Chapter 9 – Late-Night Confrontation

Fidel made no effort to hide his displeasure, but leaving a sobbing woman might have pricked his conscience.

Reaching the annex, he opened the door and escorted me slowly to my bedroom. The duke’s jacket over my head was yanked off, but by then, I didn’t care—my restraint had shattered. I collapsed onto the bed in my outdoor clothes, crying like a child.

“W-wait, hold on…”

Behind me, Fidel’s flustered voice faltered at my sudden outburst. No energy to compose myself or lift my face, tears streamed endlessly, hot sobs escaping my throat.

“Ugh… why does Julius favor this woman…”

I wanted to apologize, but couldn’t stop. Hearing his resigned mutter as if it were someone else’s problem, I kept crying.

Fidel didn’t return. Understandable—servant duties aside, enduring a wailing woman would drain anyone.

Alone, no one stopped me. I cried until sated, rising when the window darkened, the moon high.

Dehydrated, my throat parched, my body felt caked in mud.

Crawling to the living room for water, I found Fidel—thought gone—lighting a candlestick.

“Oh…”

Bored, he’d been flipping through Amelia’s math text. Noticing me, he shut it, adjusting his tie and standing.

“Finally awake?”

“…S-sorry. Were you here all this time, Fidel?”

“Yes. Julius entrusted you—I couldn’t leave.”

“Sorry… for the unsightly display…”

No point apologizing after that, but shame hit. I shrank, bowing.

He said nothing, pouring water from the pitcher, adding a citrus hint. Gratefully, I drank—calm slowly returning with each sip.

“Since you’re up, I’ll take my leave. Must report to Julius.”

“Y-yes. Thank you, Fidel.”

I bowed my head again, and the Duke’s loyal retainer snorted. His mouth twisted into a downturned, and he unceremoniously picked up the folded clothes he had on hand, clearly displeased. It was a bit hard to tell in the candlelight, but it was the Duke’s jacket.

Come to think of it, did he put that over me in the garden so I wouldn’t show my crying face? To me, who had suddenly burst into tears without explanation in the middle of such a peaceful conversation. And he’d even let me withdraw by blaming my poor health, so no one would notice.

Thinking about it again, I felt terribly sorry. As I reeled in mortification, feeling cold sweat prickle my skin, Fidel turned away, looking equally unimpressed.

“Honestly, please consider His Grace the Duke’s position. It would look very bad for His Grace if someone from his household made such a spectacle in front of His Royal Highness the Prince.”

“…I-I’m sorry…”

“And, well, this jacket of His Grace’s has both dirt and wrinkles. It’s made of expensive fabric, so it will be sent to a specialist cleaner. May I charge the repair costs to Miss Zickler?”

“Y-yes. That’s fine. I’m truly sorry, again and again…”

With a curt, “Then,” Fidel quickly exited the drawing-room. His brisk, almost refreshed stride clearly showed his half-day’s work had been disrupted, making me feel even more genuinely apologetic.

He could have just left me alone after escorting me to my room, but he stayed by my side, on the Duke’s orders, while I sobbed until I was practically unconscious. He might not like me, but perhaps he’s a good person at heart.

“Haaaah…”

I downed the water, sighing deeply.

Ten years since those memories resurfaced. Fearing execution, I’d avoided my once-beloved prince, Albert. One glimpse unraveled me—pathetic. My lingering love, after a decade, shocked me.

As a saintess, engaged to him, I’d been happy until that final morning. His unchanged smile today proved it. But now, those blue eyes weren’t for me. Meeting Amelia first, he’d engaged her. Simple, yet my heart resisted.

I’d never intrude on them.

Shy Amelia laughed joyfully with him—more than with her brother. Trust and love, surely.

Darkening that smile was unthinkable. Lacking revenge’s courage, I shouldn’t drag past feelings here.

And—lifting my swollen lids to the window—likely, they were engaged in that life too. Unaware, I’d stolen him, my engagement preceding hers. The duke’s coldness made sense—his sister’s fiancé snatched by a saintess.

Seeing them today confirmed hiding the mark was right. Jealousy stung, yet I liked Amelia too.

The prince breaking our engagement for her seemed unlikely. At the execution, Margarita—next saintess—was there, his hand on her waist. Likely, they wed after.

At seventeen, Margarita’s mark emerged early. Now, thirteen, she’d be a candidate.

A worry struck.

Didn’t Albert mention the current saintess shortage, suggesting term extension or early tests? If Margarita’s there, meeting him—her white hair alluring—?

“No, no, no… unlikely. Albert and Amelia are close, and it’s not my place…”

Seventeen-eighteen Margarita, twenty-six Albert—age aside, I’d ignored that future. But eleven-year-old Amelia and a ten-year-gap prince engaged? Doubt crept in.

“No, right? They were so close… no broken engagement, no meeting Margarita. Milk brothers—political sense, surely…”

Worry grew.

