Chapter 3
01. Unspoken Words (2)
The execution took place in the dead of night, and the train ticket Anaïs had bought in advance was for a departure at dawn. To her, in today’s execution—where nothing made sense from start to finish—that was the one small blessing.
After the execution ended and the deaths of all the royals were confirmed, Charlotte could never have guessed that Anaïs had already packed all her belongings before returning home in that drained state.
It was a sorrowful task to dispose of the townhouse in the heart of Seine—a home where once there were four of them, then three, and for a time, just her and her father—but there was no other choice. Anaïs Belmartier had no intention of returning to Seine. She felt like someone walking into the civil war in Basbourre to commit suicide, yet she saw no way around it. Even as she repeated to herself countless times that this wasn’t the case, the thought that maybe, deep down, she actually wished for it gnawed incessantly at her mind.
The train station at dawn was not entirely deserted. Many of the old nobles who had initially escaped the revolution’s hammer chose exile abroad, provided they still had some financial means. And dawn was the hour they most often used to reach the border.
Most nobles who could afford that much luxury also knew Anaïs’s face—at least vaguely. Wanting to avoid unnecessary trouble, Anaïs pressed her teal cloche hat low over her head. They, too, probably wished to leave quietly without being noticed, but if anyone recognized her and, out of spite, tried to cause a scene, things could become troublesome—or dangerous—for her as well.
Just then, as she stood before the third-class platform with her heavy suitcase loaded onto a cart, someone spoke to her.
“Would you like help carrying your luggage to first class, mademoiselle?”
“Oh, no. That’s quite all right.”
“What, afraid a lowly commoner might run off with it or something… huh?”
If among the nobles there might be some who recognized Anaïs’s face, then among the commoners, there were very few—hardly any—who didn’t know her. The young revolutionary who lost her brother while he served as Crown Prince Henri’s double, and later lost her father to Henri’s misfire. The angel of the assemblies who rushed through riots tending the wounded. The standard-bearer of the new age, with hair like the dawn’s bright light, who sometimes stood at the podium and sometimes in the front lines of protests, shouting for freedom with the flag held high.
“B-Belmar…”
The man who had begun to pick a fight froze, inhaling sharply when their eyes met, unsure what to do. Anaïs wondered whether his shock came from mistaking her for a fleeing noble or from encountering her here of all places—but she gave up trying to figure it out. What did it matter? Instead, she offered an awkward smile and raised her gloved index finger to her lips.
The man, jolted back to his senses, shut his mouth with a gulp and nodded as if he understood. Whatever meaning he took from her gesture, Anaïs was only relieved that the word Belmartier didn’t echo through this station—not empty, yet not noisy either.
Without his help, she struggled to drag her suitcase and settled into the empty third-class carriage. Most former nobles used first class, so ironically, third class was relatively quiet. The few scattered passengers had no interest in one another as they fled the capital at this early hour. The train soon departed. Having gone several sleepless nights because of the royal executions, Anaïs finally managed to steal some rest in the stillness of third class.
Half-asleep, Anaïs dreamed.
It was a dream from a distant memory: a boy handing her a handkerchief as white as the single white flower he held.
⚜ ⚜ ⚜
There was a hand that held out a handkerchief, as if it were only natural for her to cry.
On a day when everyone said her tears would ruin everything.
⚜ ⚜ ⚜
When she unexpectedly came face-to-face with Léonard, Anaïs turned away and fled. The city still roared with gunfire, but at least she ran until he was out of sight. In the meantime, tears spilled down her cheeks—tears she hadn’t realized were falling—while shock, fear, and guilt tangled together, thrashing inside her head.
It was him. No mistake.
What is he doing here?
It made no sense. She had heard that the civil war had escalated rapidly over the past few days because news of the royals’ execution had spread. The royalists, stripped of purpose and consumed only by rage and vengeance, had launched furious assaults. But for Léonard to be here—
Not in the Basbourre fortress, but on this battlefield,
helping evacuate wounded civilians?
