Home/How a Terminally Ill Woman Distances Herself from Death/ch 3

Chapter 3

It was just as she had said. After coming of age and getting married, she had corrected her handwriting to something more mature, yet that had unconsciously slipped out from her sixteen-year-old hand. It was a habit ingrained without her even knowing it.

Astier, flustered by Lénia's sharp observation, composed herself and feigned nonchalance as she continued writing the letter.

"It hasn't been long. I can't keep writing like a child forever. Anyway, send this to His Grace the Grand Duke's townhouse."

"What exactly did you write?"

Lénia's face suggested she genuinely wondered if Astier was actually planning to propose to the Grand Duke.

But of course, "surely not" often catches people off guard.

Astier poured violet wax over the bright yellow envelope, stamped it with a seal, and spoke as it hardened.

"I wrote, 'Let's get married.'"

"Truly?!"

When she had been engaged to the Grand Duke, she had been told that the process of handling a royal's death was more complicated than expected, and that in the meantime, Astier would be treated as the Grand Duke's fiancée.

If things flowed as Astier knew they would, it meant that even if he disappeared, her safety would be guaranteed for a while.

The more she thought about it, the more the Darsilium Grand Duke seemed like a match tailor-made for Astier.

"Think of it as a sort of declaration of war."

With those words, as soon as the wax had hardened, Astier handed the letter to Lénia with a smile.

---

Darsilium Grand Duke Larjen was extremely busy.

It was the final semester of his graduating year at the academy, and he was in the midst of exam season. He also had matters to attend to in his distant duchy, and he had to carve out time to visit his aunt, Empress Passacalia, to fulfill his duties as a nephew. Playing with his cousin, the Crown Princess, who frequently sought him out, was also part of his routine.

While staying at his townhouse in the capital, he sent out rejection notices to those who sent invitations—his excuse of being busy was no lie.

Yet, strangely enough, a peculiar bright yellow envelope sat atop his study desk. A deep purple seal was prominently affixed to it.

"What is this?"

<Astier Brunhilt>

The sender's name was written in that spot. It was a name he vaguely recalled hearing once or twice.

She was the daughter of the Duke of Sousse, he thought. He also remembered hearing that she was frail and rarely appeared in high society.

But upon reflection, he couldn't recall any reason for that young lady to send him a letter.

"It's a letter from Lady Sousse."

"No, Phileon. What I mean is, why did Grace give this to me?"

His bewildered aide simply shrugged as if he had no idea.

Surely, if the butler was as competent as usual, he must have judged that Larjen ought to at least read it.

With a thoroughly world-weary expression, Larjen tore open the envelope, which already bore signs of having been opened once.

His indifferent crimson eyes glided lightly across the elegant stationery.

<To His Grace the Darsilium Grand Duke,>

Dear, he thought. Since when have I been dear to you? Larjen muttered inwardly as he unfolded the remaining half of the letter.

As he did, several well-dried flower buds—three or four of them—that had been tucked between the pages fluttered down. A subtle, not-overpowering floral scent wafted up and tickled his nose.

On the paper, in an elegant hand, was a short but far from trivial message.

<This is a proposal of marriage from Astier of Brunhilt to His Grace the Darsilium Grand Duke. I swear that not a single grain of my father's opinion is contained herein.>

It was a proposal with the rather preposterous claim that the head of the household—her own father—had no say in the matter.

Finding it unworthy of a reply, Larjen tossed the letter onto the table. The dried yellow and pink blossoms were swept by a draft and scattered beneath the desk.

"Shall I prepare a response?"

"No."

His voice, belonging to one who had just turned eighteen and stood on the border between man and boy, was cold as ice.

Larjen added nothing more, sitting down to review the documents Phileon had set before him. They contained information about the daughter of a baronial family he was considering as a prospective fiancée.

There was nothing particularly noteworthy. A thoroughly unremarkable, ordinary house. In fact, it was so humble that it seemed hardly worthy of being the Grand Duke's betrothed.

