Home/How a Terminally Ill Woman Distances Herself from Death/ch 1

Chapter 1

"Please marry me."

It had been an ordinary day, no different from any other—except for this girl, who sat with an air of elegance despite her sickly pallor, and spoke out of nowhere.

Larjen missed his chance to respond, caught off guard by her unexpected words.

"Lady Astier, what on earth—"

"I, Astier of Brünhelt, am proposing to Your Highness Larjen Bellester Ronareils, Grand Duke of Differsilium."

"......"

"The term won't be long. Either I die, or Your Highness goes missing—so at the shortest, five years; at the longest, six."

Above their heads, strands of white and golden hair intertwined like spools of thread. Through the window, the winter sunlight spilled quietly over them like a curtain’s edge.

It was a winter’s day.

---

Perhaps because she had just opened her eyes, her mind felt hazy.

Astier leaned against the cushions, supported by her maid’s arm.

The first things she saw were the soft-toned wallpaper, a large landscape painting, and the tapestries adorning the walls. The crackling sound of burning firewood came from the hearth.

She was staring blankly at the familiar scenery, her eyes drifting, when she felt someone approach.

"Lady Astier, are you all right? Are you conscious?"

The one who had drawn close to the bedside asked, her eyes brimming with tears.

She had soft, wavy brown hair and lovely pink eyes like flower petals. Astier’s unfocused gaze slowly widened.

"...Lenia?"

"Yes, it’s me. Are you feeling better? Oh dear, what on earth is going on..."

Lenia, Astier’s personal maid, spoke as she gently stroked her mistress’s bony hand. Astier’s violet eyes, reminiscent of violets, followed the motion.

It had been years since she’d last seen Lenia. Yet here she was, by her side, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The man Lenia had married was an eastern count, far from the capital. It would take at least a month just to travel to the capital, so her presence here was truly strange.

And, come to think of it, there were many strange things.

The capital had been in the grip of an unprecedented heatwave. So why was there a fireplace burning? And the landscape painting before her—it had been taken away right after Astier’s marriage and hung in her stepmother’s bedroom for years. She remembered returning to the family home after her divorce, finding that empty spot on the wall, and crying in sorrow. She was certain of it.

Astier’s eyes, fixed on those pink irises, wavered with confusion.

"Did I... collapse?"

Her voice was thick with doubt as she asked for confirmation.

She had collapsed. But the cause wasn’t her chronic illness—it had been poison.

Just moments ago, she had believed that after being poisoned, she had been carried to her room by someone, and that the family physician had treated her.

But instinct screamed that something was wrong.

"Huh? Surely you don't mean... you don't remember? That woman who looks like a vixen—she did something to the doll!"

Doll? At the sudden mention of that word, her fine brows furrowed. She had asked about collapsing, and now the talk turned to dolls—it made no sense.

Seeing Astier’s expression, Lenia, apparently convinced that she had truly lost her memory, began to look distraught.

"Oh no, oh no... what do we do...?"

"What is it? What doll are you talking about?"

"The Breldy doll! The blue Breldy doll. Do you really not remember? You commissioned it yourself, Lady Astier—you said you were going to give it to that wretched woman Isilla!"

The blue Breldy doll. At those words, memories that had faded beyond oblivion suddenly rose to the surface.

It had happened in the winter of her sixteenth year.

In Bellester, there was a tradition of gifting a horse-shaped doll called a Breldy to wish health and happiness upon a newborn. So Astier had ordered a Breldy doll crafted with blue checkered fabric and the finest materials.

It had taken a full week to make.

Astier had planned to present it to Isilla at a dinner gathering, saying she welcomed her as family and that she looked forward to seeing her soon.

"I checked it myself several times—don’t you remember?"

Lenia spoke as if wronged. She had inspected the doll over and over for Astier’s sake: for any flaws, any sharp edges, any loose stitching.

So when she heard the servants say that Astier had given Isilla a torn Breldy doll, she hadn’t believed it. Lenia had been the one to place the doll into the box and check it one last time.

