Chapter 138

Florence read Marie’s letter until its edges were worn. There wasn’t much written in it—just a few clumsy, crooked lines asking if she’d slept well, if she was eating well. Yet Florence held it up to the sunlight, sniffed it, or laid it against her face with her eyes closed, as if those plain words were happiness itself.

Keith thought she was strange. Letters were meant to be read, not smelled or caressed.

Her reply, sealed in the coffin, was only a line or two as well. Keith hadn’t read it, but he could guess: Are you well? I love you.

“Disgusting. They act like the world only has the two of them.”

When Florence was young, Enoch had been beside her. And when Enoch was there, Keith was also there. It wasn’t necessary to love like there was no one else in the world. But Keith knew this was just his jealousy speaking.

Even so, he wished Marie had known she wasn’t only precious to Florence.

Keith had lost many—his father, several friends. The world was unfair and dangerous; people who seemed unkillable died to nothing at all. He had chosen healing magic because it was unbearable to watch lives slip away when they might have been saved.

But Marie stuck with him most. Because she had nothing. Because if she had lived just a little longer, she might have had everything.

If only she had lived…

She would have grown under Florence’s love, followed her everywhere, nagging constantly. Florence, instead of fleeing after killing Linus, would have divorced, taken Seymour wealth, or made money just to lavish it on Marie. And Marie, clever as she was, would have excelled in anything—studies, music, art…

If only Marie had lived.

“Keith.”
“What.”
“When I went… over there.”
“‘Over there’? You mean that demon world you and Laila sneaked off to without telling us? Or the countryside you ran away to after I risked my life for you—just the two of you living happily ever after?”

Laila snorted in her black dress. Enoch clicked his tongue but didn’t scold Keith—his silence meant agreement. Florence gave them a glance, then muttered,
“…That world. Don’t twist my words.”
“Well? Keep going.”

Florence said quietly, “Bee appeared in Marie’s form.”

Keith narrowed his eyes. “And what is that bird, anyway?”
“Oh, didn’t I say? A great spirit.”
“You… unbelievable. How many things have you not told us? Anything else? Spit it out now.”
“He said he’d burned out his strength crossing worlds with me right after reviving. Now he can’t do anything.”
“Then why did he follow you at all?”
“To stay with me.”
“Just to be with you, he crossed worlds?”
Florence smiled faintly. “That’s what he said. Sweet, isn’t it?”

She continued:
“Marie died inside the spirit prison. A place where no soul or magic can escape. Bee burned her body there. But… Bee is the great fire spirit—the one of death and rebirth.”

Keith’s breath caught.
“You mean—”

“Maybe she could have been reborn.”

But Florence added, voice calm, “For a while, Bee held her soul. But in the end, he let her go.”

Keith swore under his breath.

“Even if she revived, it wouldn’t really be Marie. To bind her even after death would be cruel.”

Keith almost said: Maybe Marie would have wanted that. But he bit his tongue. Fire-spirit rebirth wasn’t like human magic’s resurrection—it was different. Resurrection had never once succeeded. It was a forbidden art.

Florence whispered:

“Bee kept her with him. At least she heard me. Even if I didn’t hear her answer, Marie must have stayed and said she felt the same.”

Keith pressed his fingers hard against the bridge of his nose.
“Gods… listen to this sentimental crap.”
“It’s her funeral.”
“Still embarrassing.”

Funerals were for that—for grieving, for crying, for remembering.

And the one who remembered Marie with Florence wasn’t Enoch or Laila. It was Keith.

He crouched before the gravestone, face buried in his palms.

“Shouldn’t it be you crying, damn it?”
“I cried too much already.”
“So you vanished for four years just to cry? You heartless—”
“Marie doesn’t like it when I cry.”
“And she’d like it when I cry?”
“She’d find it funny.”

Keith cursed, but tears still fell, hidden under his hands. Once they started, they wouldn’t stop.

Enoch approached.
“Florence.”
“Sorry. I made your cousin cry.”
“Forget it. Sign here.”

As if it were nothing. Keith ground his teeth.
“Enoch, your brother’s crying—”
“Is he? Can’t tell. If he is, I’ll say something.”
“What’ll you say?” Florence asked.
“Good job.”

Keith couldn’t even lift his head, growling through his teeth. His tears dried instantly. Then Laila suddenly yanked his arm down, baring his wet face.

Keith froze in shock. Laila grinned.
“Barely a few drops. Florence, want me to make him really cry?”
“No… Marie wouldn’t want Keith beaten.”
“Shame. I was hoping.”

Keith turned red, laughed bitterly.
“What am I, your toy?”
“Stand up, brother.”
“Brother?” His ears twitched at the word.
“Yeah. Stand. Don’t lean on the gravestone.”
“I wasn’t leaning, bastard.”
“Then fine.”

Through the funeral, Enoch and Laila had kept back, giving Florence and Keith space. But now it was over.

Enoch offered his hand. Florence took it without hesitation. They said nothing. But Keith understood.

Enoch’s long, hopeless love was finally over. And so was Keith’s lingering attachment.

He could never win. Enoch never wavered. He was relentless, faithful, sure of his love. Keith only loved fleeting days—the little room, the curtains drawn, Florence and Marie together.

That was what he loved.

Keith shut his eyes. Laila roughly wiped his cheek.

“Stop crying. Let’s go.”

Keith strode away, leaving her behind. Laila just shrugged.