Chapter 39
With a cautious knock, the door opened and Lady Isaac entered.
When she saw Eliza standing there, Lady Isaac realized this was no dream but reality. She fought back tears as she approached Eliza.
“The knights have withdrawn, and I have arranged a place for Lady Taylor’s maid to stay.”
Eliza started to speak, then stopped, simply watching her maid in silence.
“What troubles you, my lady?”
To Lady Isaac’s question, Eliza asked in a hoarse voice:
“Weren’t you always wearing the pearl earrings and pearl necklace I gave you? Why then are you standing here bare, without any ornament?”
Lady Isaac’s eyes turned red. Tears she could no longer hold back slid down her chin as she fell to her knees before her mistress.
“My lady… when you yourself wear nothing, how could I adorn myself with pearls?”
Wrinkles deepened along Eliza’s neck. She forced down the hot lump rising in her chest. Then, suddenly, drowsiness overtook her again.
What use were jewels, honor, or family? What mattered ruling the world, when the world itself had already been lost?
“Grandmother!”
Perhaps the reason her time had stopped back then was so that she could still remember that voice.
As the halted flow of time began to creep again, a pair of piercing green eyes suddenly flashed before her.
“Am I to become Saxon’s docile daughter-in-law—the very man who killed my parents—just so the honor of House Taylor can be preserved?”
In Grace’s eyes, Eliza saw raw resistance. She saw the flames carefully hidden away, and she felt the fury of someone who had lost everything.
Grace’s fury jolted Eliza’s frozen time into motion once more.
“Did I not tell you? I will return alive and repay everything. So do not die—wait for me.”
Walter’s wrath tugged hard at Eliza’s stalled time, shoving it forward.
Eliza turned to gaze out the window. Even now, the knights were scouring the grounds in search of Jessie.
“I only closed my eyes for a moment, weary from fatigue.”
After long silence, Eliza finally spoke.
“Arwen.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Bring Grace Taylor’s maid to me. And learn how things stand at the Duke of Richmond’s estate.”
Lady Isaac’s heart pounded so fiercely it felt it might burst. This was the moment she had longed for, prayed for.
Eliza Richmond, mistress of this house, was finally awakening from her slumber.
Lady Isaac wiped her tears away and answered in a steady voice:
“As you command!”
＊ ＊ ＊
The next day at noon.
Marquis Rinko raged at Count Rewen, who had returned empty-handed.
“You even searched Eliza Richmond’s annex, and still you didn’t find her?!! Not a mouse could slip outside the castle. That means she’s still in here!!”
“My apologies…”
Though Count Rewen bowed again and again in contrition, the Marquis, driven mad by his own unease, poured all his wrath upon him. The count insisted that the lady had risen and hindered his search, and that the annex was still suspicious—but this only inflamed the Marquis further.
“Don’t you dare use a senile old woman as an excuse!!”
“…Forgive me.”
“Find her!!”
As Count Rewen hurried out, the Marchioness, who had been watching, clicked her tongue softly.
“The only merits that family has are their passable looks and their pitiful ambition—that’s all.”
The Marquis downed his wine as though it were water, then wiped his lips and beard with a cloth. Calming his ragged breath, he changed the subject.
“What about the duke’s mistress? Has she spoken yet?”
“…”
When the Marchioness gave no answer, the Marquis frowned at her.
“You as well? Still nothing?”
“Patience. This isn’t the same as ferreting out a rat. That room slowly drives people mad.”
“Don’t let it be slow—make her mad now. This is war. We must win within days.”
Walter’s ominous silence gnawed at the Marquis. His restlessness made the Marchioness shake her head. Still, there was truth in his words. A protracted war would bleed both sides dry. Swift and precise strikes were needed.
The Marchioness leaned in close to whisper.
“Very well. I’ll have her broken today. But that alone won’t be enough. What of the person I told you to prepare?”
“I found the perfect candidate at dawn. Negotiations are underway.”
“Well done. And listen—leave the annex alone. Do not disturb the sleep of a senile old woman.”