Her blood-stained hands trembled as Anaïs clutched her chest, frozen in place—until a hand gripped her shoulder from behind.
“Mademoiselle Anaïs! What were you thinking, running off like that?!”
The owner of the firm grip was a short-haired blond man, Philippe Ardinant—a warlord and businessman from the East who had provided strong military support to the Réan Revolutionary Army. Though he claimed not to be a revolutionary himself, here he was, standing at the forefront of the government forces alongside Major Céline Châtelet. He wasn’t a trained soldier, much like Anaïs, but he was a seasoned figure hardened by countless battlefields.
“S-sorry, Monsieur Ardinant. I heard someone groaning over there.”
“This is why doctors are trouble! You promised you wouldn’t step onto the battlefield on the days we meet!”
Unable to bear watching civilians in the city bleed from gunshots and bomb fragments, Anaïs had once tried to dash into the battlefield, only to be stopped by Philippe, who made her promise that on days they met, she would stay away from the front. His stated reason was that he didn’t want to see a valued colleague harmed—especially not on a day they met—but everyone present knew that wasn’t the whole truth. Philippe knew it too. In fact, what he wanted to say was that she shouldn’t come anywhere near the battlefield at all.
After frantically searching for the vanished Anaïs, Philippe found her, panting heavily, wearing an expression that would make his subordinates burst into laughter. Even out of breath, he bombarded her with scolding: This place is more dangerous than an ordinary war zone. Stop naively assuming royalists or his brutish men would spare a civilian doctor out of respect for some ancient treaty. For heaven’s sake, look after yourself…
“Well, I found you safe, didn’t I? But my head… it’s pounding. Please, just… be quiet for a moment.”
“Ah, my apologies. You vanished so suddenly I panicked.”
His apology was as swift and sharp as his earlier reprimand.
“So then, where’s the lucky patient you treated after running off and leaving me behind?”
Philippe’s voice, now calm, held a teasing lilt as his eyes glanced toward the direction she’d come from. At that, Anaïs’s mind raced reflexively. Did Philippe know Léonard by face? Surely, he wouldn’t follow me here… would he?
He can’t.
“Yes… luckily, the injury wasn’t severe. He managed to walk back on his own.”
Lying through clenched teeth to the man who had just been genuinely worried for her, Anaïs darted her eyes nervously. Of course Léonard must have rushed to move the patient to safety—that was why he came here, surely.
So before he dares follow me here—before Philippe sees him and recognizes him—I need to get out of this place. The conclusion came quickly, and Anaïs acted on it at once.
“Monsieur Ardinant… I’m feeling rather overwhelmed after being out here so long. Could you escort me to the rear?”
“I’m delighted to hear you say what I was about to suggest. Let’s go.”
Though her head truly was spinning, her excuse about “being out here so long” was a lie. All the way back, with Philippe and his men guarding her retreat from the battlefield, Anaïs fought the urge to look back.
She couldn’t believe it.
More than she couldn’t believe Léonard’s presence, she couldn’t believe what her eyes had seen here.
She knew the wrong people were dying. She knew it was horrific. Edmond—the only revolutionary in the capital who had been to Basbourre—had said the civil war, though violent, couldn’t compare to a real war or the struggles they’d faced before. He told her to focus on matters in the capital. When she argued that no matter the scale, innocent people were dying and a doctor couldn’t ignore that, he asked, Aren’t you already our comrade before you are a doctor?
What Anaïs had heard from Edmond Lambert was supposed to be a fight under control, nearing its end.
Not this living hell.
That evening over dinner, Anaïs asked Philippe which village in Basbourre was the smallest and poorest. Without hesitation, he answered: Dunant.
Upon hearing that, Anaïs Belmartier decided—despite Philippe Ardinant’s protests—to settle in Dunant.
