Chapter 59
“Is that really true?”
Anette fixed her gaze on the Marchioness of Chartier, her question sharp and direct.
The Marchioness nodded vigorously, a gesture more befitting a young girl like Natalina than a woman of her station, but there was no time to dwell on such things.
“It’s a story from the Lemboti family,” she said.
“Lemboti…” Anette echoed.
“Yes, the family that supplies wine to Bildiem Castle. It doesn’t seem like idle gossip.”
Anette let out a heavy sigh, her rigidly upright posture collapsing as she sank back into the chair. Her body felt drained, as if all strength had seeped away.
‘Your Majesty.’
‘…?’
‘They say Lady Bilton has passed away.’
The moment Natalina had first spoken of Angela’s death came rushing back, vivid and raw.
Anette had thought her command of the Phaelon language must still be lacking.
She had learned that jeolmyeong meant the end of life, but how could that be?
How could that resolute young woman have fallen?
How could such a sudden death even be possible?
Surely the word jeolmyeong held some other meaning she didn’t yet grasp.
But then Natalina, her face glistening with tears, had extended a black envelope and said, “They say she took poison and ended her own life.”
Even then, Anette couldn’t bring herself to believe it.
She sent a letter to the Bilton ducal family, demanding clarity about Angela’s death.
But the Duke of Bilton had drawn a firm line with a curt response, stating he had no desire to air family matters to outsiders.
Kalian, who had allegedly stolen Angela’s body and fled, refused to answer even the Emperor’s summons.
Anette had discreetly sent her friend Tristan to check on him, but even he couldn’t get Kalian to open his door.
Instead, Kalian had recalled all the knights stationed in Ron to Bildiem.
If the Emperor grew suspicious, it could be deemed treason.
After all, hadn’t Kalian recently been imprisoned for failing to carry out the Emperor’s orders?
Yet, perhaps due to the Duke of Bilton’s influence, the Emperor seemed content to simply wait for Kalian’s return to the capital.
Those observing the situation began to speculate that Kalian had summoned his family’s knights to form a barrier, fearing Angela’s body might be taken from him.
Some even began to praise him as romantic for it.
Anette let out a bitter laugh, incredulous.
As far as she knew, Angela’s death was the most absurd in all of Phaelon’s history.
A young lady from a powerful noble family had died so young, and not only had no funeral been held, but the reason for her death remained shrouded in mystery.
And yet.
“She’s alive?”
Anette tapped the armrest of her chair, her thoughts racing. After a moment of gathering herself, she shot to her feet.
The Marchioness of Chartier hurried to keep pace as Anette strode forward.
Natalina and Jane, spotting Anette emerging from the room, quickly fell in step behind their Empress.
Anette’s destination was one of the guest bedrooms within the Empress’s palace, where Mary was currently staying.
When Mary had heard the devastating news about Angela—right after joyfully preparing a birthday gift for her—she had collapsed and taken to her bed.
Anette, feeling guilty for failing to keep her final promise to take good care of Angela, had immediately moved Mary to this room.
She had even summoned the palace physicians to tend to her, but their diagnosis was a sickness of the heart.
Their advice—that rest and time would heal her—was little more than saying time itself was the medicine.
But today, a new remedy had emerged. If Mary heard the news that Angela might still be alive, Anette was certain she would leap from her bed at once.
With that thought, Anette stepped into the bedroom where Mary was staying, only to freeze, her eyes darting around in confusion.
“What… what’s this? Where’s she gone?”
The bed where Mary should have been lying was empty.
The Marchioness of Chartier and Natalina, equally startled, began scanning the room, their heads whipping back and forth.
“Your Majesty, here…”
Jane, the calmest among them, spotted a small note on the bed. She picked it up and handed it to Anette, whose eyes quickly scanned the scribbled words.
[Thank you for taking care of me all this time. I have something I must do, so I’m returning to the Bilton mansion.]
What in the world is this supposed to mean?
“It seems to say, ‘Thank you for taking care of me all this time. I have something I must do, so I’m returning to the Bilton mansion,’ Your Majesty,” Natalina offered, glancing at the note as Anette struggled to decipher it.
Anette let out a groan. You little rascal, couldn’t you have waited just one more day?
Even if Angela truly was alive, Anette felt she’d lost the nerve to face her now.
When Kalian saw the faintest twitch in Angela’s pale fingers, he knew the moment had finally come.
The instant he noticed her trembling eyelids, he pulled her into his arms.
“Angela.”
He called her name. For a full day, he hadn’t stopped. He couldn’t, not when he feared she was lost somewhere, wandering alone.
“Angela.”
If he could just guide her, show her the way back to him, she would come. And so, Kalian kept calling her name.
And at last, Angela opened her eyes, which had been shut for so long.
“Ha…”
Her threadbare breath was so fragile that Kalian feared he might lose her again. He held her even tighter, as if to anchor her to this world.
Please, if this is a dream, don’t let me wake.
Kalian prayed to his god, etching the plea into his heart with desperate tenacity, begging her never to leave him again.
Perhaps his unspoken wish had been heard. Tonight, Angela sat before him, and it was only natural that Kalian couldn’t tear his eyes away from her.
“You’re going to burn a hole through me,” Angela remarked, glancing up from the world map spread across the table.
“I haven’t even looked my fill yet,” Kalian replied boldly, making no effort to avert his gaze. Angela’s eyes, which had been fixed on the map, turned toward him.
