IWPU 07

Chapter 7

The elderly gentleman with graying hair knelt down and laid a flower on the velvet. With his wrinkled hands, he slowly stroked the velvet covering the casket. His deeply lined face looked extremely haggard.

‘Count Pisson.’

Famous as a wealthy merchant, he was the father of the Marchioness—and my maternal grandfather. He said nothing. He was also one of the few who knew the true cause of the Marchioness’s death.

For a long while, he silently stroked the velvet. No words of farewell, no blessings for the afterlife. Then he slowly stood up, unfolding his knees. His body staggered as if it might lose balance.

“Oh my!”

“Ah!”

“Goodness!”

Startled exclamations and sympathetic murmurs came from the crowd. In that brief moment, someone moved swiftly to catch the Count, who was about to collapse. The agility was remarkable.

‘Who is that? A boy? A young man?’

Too mature to be called a boy, yet too youthful to be a man. The young man lifted the nearly fallen Count and helped him stand. As the Count steadied himself, a faint smile formed on his lips.

‘Is he one of the Count’s people?’

As the young man turned his head, our eyes met. His deep bluish-gray eyes stared sharply at me.

‘Does he know me?’

His gaze toward me was blatantly direct. I glared back, refusing to be intimidated by the unreadable meaning in his stare.

‘What’s your problem? Are you picking a fight with me?’

Just as his piercing stare began to feel uncomfortable, he turned his head away first. Watching the back of him as he supported the Count, I felt an odd sense of emptiness.

‘Did I get worked up over nothing?’

The Count returned to his seat with the young man’s help. I saw the Count mouth something to the man, but from a distance, I couldn’t hear it. The young man respectfully nodded and quickly left the funeral hall.

“……”

I thought our eyes met again before he left, but I didn’t have time to dwell on it. With the Count and the Marquis bidding their farewells, others in the crowd began to cautiously approach one by one.

No one said a word. The final goodbyes continued in silence.

The Marchioness’s funeral lasted three days. Finally, with a baron and his wife—people I didn’t even know—offering their respects last, the official funeral came to an end. Now, only the unofficial rites remained.

As tradition dictated, her body was cremated before the Marquis and me. Bright flames swiftly consumed her body. Watching her reduced to ashes left me with a strange feeling.

Once, I had longed for her affection. I had pretended to be a good child in hopes of her praise and even behaved like a boy to catch her attention. But not once did I ever catch her eye. Her gaze was solely focused on the Marquis. She was blindly devoted to him.

‘If I had even the slightest resemblance to the Marquis, would she have shown interest in me?’

It was a question I could never ask the dead. Even if she were alive, I doubted I’d ever get an answer.

In many ways, she and I were alike. From our appearance to the lives we lived. They say daughters inherit their mother’s fate. Just as she went mad in her love for the Marquis, I too had once loved a man to the point of madness. That love had turned toxic, consuming me completely. I loved him and loved him again, unaware that it was destroying me.

I wondered—do all women driven mad by love behave the same, or was it because she and I were mother and daughter? Our love stories were identical, from start to tragic end. Loving a man who wouldn’t look at us, yearning for his affection, and eventually killing ourselves in our madness.

The fire that consumed her felt as though it was burning me too. A bitter taste filled my mouth.

I turned to glance at the Marquis standing beside me. His expression was as emotionless as ever.

The deep navy blue of his hair caught the light and turned red in the flames. Shadows danced across his face with the flickering fire. For a moment, it almost looked like he was sad. But maybe that was just my imagination.

He was only 41. With his mature charm, striking features, and the strong build of a knight, he could stir the hearts of women of all ages. Even when the Marchioness had been alive, there were plenty of women vying for his attention.

He wasn’t just handsome. He was the head of a powerful noble family. And officially, his only child was a daughter—me—who couldn’t inherit the title. With the Marchioness gone, her position was now vacant. The Marquis had no heir, and whoever could take her place would hold immense power and wealth.

