself to step into their personal worlds, nor could I open my own heart to them.

It was my husband who, instead, always looked out for me and offered his support. Though he was a man, he had also been a lifelong friend. I could confide in him about anything, and I believed there was nothing I kept hidden from him.

 

And yet, even he could not come here.

Or rather, I have asked him not to.

 

"...Lady... Ilya..."

 

I erected her headstone deep in the woods bordering the back of our estate—land that belonged to my family.

She was a woman who, despite having been the daughter of a Count and having married into a Marquis’s family, was denied the right to a proper grave. That was why her name could not be carved into the stone.

The only ones who knew Ilya’s grave lies here were Evan, our family steward, and myself.

No one else—not my daughter and her husband, nor my granddaughter, nor the maids and other servants—was permitted to approach this place. I did not allow it.

 

I brushed away the dead leaves that had fallen on the low gravestone. The smooth feeling always made my heart ache. I could only mourn her in a place like this. However, it didn't mean that her body was sleeping under this dirt in the first place.

I heard that her body, which was to be officially executed, was cremated as she had no relatives.

I didn't know if this was an official procedure, but it seemed that the bodies of criminals who were sentenced to capital punishment generally were not returned to their families. That's why I told myself hundreds and thousands of times that this couldn't be helped.

 

“I'm sorry, it’s in such a place.”

 

I meant to say, “It must be cold here,” but my voice was too hoarse to form the words.

Her bones did not lie here, yet I felt that if I spoke, my voice would reach her. For a part of her—a few strands of hair—was buried in this ground.

One day, an unmarked envelope arrived at my home, containing nothing but those few strands of hair. There was nothing else inside, but I surmised that it must have come from Alfred.

If it is true that he traveled to a foreign land, he likely sent them to me as a memento.

I considered taking them to the church for a proper memorial service, but decided instead to let her rest on my own property, rather than having her interred in a grave belonging to some unknown person.

It was a decision I made on my own.

Evan witnessed it all, yet he simply watched over me without saying a word.

 

“Lady Ilya, what kind of flowers do you like?”

No matter how many years or decades pass, no answer ever comes. That is why I made an effort to gather a wide variety of colorful flowers—hoping that, among them, there might be at least one she loves.

As I placed the flowers before the headstone, a white petal drifted down onto my fingertip.

It vanished before I could touch it, and I realized it was not a petal, but a snowflake. Though it was autumn, it was still too early for snow.

 

Seeing nothing but butterflies, snow, and things out of season left me with an indescribable feeling. Wondering what it all meant, I looked up at the sky; the blue expanse from moments ago had vanished, replaced by cold, lifeless clouds that had shrouded the sun.

A biting wind made me shiver, and then, heavy snow began to fall—so thick that the individual shapes of the crystals were visible.

“…Oh, no.”

Overwhelmed by the snow that seemed to turn the world a blinding white, I sank to the ground.

As I covered my face with my right hand to shield it from the falling flakes,

 

“—————Whose grave is it?”

 

A voice I didn't recognize questioned me. I started to answer, but suddenly clamped my mouth shut.

No one ever came here but me. Who on earth was it?

I lifted my face to shield it from the ceaseless snow and noticed a man in a black robe standing right beside me. His hood was pulled low, hiding his face. Instinctively, I tried to back away—thinking he’s an intruder—but failed; my legs wouldn't move properly, and I stumbled and fell.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

As the hand I had planted on the ground was gently taken, a shiver of fear ran through me upon realizing the fingers were cool and devoid of body heat.

“…W-who are you?”

Pulled to my feet, I stood face-to-face with the stranger. It felt as though the falling snow swallowed the voice I had barely managed to force out.

Yet, the person seemed to hear me, offering a brief reply: “Crow.”

I understood that to be a name, but it didn't answer what I truly wanted to know. I wasn't looking for a name; I wanted details—who they were, their family lineage, or who had guided them into this place. But the black-haired boy, having lowered his hood to face me, offered no answer; instead, he reached out toward the grave marker.

 

“—————Don't touch it!!”

 

When I shouted to halt them—my voice louder than even I expected—the snow falling from overhead seemed to intensify in response.

Something was wrong. It was as if the dead of winter had suddenly descended. Yet, even in the depths of winter, this region rarely saw snowfall of such magnitude. A pair of dark eyes turned to look at me.

 

“…There is no name. Whose grave is it?”

 

With a face devoid of warmth—like that of a mechanical doll—and a voice utterly devoid of emotion, the figure repeated the same question. Though there was something uncanny about that face—as if a doll’s features had simply been pasted on—seeing the slight twist of those lips made me feel, for some reason, as though he was on the verge of tears.

 

“Who are you? How did you get in here? By whose permission did you come here...?”

“Tell me, please. ...Whose grave is this...?”

 

Realizing that the pleading look in his eyes meant we would get nowhere otherwise, I answered bluntly, “It belongs to Lady Ilya.” I spoke with a hint of dismissiveness, figuring he wouldn't know who she was anyway. Yet, his eyes widened, and he pressed a fist against his chest.

As if enduring a sudden pang of pain.

 

“...Ilya's? Really? When...?”

 

He spoke as if he knew her, even though he couldn't possibly. There was no way he could know. After all, she had died decades ago, while the young man before me looked to be barely twenty. In other words, Ilya had already passed away long before he was even born. So, there was no way he could know.

 

“Long before you were born.”

“...Long before... I was born.”