Each time she blinked, he felt a pang of unease, as if those closing lids might never open again.
It wasn’t an incomprehensible fear. If Angela had been through what he had, she would likely be even more on edge.
If only things hadn’t come to this.
Angela’s fingertips brushed against Florence’s gaunt cheek. It was Angela who had returned from the brink of death, yet it was Florence who looked like a corpse, worn and wasted.
“You’ve gotten thin. Unpleasantly so.”
Angela’s words cut sharply, her tone edged with judgment.
“I’ll make sure to eat well from now on,” Florence replied softly, her voice gentle in contrast. She knew Angela’s harshness stemmed from worry.
The first words Angela had spoken upon waking from death’s grip had been much the same.
“You look like a refugee. Did the Florence family fall to ruin while I was asleep?”
Her eyes, scanning Florence’s frame from head to toe, had brimmed with concern—so much so that it seemed a mere touch might spill it over. Florence had learned by now not to take Angela’s words at face value.
“Then you must eat well too, Angela.”
Florence speared a piece of fruit—something that didn’t even grow in Bildium—with her fork and tapped it lightly against Angela’s lips. Angela frowned, as if being offered something inedible, but obediently opened her mouth to accept it.
“I’m full.”
After nearly twenty such offerings, Angela shook her head for the first time.
“Are you trying to burst my stomach and kill me again?”
Her question wasn’t particularly serious, nor was her expression. It was a careless remark, tossed out without thought. Yet Florence’s face hardened in an instant.
Caught off guard by the sudden shift, Angela hesitated. Before she could react, Florence seized her by both arms and rested her forehead against Angela’s shoulder. A feverish heat radiated from the contact, so intense it made Angela wonder if Florence had caught a cold.
Afraid Florence’s head might slip from her narrow shoulders, Angela stiffened, holding herself rigid. But Florence, as if to say there was no need, soon pulled Angela into an embrace.
For a while, Florence stayed like that. Angela’s heart began to race, faster and faster.
It was almost painful, but this wasn’t the frantic pounding caused by what Grace had once called that “angel spawn.” This was proof of life—proof that Florence was here, by her side.
Florence, too, seemed desperate to confirm that proof. To know that Angela’s breath was still tethered to her, not slipping away.
“Don’t ever say that again. It’s awful.”
Florence’s voice was a muffled plea, barely audible, laced with unbearable emotion. Angela, as if compelled, nodded slowly, her head moving under the weight of Florence’s hot breath and trembling words.
“Alright.”
Angela lifted a hand and gently stroked the back of Florence’s jet-black head.
“Don’t cry.”
Her shoulder was already soaked through.
“We’ve arrived, little miss.”
“Thank you.”
Mary rummaged through her sleeve and pulled out a small hairpin, offering it to the coachman.
“Here.”
The driver of the cart, perhaps thinking it a fair trade for the slightly roundabout trip, flashed Mary a broad grin, waved cheerfully, and drove off.
Mary felt a pang of guilt for using Her Majesty the Empress’s gift in such a way, but she pressed on toward the side gate of the Bilton estate—the entrance meant for servants.
“Hm? Aren’t you Miss Angela’s maid? How are you…?”
Fortunately, the guards stationed at the gate recognized Mary at once.
Their surprise was evident—she was supposed to be locked away in a cell, with no record of leaving the estate, yet here she was, standing outside.
“May I go in?”
At Mary’s question, one of the guards, peering at her suspiciously through the slit of his helmet, told her to wait and stepped inside the estate.
When he returned, he ushered Mary in, apparently on someone’s authority. Without hesitation, Mary navigated the familiar halls of the estate, heading straight for Angela’s bedroom.
As she opened the door, the room’s wintery decor struck her, transformed since the last time she’d seen it.
The seasonal furnishings were so perfectly arranged that she could almost believe the mistress of the room had been here moments ago.
Mary couldn’t help but wonder if everyone had gotten it all wrong.
“Miss!”
Mary called out for Angela.
“Miss Angela! Miss! Miss!”
Angela had always hated being called more than once or twice—she’d surely come storming out, brow furrowed in annoyance.
“If you call my name so incessantly one more time, you’ll find out why the other maids despise me so much.”
Mary could almost hear Angela’s sharp reprimand.
Even when her words were harsh, Angela had never truly been cruel to her.
A silly laugh and an apology from Mary were always enough to smooth things over.
But why had someone as kind as Angela had to die so young? Mary couldn’t make sense of it.
“Mary, Miss Angela is an angel who came down to earth by mistake.”
“Does she have wings?”
“Oh, yes. Great, beautiful wings. But she keeps them folded away, hidden, so no one can see.”
“Why? Pretty things are meant to be shown off!”
“Because of jealous people. Those full of envy and spite—they see something good and want to break it. So she keeps them tucked away, safe.”
It must have been around the time Mary first started to understand words.
Her mother, Emily, told her stories of Angela every night at bedtime, as other mothers might read fairy tales.
An angel who’d set foot in the human world by mistake.
That’s how Emily always described Angela.
Mary, unaware that Angela was a real person, would beg her mother to tell her another story of Miss Angela before she drifted off to sleep.
Emily never showed a hint of weariness, always ready to spin another tale.
“I worry about how she’s faring on her own.”
One night, Emily had added those words, soft as a passing breeze. Mary, jolted awake, sat upright in bed.
“Is Miss Angela real? Is she really out there?”