With that, she moved to leave, then paused to ask:
“And our son? Shouldn’t he be arriving soon? I would like to hold a welcome party, though that may be difficult. At the very least, I must have food prepared.”
“He’ll be here in two days. Seems there was some incident at Lady Taylor’s wedding.”
“There’s never a quiet day, is there? Then again, the Taylors were ruined the moment the late duke and duchess died. I hear Her Majesty the Empress and the nobles of the capital call that house nothing but a ‘treasury.’ The current duke and his wife don’t even realize it, strutting about with puffed shoulders.”
Muttering that low-born fools get what they deserve when they grow too greedy, the Marchioness left the room.
Her destination was the Blue Chamber, where Richmond’s treasures were piled high. From among the countless chests, she drew out a small black box, scarcely wider than two palms. Taking up a fur cloak as well, she went straight to the dungeons.
The moment she entered that place where night and day no longer existed, the season turned to winter. A cold so bitter it pierced to the bone forced her to wrap herself tightly in the fur.
Yet even this was mild compared to the cell where Grace was confined. That cell lay in the deepest depths of Richmond. The cold there was enough to freeze flesh from bone—and no one who had entered it had ever emerged with sanity intact.
“Has she begged for release yet?”
The guard at the stair’s entrance shook his head.
“Not a single tear, my lady.”
“Stubborn wretch.”
Rejecting the guard’s offer to escort her, the Marchioness descended the stairs alone. Step by step, the cold grew harsher, damp seeping through her cloak to gnaw at her skin.
At last she reached the black door. She slid open the small window at the top and held a torch to it, faintly revealing the pitch-dark interior.
Inside, a woman in a cream-colored dress sat slumped against the wall, eyes closed.
The Marchioness narrowed her gaze. Usually, after a day, prisoners would cry and beg for release. But this obstinate girl looked perfectly composed. How she longed to interrogate her with cruelty—but since she was the duke’s woman, she could not risk leaving marks upon her body.
“Your maid has been caught and is under interrogation. It shouldn’t take more than an hour before she confesses to being one of the Invisible Ones.”
Grace remained unmoving, as if asleep. Fury twisted the Marchioness’s voice into a sharp bark.
“You wretch!! Do you know what happens when your scheme is exposed? You’ll face tortures more savage than you can imagine. Not even the duke will be able to protect you. Compared to that, this dungeon is nothing.”
She pressed close to the door, whispering of those torments in lurid detail.
“Confess. Lay all the blame on that maid. Say you were threatened and had no choice. Then, at least, your life will be spared.”
At last, Grace opened her eyes. The Marchioness’s lips curled upward in delight.
Grace thought that those long, crescent eyes filled with glee resembled the devil’s eyes described in scripture. Slowly, she spoke.
“I told you. Jessie and I cannot be ‘Invisible Ones.’”
“….”
The Marchioness’s smile flattened, her face hardening with wrath. Yet she exhaled calmly, masking her anger, and once again smiled as though nothing had happened.
“Well then. Perhaps you simply need more time.”
She opened the black box she had brought. Inside lay a thick stick. Lighting it, she wedged it between stones near the door. At once, a white smoke began to rise.
Covering her mouth and nose with her sleeve, she retrieved the box. Just before closing the window, she whispered coldly:
“Now, hell awaits you. In hell, you may reconsider.”
The door slammed shut. Her retreating steps faded more hurriedly than when she had descended. Even the faint torchlight that had seeped inside disappeared.
Through the small hatch at the bottom of the door, icy air and smoke seeped into the cell. Grace quickly rose and pressed her skirts to her mouth and nose. Yet the smoke wormed through the weave of the fabric, invading her lungs.
She reached desperately through the hatch, trying to extinguish the glowing stick, but it was just out of reach. In a room with no vents, it would not take long before the chamber filled with smoke.
She did not know what this smoke was. Her breath grew ragged. Only her own gasping echoed in the silence of the dungeon. Dizziness overwhelmed her. Leaning against the wall, she whispered to herself, her words like frost:
“Then endure it, Grace Taylor.”