From debutante young ladies to widows who had lost their husbands, countless women vied for the spot beside him. Nobles with daughters of marriageable age pushed their children toward him in desperation. Like ants swarming sweet candy, they circled him, craving the Marchioness’s place.

But the Marquis ignored them all, just as he had while his wife lived. He didn’t entertain nobles who offered up their daughters either. Even within his own family, he forbade them from speaking of the matter.

‘The Marquis never took a second wife—not even up until the moment I died.’

Perhaps he hadn’t hated her as much as I thought. Or maybe I simply wanted to believe that. If the woman who looked like me wasn’t hated by the man she had given everything to, then maybe the man I had loved hadn’t truly hated me either.

Eventually, the flames died down, and only her ashes remained. Her remains were placed in a small wooden box and handed to the Marquis. He passed it to me. Following his will, I accepted the box with both hands. It was smaller than the width of two palms and surprisingly light.

The Marquis drew a small dagger. About a palm’s length, the blade looked razor-sharp. He took a lock of his hair and cut it cleanly. His dark navy strands fluttered down. He placed the hair into the box containing her remains. It was the final rite before entombment.

Placing the hair of a direct blood relative into the urn symbolized an eternal bond, even in death.

He then cut a lock of my hair. My golden-brown strands mixed with his in the box. The Marquis closed the lid and took the box from me. All that remained was to place it in the family columbarium.

Aside from the Marquis and me, Count Pisson—her father—was also a direct relative. But he couldn’t stay until the end. Though he had stood by the Marquis for three full days, the elderly Count collapsed before the final rites. Despite being relatively healthy for his age, the loss of his only daughter had broken him.

He had raised her alone after losing his wife early. His devotion to her was so great, it became the talk of noble society. Her suicide must have been a devastating blow.

Since then, he hadn’t regained consciousness. The doctor said it was extreme stress and exhaustion caused by the shock. With no time to wait for his recovery, the final ceremony proceeded with only the Marquis and me.

The Marquis carried the urn toward the family tomb, and I followed him.

“I hope I’m not too late.”

A woman was waiting in front of the columbarium. She bowed politely to the Marquis.

“Only direct family members were allowed in for the cremation, so I had to wait here,” she said with a shy smile, covering her mouth with one hand. Her eyes curved into a crescent moon shape, captivating like a seductive wink.

“I was so nervous I might miss it.”

She erased her smile and stepped closer. Her sorrowful eyes and solemn expression gave her a melancholic air. The slight droop of her eyelids made her look even more pitiful. A beauty mark beneath her eye gave the impression of a teardrop.

Despite her mournful aura, the curves of her figure beneath the black dress were undeniably voluptuous. Even I, as a fellow woman, had to admit that the pale swell of her bosom was enviably attractive.

From her bosom, she drew a black silk pouch. Every gesture was elegant and almost theatrical. Opening the pouch, she pulled out a bundle of hair. Amidst the white strands were streaks of red.

“I’m afraid he’ll be heartbroken when he wakes, so I took this liberty,” she said, her eyes glistening with emotion. Her tearful appearance and mournful tone would stir anyone’s protective instincts.

She was Count Pisson’s second wife—my step-grandmother. Of course, there was no blood relation between us. She was five years younger than the Marchioness. A 32-year age gap separated her and the Count.

I had heard that my real grandmother died giving birth to the Marchioness. The Count had remained single for decades, unable to forget his late wife. Then, three years ago, he suddenly remarried—a woman 32 years younger.

Among nobles, a 30+ year age gap wasn’t especially shocking. Powerful men often married girls young enough to be their granddaughters.

What surprised people wasn’t the age gap—but the fact that Count Pisson remarried at all. A man who seemed destined to live alone had suddenly taken a young wife. The rumors flew—some said he had been bewitched, others claimed he’d gone senile near the end of his life.

‘Now I see why.’

Looking at her now, I could understand why such rumors had spread. Her unique atmosphere played no small part in fueling them.