My prince was loving, wise—execution for treason, perhaps for the nation. I wanted to believe it, despite seeing him with Margarita.

What if early tests brought her? Her brilliance could fast-track her sainthood. Excluding her—without connections or reason—was hard. Even then, the next saintess issue looms—extension or absence risks ritual stagnation, hurting the nation’s spirit.

Though ceremonial, saintesses support this land.

Margarita, from modest roots, might struggle if cut. Pointless to dwell, yet my mind looped.

A knock snapped me out.

“Miss Ernesta, may I speak with you?”

The duke’s voice.

“Yes!”

Rushing, I halted at the mirror—horrid. Makeup gone, swollen lids, tangled hair.

Even disliking adornment, this was too much for the duke—or any man. Fidel saw this?

“Ugh… awful.”

Some nobles exempt servants from “other gender,” but to me, the duke’s valet was male. Shame and self-pity burned.

“S-sorry, may I prepare?”

I thought that if I made an excuse, the Duke would leave, but he just said he would wait.

Hastily powdering, combing my hair into a bun, donning glasses, I managed a passable look in candlelight.

Adjusting my collar, I opened the door.

“S-sorry to keep you…”

Despite haste, time passed. Fearing he’d left, I peeked—there he stood, apologetic.

“Sorry for barging in unannounced. Calmer now?”

“N-no, I’ve troubled you… and Fidel…”

Ashamed, I stammered, inviting him in. Not for a quick chat, he followed to the living room. Pouring water, I offered it; he bowed slightly, sipping.

“No tea—my apologies.”

“No, I intruded—don’t mind.”

Sipping, he eyed the room curiously. Less lavish than the main house, cluttered with my books.

Should’ve tidied. Worrying about misuse, he skipped that, gazing around.

“…As I thought at dinner, you bring only essentials.”

“Huh?”

“Women usually add decor, cosmetics, clothes…”

“O-oh, I don’t spend on that. Books, notes, tools suffice—clothes and makeup, minimal.”

Too much is unused, unmanageable. Hanna would’ve helped, but not here—bothering maids felt wrong.

His eyes met mine—black, bottomless in candlelight, momentarily mesmerizing.

“…I came for a reason. What would you say?”

“Reason?”

“Why you cried today. Because of His Highness?”

His firm tone jolted me.

“You’ve not attended court. Never met the king or prince. Exposing you unprepared—my regret.”

“…Huh?”

“But crying like that—unusual for you.”

His unwavering gaze narrowed. A chill ran down my spine.

“If it’s shock, I’ll apologize. Some noble daughters cry from awe.”

“W-well…”

“But you’re different, aren’t? For instance…”

Did you want his attention?

His icy voice stabbed like a blade, draining my warmth, sweat beading.

What—words failed. Not intentional, yet emotions overflowed. Objectively, it lacked decorum.

A baron’s daughter acting thus risks her father’s status. Yet to Albert, it stood out—especially informally.

Did he think I planned it?

“N-no… not that…”

“Men weaken for tears—often deceived. If you sought His Highness’s favor, it worked. Your silver-haired tears captivated him.”

“T-that’s trouble! Not my intent…!”

“Next week, a tea party—his direct invite. Planned? It’s a pretext—to summon you.”

His low, cold voice pierced me. Albert favoring another over Amelia shocked me like a blow.

“Lies—he was so close with Amelia. Why—?”

“No plan. Tea party—no, I can’t!”

“Why not? Play it right, you could be his lover—more power, wealth than me. Anything you want.”

“I don’t want that…!”

“Even as a royal concubine, viable. He’d support you post-breakup. Influence grows—your father’s status too. Not a bad deal?”

“I said no!”

I had unintentionally yelled at the Duke, who had been rather volubly dangling financial and social advantages. It wasn’t just the words he chose and hurled at me, but his tone, his voice, and every bit of his expression—they all sliced into me. I couldn’t tell if his cruel remarks were deliberate or genuine.

The kind face of the Prince I’d seen in my previous life’s future flashed through my mind, and it would be a lie to say I didn’t want to see that smile directed at me again. Of course I was wavering. I had genuinely loved him until the day of my execution. That was only natural.

But I absolutely wanted to avoid that future afterward. I refused to endure such a terrible ordeal again. Of course, there’s no telling if this path would lead to that future now, but I had dedicated myself to my studies, choosing not to become a Saintess precisely to avoid execution and to stay away from the Prince. There was no way I could change course now and increase my chances of execution.

And why on earth should I choose something that would hurt my sweet Amelia? If she knew her own brother recommended such a thing, how deeply would she be wounded? I’d thought he was a kind, sister-loving Duke, enough to erase the memories of his cruel and heartless past life. What a terrible misjudgment that was.

The Prince was just as bad. Even if it was a political engagement, how much would it hurt his adorable fiancée to summon a woman so closely related to her and try to get close?

