Chapter 43
Emily had a strange smile on her gaunt face. Brunhilde thought it a little odd, but assumed it was simply because Emily wasn’t feeling well. She brushed it off and returned to her chambers.
She had the maid hang up the ornament Emily had given her.
It was a delicate piece of clear crystal set into bronze, scattering rainbow light wherever it caught the sun. That afternoon, as the late sunlight streamed in, Brunhilde stood by the window, quietly admiring the way the ornament shimmered in the fading glow.
Then she noticed something.
A faint, pale speck clinging to the bronze fitting where the crystal was set. Tilting her head in curiosity, she picked it up. Inside the bronze cap, tucked away, was a small, tightly folded scrap of paper.
“What is this?”
She pulled it out and unfolded it.
The piece of paper was no larger than a fingertip, with tiny, grain-like letters scrawled across it. Squinting, she carefully traced each word.
And then—
“……!”
Her eyes flew wide open.
She read it again, her gaze trembling. Then she exhaled sharply and staggered back a step.
“Ah…”
A broken, grief-stricken sound slipped from her lips. Covering her face, Brunhilde sobbed quietly for a while.
At last, she hid the note between the pages of a book, then rose unsteadily to her feet.
And walked outside, toward the fading light.
* * *
By evening, rain began to pour from the overcast sky.
Carlos, who had been occupied with affairs of state until later than usual, received unexpected news.
“My mother… isn’t in her room?”
“Yes, my lord. The maid says she hasn’t been seen since this afternoon…”
The servant trailed off, his expression troubled.
Carlos immediately set aside his work and went to her chambers. There, her maid stood pale and agitated.
Mute and deaf, the woman could not properly explain what had happened. Communication wasn’t impossible—but for the first time, Carlos regretted assigning such a servant to his mother.
A quiet unrest simmered beneath the surface.
Abandoning everything, he began searching for her. He scoured the entire estate, then the surrounding buildings—everywhere.
Hours passed.
Late into the night, he returned briefly to his room and heard laughter. Emily, still bound to the bed, was giggling softly.
Normally, he would have ignored it. But something—an unexplainable instinct—pricked at his nerves. Carlos stopped changing his clothes and walked over to her.
Their eyes met. Despite her weakened state, Emily looked… satisfied. Like a beast that had just fed.
“Why are you laughing, wife?”
“You look busy for someone about to retire for the night… Did something troublesome happen?”
“I asked why you laughed.”
“What—did something happen to Lady Brunhilde?”
“…….”
His expression didn’t change drastically, but his lowered gaze darkened. Emily smiled sweetly at him.
“I suppose I was right after all.”
“…How much did you tell her?”
“Not much. The paper was too small, I had to hide it from you, after all.”
Slowly, Carlos reached out and wrapped his hand around her throat. Emily choked, gasping—but the smile never left her lips.
“You’d better speak. Now.”
“It’s, kh—! nothing much.”
Tears welled in her eyes as she struggled to breathe, but she forced out a laugh.
“I just wrote… that your mother’s miscarriage… was your doing.”
Carlos’s mouth hardened. His grip tightened, but he didn’t snap her neck. Instead, just before her eyes rolled back, he released her.
She collapsed, coughing violently, while he stared down at her coldly.
“I’ll decide what to do with you… after I find my mother.”
“Pfft—! Hah…!”
“You’ll come to understand just how merciful I’ve been… until now.”
His voice was quiet, yet laced with a chilling, refined anger. He finished dressing and turned away. Behind him, Emily’s laughter rang out again.
It weighed heavily on him.
Without another word, Carlos dismissed everyone and stepped out into the rain. He headed toward the forest near the estate. The place where Brunhilde had buried the bloodstained cloth, the remains of the child she had lost.
The forest loomed dark and oppressive, the rain falling steadily through the tall trees. It felt like the belly of some monstrous creature.
The moon was hidden behind clouds. Carrying only a small lantern, Carlos pushed forward through the dim, uncertain path.
And at last, he reached the spot. Before the shallow mound of earth—too small to be called a grave—stood a lone figure.
A place with no marker.
A place where a life had been buried without even the dignity of a name.
He stopped, watching. The figure’s rain-darkened hair stirred slightly. Then, in the gloom, a pale face turned toward him.
Brunhilde. His mother. Her eyes, clear as glass, stared straight at him through the pouring rain.
“…Is it true?”
The question had no subject, but its meaning was unmistakable.
Carlos said nothing. He simply stepped closer to his mother.
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