When was that? Where exactly am I? Which era have I...

The boy who called himself Crow—clearly in a state of confusion—suddenly dropped to his knees and clung to the gravestone. He traced its surface repeatedly with his fingertips, rubbing the spot where a name ought to have been carved—as if convinced that, if he kept at it, the name would eventually emerge.

 

“Why... —————Why?!”

 

The snow that had been falling incessantly ceased, and now thunder rumbled overhead. A flash of light tore through the air, yet only a single shadow was cast upon the ground. Something was wrong.

 

“Hey, who exactly are you?” He made a sudden, lunging motion toward me—causing me to instinctively brace myself—but Crow didn't actually come any closer. He pulled back his right hand that had been clawing aimlessly at the air, then said,

“No, wait. That doesn't matter. Whoever you are, whatever you are... because, because...”

 

―――――I hadn't made it in time.

 

He planted both hands on the ground and bowed his head. His back shook violently; he was clearly weeping.

Why? Even though he didn't know Ilya. I started to reach out, then hesitated.

After all, how did he know? That I hadn't made it in time.

 

“Why...? What am I supposed to do? Why—why aren't you here anymore? Ilya.”

Scattered raindrops began to wet the ground at his feet. They pierced the earth, overgrown with weeds, staining the soil black the moment they touched it.

“Hey, why? Are you still angry with me? I'm sorry—next time, I'll really listen to what you have to say. So please, forgive me. No... wait. You don't have to forgive me. You don't have to. Just... please, don't die...”

Seeing the boy let out a shuddering sob, I was reminded of my own past self.

Back then, as I galloped toward the prison, I had prayed with every fiber of my being for her safety. I had believed I could rescue her, been confident I could save her, and sworn that we would escape that dungeon together.

 

“Please, Ilya. Don't die...”

 

“—————Please, stay alive.”

That’s right. That was what I had wished for.

 

“Please, just stay alive.”

 

“It happened again. I let her go alone again. I let her die all by herself... It was my fault. I... the way I left Ilya...”

“It was *my* fault! *I* was the one who let Ilya die!” My past self screamed inside my head.

 

“...I'm sorry, Ilya... I thought I could save you!”

“...”

The boy turned his face toward me in response to my voice; his young face was drenched. I couldn’t tell if it is from the rain or from tears. Despite his doll-like features, raw despair was etched clearly upon his face.

“I meant to save you. I didn't want to let you die alone—I wanted us to escape together... I didn't abandon you! We all... we all tried to save you! But... but...”

 

I didn't make it in time.

I failed to arrive in time.

If I couldn't make it in time, then none of it mattered.

 

“I'm sorry, Ilya...!”

 

“I... I couldn't save you...!!”

 

My scream was drowned out by the sound of the rain, which had suddenly begun to pour down heavily again. The hands I raised to wipe away the raindrops wetting my face were wrinkled—a cruel reminder of the years that had slipped away. Yet, in that moment, I felt as though I were trapped in that prison cell. She lay at my feet, drenched in blood, and I felt as if her lifeless eyes were gazing right at me. I tried to explain myself to her—to tell her that I never intended for her to die all alone, in a place like that, in a way like that.

 

Even in reality or in dreams, I couldn't utter a single word when faced with her in death.

Why, then, am I confessing now—to someone I don't even know?

Ilya could not hear me. After all, she was already gone.

 

“...You tried to save her?”

 

I nodded in response to the question.

“Are you *like that*, too?”

I didn't know what "like that" referred to. So, I simply stared back at the boy, who had turned his face toward me in a daze while remaining on his knees. A flash of lightning cut through the space between us as we faced each other in silence. All the while, the world was being submerged in rain, accompanied by a deafening downpour.

He slowly stood up, staggered closer, and cupped my cheeks in his hands.

It felt as though I were being swallowed by those dark eyes—eyes that looked as if the very essence of darkness had been set within them. Oblivious to my state, Crow murmured softly, “You...”

A roar shook the ground, causing me to stumble; as he took a step back, the earth beneath his feet began to glow with a golden light.

 

“—————Wait...!”

 

For some reason, I knew he was about to leave.

 

In the instant a sudden gust of wind threatened to sweep me away,

“This time—just once in that long life of yours—try devoting yourself to a friend. Please,”

Crow said, wearing a twisted smile. He spoke as if to spit out the words, convinced it would never happen anyway.

“—————I will give it my all!! I absolutely won't make a mistake.”

If there really were a “next time.” If I could truly start my life over.

I vowed to devote myself to being of help to my friend.

And yet.

 

“Making a vow is pointless. After all, no one remembers anyway—it’s always been that way. No matter which world I go to, no one remembers me; even *she* forgets everything. So, there’s no meaning to it. It’s the same for you. No matter how strongly you might feel that way right now... your wish won't come true.”

 

The hem of his robe fluttered. A streak of golden light raced around him, enveloping his figure. A large circle spread across the ground, and I noticed something—an inscription resembling a spell—etched into it. It was what is known as a “magic circle,” a thing said to have been lost to antiquity.

 

“But...”

 

“Even so...”

 

*Wait! Don't go!* I keep screaming, but my aged vocal cords couldn’t carry the sound.

On the other side of that torrent of light, that person spoke—clearly.

 

“I'll be waiting, without expecting anything... Marianne.”

 

“If the time comes, help me. I’ll send a signal so you’ll understand.”

Chapter 78                                                        Chapter 80