I bit down hard on my lip. The blood rushing to my head wouldn’t recede. My rationality and emotions were a chaotic mess, unable to reconcile, raging within my stomach, searching for an outlet. To suppress it, I clenched my fists with all my might. My fingernails dug into my palms, aching with a grinding pain. That pain was barely holding my reason back from snapping.

I exhaled slowly and deeply, then inhaled just as slowly. This calming method, which Hannah and I had developed during university, involved several cycles of large, deep breaths to cool my boiling mind. We’d often used it when faced with exam stress or when classmates’ sarcastic remarks threatened to make us explode, but I never thought I’d have to resort to it even after graduating.

When I exhaled for what felt like the tenth time, my eyes met the Duke’s. Perhaps because I’d suddenly yelled, the chilly look he’d worn earlier had vanished. It was probably the first time in his life he’d been rebuked by someone of such a lower standing, a mere baron’s daughter.

“I reaffirm—I decline.”

I said quietly, but firmly. The Duke’s eyes were filled with astonishment, as if he had seen something unbelievable.

Did he not think there was a woman who would refuse ties to the royal family? That was mocking him. Suppressing the anger that was bubbling up inside me again, I straightened up.

“Really… okay?”

“Yes. Duke, do you grasp your words? Amelia would be devastated—her brother pushing another woman. Cruel betrayal, no?”

“Betrayal…”

“Yes. As her brother, the king’s vassal, shouldn’t you stop His Highness’s excess?”

His eyes wavered.

“I said—money suffices. University was for the civil exam—clerical work. Half-noble daughters face sainthood or marriage. I hated that mold, sought fulfilling work.”

“Sainthood?”

“Just a figure!”

“Ah…”

“So, forced into female roles again—no way.”

Tears welled, recalling parental debates. Wiping them roughly, I glared.

He’d valued my studies, right? Respected my research? Or just saw me as “female”?

Unlike my parents’ dismissal, his empathy made this betrayal sting more.

“Amelia loves insects, nature—eager to learn. She grasps her duties but has dreams. They might grow. When’s her engagement? Her will? Forced as future queen—aware, Duke?”

Dreams—she didn’t shirk duty, but imposing without care isn’t justified.

“Amelia… dreams?”

“Her parents died of disease—she wants to study pharmacology. Didn’t you know? Her brother?”

“…That, from Amelia?”

“Not just us. Classmates had dreams. I hate assuming women seek power thus. Some might—I won’t judge—but not me. I want independence. So—”

Pressing while he faltered was rude, but I was past caring. He might rage or dismiss me, but I couldn’t stop.

Unexpectedly, he blinked, silent. Coldness gone, he seemed lost. His lashes shadowed his cheeks.

Meeting his gaze, a bitter look pained me.

“…Really?”

His hoarse voice—unclear which part—held no lies amid my onslaught.

“True. As I’ve said.”

“…Then, I misjudged you. That…”

“Misjudged?”

“No, my fault. I insulted you.”

A self-mocking smile lingered.

“No, I was rude. Glad you understand.”

“Including pay—meant well, but my assumption. For Amelia, I pushed queenship as honor—overlooking her feelings, prioritizing politics.”

When I apologized for being too talkative, the Duke shook his head. He must have been deeply hurt by my retort, but he didn’t seem to be scolded at all, and even seemed to be concerned about me.

Young, yet mature—I admired that.

Few men heed a low-born woman, yet he did. Unlike my past life’s deaf ears—why, unknowable now.

Sighing, he looked up, brow furrowing.

“But His Highness fancies you. He’s drawn to unlike hair colors.”

Tugging his black fringe, he noted Albert’s taste—new to me. He’d called us sun and moon.

“Silver and gold seem similar.”

“Taste, I don’t get it. My black’s favored too.”

True—nobles often share golden hues. Eusebio’s bright hair neared gold. The duke’s glossy black was rare—milk-brother ties, perhaps, explaining his role.

Groaning, he crossed his arms.

“Reject the tea party, but he might call again. Can’t always refuse.”

True—excuses like illness or busyness won’t last. He could pressure the duke. My trust wavered.

Or—he’d seize what he wanted.

“…I’ll decline next week. We’ll plan later—”

“No. I’ll go.”

“What?”

He gaped. I shook my head at his suspicion.

“Rejecting risks another invite. Greeting him, losing his interest, suits you better.”

“True, but how?”

“Maybe… dye my hair? Thicker glasses? Spill tea?”

Overdoing it might trouble my barony—tricky balance.

Meeting him scared me—today’s turmoil proved it. I’d rather not embarrass myself, and for Amelia, maturity matters. Trust in Albert, past and present, shook.

Yet lingering love might sway me. Repeated calls could override fear.

Sighing, he relented.

“Fine. I exposed you—I’ll join. With the fiancée’s brother, he won’t overstep.”

His heavy tone showed reluctance. Looking up, he rubbed his brow.