"The servants, the maids—everyone’s spouting nonsense, and you, Lady Astier—"

As Lenia spoke, tears spilling, Astier could vividly recall the events of that years-ago day.

Astier had given the doll with nothing but genuine goodwill. Yet somehow, Isilla had dropped the box with a pale face, and inside lay a doll torn in half.

The Duke and Duchess, along with her half-brother Rowin, had furiously berated Astier. Naturally, young as she was, she could only repeat that it wasn’t her doing—and then collapsed.

Her chronic illness had flared up. She clearly remembered suffering from a fever for about four days afterward.

But that had all happened years ago.

Her violet eyes, shaken by confusion, suddenly caught sight of the window. Large, fluffy snowflakes like cotton balls were falling silently outside.

"...Lenia, how old am I?"

"Pardon?"

"I asked how old I am."

"Um... sixteen. You'll be seventeen soon."

Lenia tilted her head and answered.

"And the Crown Princess Anarest's investiture ceremony—has that already passed?"

"Yes, it has."

"I see. So that's how it is..."

Astier murmured, gazing at the snow piling up on the windowsill.

The torn Breldy doll, the Crown Princess's investiture, and the fever that had struck on a day when snow fell as if the sky had burst open.

Everything was exactly as it had been on that winter day of her sixteenth year.

A hollow laugh escaped her.

It seemed she had indeed died. Otherwise, there was no way she would be reliving past events as they had happened.

Her bony hand pressed against her chest.

Had this happened because the last person she saw was Isilla? Had she cursed her? What had she done wrong?

“It must feel like your heart is about to burst, doesn’t it? I know—because it's that kind of poison. To everyone else, it must look like you died of your illness, Astier.”

In her memory, Isilla stepped back to avoid the blood pooling at Astier’s feet. She had said it herself: she had used poison to stage Astier’s death.

Even now, the pain—like someone trying to crush her heart—remained vivid.

The burning in her throat, the warm blood spilling from her mouth, and Isilla’s bright smile as she watched her writhe in agony—all of it flickered before her eyes.

It felt as though she could return to that moment at any instant.

She didn’t want that.

Even if this was a dream, she didn’t want to leave.

"Oh dear, you're still in pain, aren't you? Wait here—I'll go ask for more medicine."

As her shoulders trembled from the fear of facing death, Lenia clicked her tongue and rose from her seat.

But Astier caught her wrist before she could take a step. Startled by the strong grip, Lenia looked at her.

"No, don't go. Stay here."

Her violet eyes were moist with tears. Those tears held an indescribable, overwhelming emotion. Lenia couldn’t bring herself to pull her hand away.

She couldn’t tell if this was a dream or the world after death.

But could either of those be this vividly real? It was an unanswerable question.

Perhaps—though it sounded utterly absurd—she, who had died by poison, had returned to the winter of her sixteenth year.

After sobbing silently for a long while, Astier raised her bony hand and wiped her cheeks. The dampness clung to her fingers. Her eyelids blinked a few times, and when they opened again, her violet eyes gleamed sharply.

She couldn’t act like a fool all over again.

Astier measured the time she had left. She would soon turn seventeen, leaving just over four years until her death at twenty-one.

Even if she somehow avoided being poisoned, her body was never meant to last long. She had heard countless times since childhood that she wouldn't live past ten. And it wasn’t as if she had ever longed for a long life.

But that didn’t mean she wanted to repeat the same life all over again. Her twenty-one-year-old self was too pitiful for that.

"I've decided."

"Decided what?"

Lenia asked back.

"If there’s no place for me no matter what I do—whether I give my all or not—then I'll just live without regrets until I die."

"Lady Astier!"

"Revenge, paying back what I’ve suffered—I don’t need any of that."

At her flat tone, Lenia went pale.

But Astier paid no mind. She tugged Lenia’s wrist and fixed her with a gaze that was somehow firmer than before.

"So, with that in mind—do you know anyone good to marry?"

"...Excuse me?"

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