Chapter 81
The next day.
Upon entering the reception room at the request of the Imperial Knight Commander, Kalian Florence, Anette frowned the moment she saw Angela waiting alongside him. Her face, already crushed under the weight of fatigue from her nightmares, twisted unpleasantly.
“What is the meaning of this? Why is Lady Bilton here? You summoned me in the name of the Imperial Knight Commander, only to mock me?”
Even though this meeting should have been entirely predictable, Anette reacted sharply, as if she had suffered a tremendous betrayal.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty. I have committed this offense at great risk, and I will gladly accept any punishment you deem fit later.”
Kalian bowed his head in apology toward Anette. Then, as he had promised Angela before arriving, he excused himself from the room, leaving the situation in her hands.
“How dare you…!”
Anette interpreted this attitude as outright disrespect toward her and jumped in fury. She ignored the maids’ pleas to calm down. This was a sight unimaginable from the Anette of before. She had never treated her own people so harshly.
“Your Majesty.”
“To exploit your position as my fiancé like this. As he said, I will hold you accountable. You’d better prepare yourself.”
Anette spoke menacingly, then gulped down the tea that had been prepared on the table, her throat parched. Angela watched this in bewilderment, blinking her eyes. It was because the tea Anette had just drunk contained a stimulant.
If she’s this angry, there’s no way we’ll sit down and drink tea together. How can I get her to take it? Should I force it down her throat?
Her worries suddenly seemed ridiculous. Faced with this fortunate turn of events, Angela let out a soft chuckle without realizing it. It was at that moment.
“!”
Interpreting Angela’s laughter in her own way, Anette’s eyes flipped in rage, and she abruptly splashed the tea at Angela.
“Eek!”
“Y-Your Majesty!”
The maids gasped in shock, covering their mouths. Angela, caught off guard, felt the droplets dripping from her chin but couldn’t even think to wipe them away.
Then, with a trembling throat, Anette spat out words sharp as thorns.
“Do you think I don’t know you’re mocking me?”
It was a voice that seemed like it might tear her throat.
“The princess from a foreign land who can’t even understand Phaelon and acts like an idiot—you pointed and laughed at me for that. You’re probably doing the same behind my back now, aren’t you?”
“…”
“You wicked wench.”
Only then did Angela realize the true nature of the nightmare haunting Anette, her expression turning blank.
So that’s what it was…
Since it wasn’t an entirely fabricated incident, Angela first felt a pang of remorse toward Anette. Regardless of her intentions, it seemed she had inflicted a wound.
Back then, Angela had been even more immature than now, so she hadn’t thought of a better way. That mistake had come back to her in this form.
“…Your Majesty.”
Angela spoke only after Anette had vented her anger for quite some time, unable to contain it. Finally pulling out a handkerchief to wipe away the traces of tea from her face, Angela called to Anette with a gentle smile.
It was an unusually warm address. Yet Anette’s maids froze in tension. They were certain this meant war. Even though, from serving at the Empress’s side, they had come to know that Angela was a decent person, far from the rumors.
However, Angela’s response veered in a direction they hadn’t anticipated at all.
“The poetry collection by Adrian that I sent you before—do you still have it?”
After asking Anette, Angela turned to look at the Marchioness of Chartier behind her. The perceptive woman nodded and immediately signaled to another maid with a gesture. It meant to bring it at once.
“You nasty girl.”
“…”
“What did I ever do wrong?”
While the maid fetched the poetry book, Anette continued to mutter accusations right in front of Angela. It was as if the fragile thread connecting them had snapped completely.
“I didn’t come to this country because I wanted to, so what do you know? How dare you…”
“…”
“I’m going to punish you. Did you think you’d get away with mocking the Empress like that? It’ll be a severe punishment.”
In the meantime, the maid appeared with the book. Taking it from her, Angela noticed one corner was crumpled and nearly burst into laughter again. She could guess why it was in that state.
Not wanting to be doused with tea a second time, Angela swallowed the emerging laugh and spoke.
“Your Imperial Majesty.”
At Angela’s call, Anette, who had been murmuring with unfocused eyes, shot her a fierce glare. Angela met that gaze—one typical of those who hated her—with familiarity and extended Adrian’s poetry book toward her.
“You remember this, don’t you?”
Anette stared down at it coldly and replied icily.
“Angela Bilton’s weakness.”
You remember, Angela whispered quietly as she opened the book. In that instant, Anette’s eyes twitched in reaction. It was because she had noticed Angela’s fingertips trembling faintly.
“What are you doing?”
“You said you wanted to give a severe punishment. If you’re going to punish me, you should do it properly.”
To Anette’s sharp question, Angela replied brightly. Her pale fingers flipped a few more pages before stopping.
Finally, as if she had found a passage to her liking, Angela gazed at the open page and slowly parted her lips. A voice as calm as a still lake poured into the air.
“[If my time continues,
I thought your time would continue as well.
I thought my time and your time
Would be one and the same.
By offering you to God,
I awaken from my arrogance
And come to understand my ignorance.
Even in death, you teach me.]”
The voice that punctuated the final line trembled faintly, unlike its steady start. Angela brushed her slender arm with fingertips that twitched in tiny spasms. Yet, an unshakable unease seeped from every part of her.