It was, in truth, the most fitting match for his current situation.

Phileon, believing his master had begun to concentrate, sighed inwardly and quietly left the room.

The moment the door clicked shut, Larjen set down the papers with a tap and leaned his head back.

"Ha…"

It was a sigh that slipped out habitually, even though he knew he shouldn't.

"I suppose I have to get engaged."

Until a year ago—that is, until just before he turned seventeen—Larjen had had no fiancée, and he'd had little interest in marriage. His circumstances hadn't allowed for it either.

But things changed when his cousin, Anarest, ascended as Crown Princess.

Now, having an engagement was problematic, but not having one was equally problematic, so he needed to find the most inconspicuous person possible.

Thinking that in a world where it was already hard enough to look after oneself, he now had to live under the added burden of others' scrutiny, his head throbbed.

He let out a deep sigh and raised both hands to cover his eyes. A faint floral scent lingered at his nose before fading.

With the immediate issues pressing in on him, the letter he'd received today was relegated to the back of his mind. He had no idea that this single, carelessly discarded letter would one day upend his entire life.

And so, the declaration of war—unknown to its intended recipient—was pushed to the corner of his desk.

---

The snow that had fallen overnight gleamed blindingly white in the morning sun. It was said to be a record-breaking blizzard in the capital, Laentium, and by the look of it, the snow was at least knee-deep.

Astier, who had been standing by the window looking outside, drew the curtains and turned around. Unlike the world outside, blanketed in white, the room was warm thanks to the fire crackling in the hearth.

Astier counted the days on her fingers and frowned. Four days had passed, and there was still no reply from the one who had received her letter.

It was to be expected. Unless the House of Brunhilt and the Grand Duke had had prior private contact, a young lady from a family that only exchanged greetings in passing had sent a proposal on her own accord. There was no way it would be taken seriously.

"Lénia."

"Yes?"

Lénia, who had been knitting by the hearth as the fire crackled and snapped, looked up. Her pink eyes reflected the flames, glowing orange.

Astier draped a thick indoor robe over her shoulders and sat in the rocking chair beside Lénia.

"Do you remember the letter I sent to His Grace the Grand Duke the other day?"

"Yes, and there's still no reply."

"Exactly. That's why I think we need to go to the academy."

Lénia blinked her round eyes instead of answering. Astier took the knitting needles from her hands—almost snatching them—and set them on the table. Then she covered Lénia's small, soft hand with her own.

"His Grace is at the academy. He's about to graduate, and he dislikes staying in the capital, so he'll return to the North. Then it'll become difficult for me to meet him."

A deep shadow fell across her pale face. It was an unfamiliar expression Lénia had never seen before. For some reason, her mouth and lips felt parched, and she unconsciously moistened them with her tongue.

The young lady she served was truly serious—she was actually thinking of marrying the Grand Duke.

Beneath the pale, bony hand, the fingers that lay still twitched slightly.

Astier had said the Grand Duke disliked being in the capital. Was that true? How did she know? Such thoughts churned through Lénia's mind.

The fact that the Grand Duke was a student at the academy and would soon graduate—

It was the sort of information that ordinary nobles in the capital might know, but it was surprising that Astier, who learned most of the news from newspapers, was aware of such a minor detail. Her violet eyes, staring without wavering, had never felt as unfamiliar as they did today.

"I need your help."

"...What would you have me do?"

Still, that didn't mean Astier had become someone else. Lénia asked with a resolute expression.

"I'll say I'm going out to meet my fiancé at the academy. Then I'll say I'm going with you to get some fresh air."

"That aside, will you actually be able to leave, Lady Astier?"

Lénia said with a worried look.

There was a reason for her concern.

The current head of the House of Brunhilt was the Duke, but the one who truly wielded power over the Duke was someone else. A beautiful noblewoman with lemon-blonde hair and cold green eyes. The Duke's second wife—

Astier's stepmother, Duchess Yelena Brunhilt, was the real power behind the throne.

Back   Next