Chapter 137
Looking back, it wasn’t exactly a “good deal” for Marie that Florence survived. The longer Florence lived, the longer Marie could earn her keep. But the care she gave went far beyond simple profit.
Keith had thrown together some clothes and dressed Florence awkwardly. Laid neatly on the bed, she looked even more like a corpse than before. The heavy blood loss had drained all color from her skin.
Keith continued his meticulous healing, while Marie quietly acted as his assistant. She moved quickly, sometimes noisily—but strangely, she was careful not to make a sound. Keith realized only later that she was deliberately keeping her footsteps and breath quiet.
“…Will she live?”
“She never died. I told you, she’s not a corpse.”
“But she’s unconscious.”
“She lost too much blood, that’s all.”
Marie leaned closer to Florence’s face. Her features were fine, doll-like even, pale as wax. Marie held a finger under her nose until she felt a faint breath. Only then did she step back, relieved.
“She’s alive. Don’t you believe me?”
“…”
Marie didn’t answer. But her eyes said: “Why should I trust you?”
The crisis was over. All they could do now was wait for Florence to wake. Keith considered stepping outside to gather information about the missing Marchioness. Before he could ask Marie to watch Florence, she spoke first.
“Go on. I’ll stay here.”
“Huh?”
“No need for two people to watch someone sleeping. Just pay me well.”
Her quick wit left Keith feeling as if he’d been pushed out.
Perhaps that was when it started—Florence and Marie quietly forming a world of their own, one that excluded him. It stung, though he never admitted it.
Marie didn’t need to do any of it. She hadn’t needed to cling to Florence in the fire, hadn’t needed to scream at the boy carrying her—“Put her down or I’ll kill you!” She hadn’t needed to fight her way against fleeing crowds just to drag Florence out.
She hadn’t needed to risk her life. She could have kept both arms.
But Marie never once regretted losing hers. When Keith told her that with just a little more luck, she might have escaped unscathed, Marie only replied:
“I was already lucky—because I lived.”
“If you’re just saying that so Florence won’t feel guilty, you can tell me instead.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s uncomfortable.”
But Marie only gave him a pitying look, as if he were a child.
“I really am lucky.”
“Lucky, being crippled?”
“I lived. Florence lived too. If I asked for more than this, I’d deserve punishment.”
Keith clenched his jaw. She was too young to speak like that. Or maybe she’d simply had no choice but to grow up.
Marie looked after Florence like she was her own child. Florence opened her heart to Marie far sooner than to Keith himself. She could see the girl’s unselfish devotion.
And Florence loved Marie just as much.
In the border city of Karen, the two shared a tiny room. When Keith stumbled in late, drunk, he often found them curled up together on the same bed, arms around each other. It made him feel strange—wanting to watch longer, but also wanting to wake them just to announce he was back.
If Keith sat slumped on the floor, Marie would always stir.
“Do you want water?”
“…Why aren’t you asleep?”
“Your breathing is too loud.”
“…”
“Actually, Florence fell asleep waiting for you. I convinced her to rest.”
“Then you should sleep too.”
“I don’t sleep deeply.”
When she teased that his drunken breath stank of alcohol and might make them drunk just from breathing it in, Keith snapped up in irritation.
“You think a smell can get you drunk?”
“It might, for Florence.”
And then Marie looked down at the sleeping Florence and murmured softly:
“Maybe that’s why she’s so beautiful.”
“No one has ever looked at me like that before.”
Keith didn’t tell her that Florence must have felt the same way about her. Marie surely already knew.
“Keith. Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For choosing me.”
Because he had chosen her among the other children that day, she had met Florence. From that moment, her life had been nothing but luck.
“Even crippled, even chased, even not knowing if I’ll live tomorrow—I’m still grateful.”
That was Marie.
The funeral had no body. Too much time had passed.
Florence bought the finest coffin she could, filled it with flowers, and placed inside the clothes and dolls she had once wanted to give Marie—handmade, clumsy things. Few remembered Marie. Laila had never met her. Enoch had seen her only a few times. Only Florence and Keith carried her memory.
They rented out an entire inn to hold the ceremony. Tomorrow, the coffin would be buried in the nearest cemetery. Florence had saved for years to buy the plot.
“Marie would’ve told you not to waste your money,” Keith muttered.
Florence glared at him.
“Marie never said that to me.”
“She must’ve said it to everyone else, then.”
Marie had always been sharp, sarcastic with others. But never with Florence.
“Keith.”
“What.”
“Thank you.”
Florence, pale-faced in her black dress, gave him a clear, gentle smile.
“For saving me.”
“That’s not what you mean, is it?”
“No. Thanks to you, I met Marie.”
Keith shook his head in disbelief. I’m the one who saved her… but she thanks me for Marie.
“Marie thanked you too, you know.”
“She did?”
“Yeah. Said she was grateful you chose her.”
Florence winced, embarrassed. “I knew that.”
“You knew nothing,” Keith grumbled. “Always whispering with her like I wasn’t there. Hey, I was there too, you know.”
Florence’s eyes softened with pity.
“We weren’t leaving you out. But… I liked Marie more than you.”
“Don’t comfort me like that. It’s annoying.”
“I’m not lying. Marie wouldn’t have lied either.”
Keith scowled. Both of them had said the same words. Both had thanked him. And yet they’d barely had time together before Marie was gone.
He clenched his fists.
Losing someone is unbearable—because it can never be undone.
Florence gently touched the flower-covered coffin.