The act of voicing emotions she had never felt toward the concept of a mother was excruciating. Speaking of something precious, cherished, tender, and wistful felt repulsive.
What Angela’s mother, Grace, had taught her through her death was not the sorrow of absence. It was the exhilarating sense of liberation, of finally being free.
Jealousy flared toward Adrian, who had a mother worthy of being missed enough to fill dozens of pages, to be bound into a book and boasted to the world. A hunger that could never be sated—not unless she were reborn—gnawed at her from within, growling and clamoring.
With a sharp snap, Angela closed the poetry book and placed it on the table, hurriedly steadying her breath. She slowly lowered her eyes, then raised them again.
And with a bright, radiant smile, she asked Anette,
“Are you feeling a little happier now?”
* * *
“Would that make me happy? Read a few more.”
Mad. Mad. Mad.
For the third day, Anette hadn’t slept properly, and she tapped her head lightly. She couldn’t fathom what her mouth had just blurted out to Angela.
What did that dream matter? She had already heard why Angela had kept her distance back then. Why had she blamed Angela for her loneliness in the palace, accusing her without reason?
“Mad, truly!”
Anette let out a scream as she sprang from her bed. Though her mind was foggy from lack of sleep, her steps were resolute, their purpose clear.
Bursting out of her bedroom, Anette strode toward the Marchioness of Chartier, who stared at her in alarm.
“Lady Chartier!”
“Y-Yes, Your Majesty.”
“I need to see Lady Bilton at once.”
“Pardon?”
“I’ve been terribly rude lately, and I intend to apologize.”
“Pardon? Oh, uh, that’s…”
Was it Anette’s sudden change in demeanor that seemed strange? The Marchioness of Chartier faltered, unable to continue, and after a moment, shook her head firmly.
“Why? Why not? Is an apology not enough to settle this?”
Anette’s face fell, her voice tinged with gloom. The Marchioness shook her head even more emphatically.
“It’s not that, Your Majesty.”
“…”
“Visiting at this hour would itself be a discourtesy.”
Only then did Anette glance around. Dawn hadn’t even begun to break; the night still clung to the darkness.
“Oh…”
Left with no choice, Anette returned to her room, dumbfounded, and slumped onto the bed. She racked her brain, wondering how she could hasten the arrival of morning.
But the bell announcing dawn would ring neither early nor late, precisely on time. Until then, Anette waited with eyes wide open.
When the resounding chime finally stirred the world awake, she leapt from her seat and rushed out of the room again.
“Now, now it’s fine to go, isn’t it?”
Anette grabbed the Marchioness of Chartier, who couldn’t hide her bewilderment at her erratic behavior.
“Lady Chartier?”
At last, the Marchioness nodded up and down. Anette began preparing to go out with an almost frenzied energy.
* * *
“Tch.”
Grace, waking before the fiercely burning fireplace, clicked her tongue sharply. Her repeated attempts to enter Anette’s dreams kept failing.
Had Angela done something to that empress?
In dreams, Grace still held more power than Angela, who was only beginning to wield her abilities. For Angela to surpass her was unthinkable. Yet, for things to have turned out this way, Angela must have meddled in reality.
Taking advantage of the turmoil caused by a father’s death was one thing, but the Empress of Phaelon didn’t seem like someone with a heart full of cracks. If Grace was this thoroughly blocked, breaking through again would be no easy task.
If that was the case, then the remaining option…
“I’m Dominic Bilton.”
Grace recalled her childhood. The memory of meeting that little lordling in the Dawson dukedom’s castle unfolded vividly before her eyes.
The moment she saw his blazing auburn hair, like the midday sun striding in, Grace knew it was hers. She had fallen for him at first sight.
But just because Wendy was born first, it fell into her hands. Absurd. Grace had seen that shimmering brilliance first, claimed it with her eyes—how dare anyone else?
“Dominic Bilton is mine, sister. Don’t covet what’s not yours. Disappear.”
She had whispered into Wendy’s ear as her curse drained her life. Staring at her despairing face, too weak to act, Grace smiled radiantly. Wendy’s heart stopped soon after.
And so, she claimed him. She made Dominic Bilton hers. She even bore him a child because he seemed to want one. Yet, he slipped through her fingers. And that daughter of his was nothing but a thief without a blade.
When Grace left the Bilton estate, she had nothing. Her hands, once capable of grasping anything, were empty. This wasn’t who she was.
Her memories of Dominic were a record of abject failure. To her, who had believed the world was in her grasp, he had taught her humiliation through an experience she needn’t have endured.
She couldn’t let it remain a memory of failure.
Staring into the roaring flames of the fireplace, Grace pictured Dominic’s face and curled one corner of her mouth into a smirk.
He would be far more useful than that empress, Anette. He was a far better tool to manipulate Angela. And his heart was riddled with holes.
Slowly, imperceptibly, she would approach him this time.
“Our Dominic, pitiful man. You’ll pay for spurning my love, won’t you?”
Grace smiled coldly and tossed a dry log into the fireplace. The flames surged, threatening to burst from the hearth. As the fire twisted, Dominic’s handsome face seemed to contort, lifting her spirits.
