Chapter 5
01. Words Left Unspoken (4)
The worn floor creaked as it welcomed an uninvited guest. Despite its age, the interior was impeccably tidy, filled with the strong smell of disinfectant. The house was obsessively clean, and the arrangement of furniture resembled that of a hospital rather than a home. Honestly, it was a little surprising that she managed all this on her own.
There were many abandoned houses in Dunan. Just as Léonard had done, Anaïs settled into one of them and opened this clinic. She spent more time running around tending to the wounded than sitting indoors, and she charged nothing for treatment, yet people still called this place a hospital. In this small and dangerous village, Anaïs’s home was the only medical facility. The village’s only doctor had fled to the capital last month.
As he set down a basket of potatoes in the pantry next to the kitchen, Léonard wondered why he was still in Dunan. Before Anaïs came, his reason—however self-deceptive—had been clear. But with her arrival, it had suddenly turned hazy. He thought about why, during that street battle, he had let Anaïs go, and why, when he heard villagers say “Anaïs Belmartier is in our village,” he hadn’t run away.
The revolutionary army was surely still hunting him—the sole surviving member of the House of Charleroi—and Anaïs Belmartier was a leader among them. Logically, when he encountered her, the right move would have been to kill her and flee. If witnesses worried him, he could have come here later, when no one was around, and dealt with it. She was the enemy who slaughtered his bloodline, down to innocent children. And yet, there she was—a frail woman who couldn’t even protect herself.
Still, he had wasted days without a proper reason, and that was…
“On my honor, I swear to you, Anaïs Belmartier. I will surely—”
…Damn it.
Through the chaos in his head, an old memory—one he never wanted to recall, especially now—suddenly surfaced. A face he resented more than the enemy outside, perhaps. The face of a fool who, knowing nothing, placed the heaviest promise of his life in a pale hand. He remembered the sincerity he once staked, believing it was the most precious thing he had. Alone in the pantry, where no one could see, Léonard clutched his forehead and cursed under his breath. Damn it. Damn it all.
“Mr. Serdieu?”
He must have been brooding for a while, because the old woman outside called out, sounding concerned. Time to put on the mask of Leo Serdieu again. Taking a few deep breaths, he smoothed his expression into one of easy warmth, as if it had never twisted in rage, and wiped nonexistent sweat from his brow before stepping outside.
At the door, Anaïs was apologizing profusely, saying she really ought to offer tea but had urgent patients to see, while the old woman waved her hands, insisting it was fine. The two of them created a charming little scene of good-natured fussing.
The old Léonard—no, even Léonard from just a short while ago—would have stood by and watched with mild amusement.
But now, that pleasant scene only made him uncomfortable. He was about to suggest they leave when an unexpected voice stopped him.
“Um… Mr. Serdieu.”
Anaïs had called him.
Léonard froze. At first, he thought he’d misheard. The second time, he wondered, Did she really just call me? He thought he’d grown accustomed to that hastily chosen surname, but hearing it spoken by Anaïs—rolling off her tongue in her voice—felt strangely unsettling. Was it truly nothing to her, calling him that? Or was she, like him, wearing a mask? After all, wasn’t that cool silver hair and those bright blue eyes the perfect colors for hiding coldness?
Questions with no answers churned endlessly as Léonard turned blankly to look at her.
Then Anaïs Belmartier, with a perfectly calm face, said:
“Actually, I think the ceiling is leaking, and it’s beyond what I can fix myself. If it’s not too much trouble, could you come by this evening to take a look?”
She had to be either fearless, thoughtless, or insane.
He couldn’t think of any other explanation.
⚜ ⚜ ⚜
Anaïs Belmartier was born to a wealthy bourgeois family, the child of two esteemed scholars. Her parents, Frédéric Belmartier and Édith Angel, were both professors at Boarnet University. She also had an older brother, Marcel Belmartier, much older than herself. Growing up, Anaïs was showered with love. Their family lived in a four-story townhouse in the heart of Sienne, the capital.
The first tragedy to strike the Belmartiers came when Anaïs was just five years old—her mother, Édith, died in an epidemic. Anaïs retained almost no memory of her mother. In the end, only a faded black-and-white photograph of a gentle smile lingered deep in her mind. Even so, under the care of her father and brother, she grew into a bright, healthy girl.
But the following year, another storm hit the household. Marcel, defying Frédéric’s strong opposition, enrolled in the Imperial Military Academy. Marcel wanted to become a brave, righteous soldier and a pillar of the Empire, while Frédéric—an ardent pacifist—wanted no such path for his son. Harsh arguments about severing family ties ensued, but ultimately, Frédéric lost. Marcel entered the academy as a boarding student, leaving only Frédéric and little Anaïs at home.
Years later, Marcel graduated at the top of his class and earned the honor of being commissioned as a second lieutenant in Crown Prince Henri’s Imperial Guard. Frédéric refused to attend the graduation and commissioning ceremony, leaving ten-year-old Anaïs to represent the family and present her brother with a bouquet—a ridiculous scene in hindsight. Still, their family remained more or less happy then.
The second tragedy came in winter, two years after Marcel became a lieutenant.
The Imperial family received intelligence that radical republicans were planning to assassinate Crown Prince Henri. The extremists intended to ambush the prince’s birthday procession, kill him, and ultimately eliminate the Emperor as well.
The palace went on high alert. But Crown Prince Henri refused to alter or cancel the procession over unconfirmed intelligence—yet he wasn’t brave enough to ignore the threat either. The truth was, the prince was always closer to cowardice than courage.
So he chose the most contemptible solution: putting a decoy in his carriage.
In the end, the prince lived. But the second lieutenant from his guard, chosen as the “honored” decoy, climbed into that carriage and was shot dead by a young radical.
That was the day Marcel Belmartier died at twenty-two.
⚜ ⚜ ⚜
“Leo!”
After escorting the old woman home, Léonard walked down the dusk-stained road, pondering whether he should really return to Anaïs’s house that evening—and if he did, what he should do there—when a familiar voice stopped him.
He turned to see a red-haired young man walking up the path from the opposite direction. A smile tugged at Léonard’s lips before he knew it. Truthfully, anyone in Dunan who saw that young man would likely feel the same way. He was Léonard’s first friend in the village.
“Where are you headed?”
“The sun’s almost down, and Marie still hasn’t come back. She’s probably off playing somewhere, completely losing track of time again, so I’m going to look for her.”
Rolling up his sleeves, the young man wore the look of someone determined to finally give a stern scolding. But Léonard knew full well how hopelessly soft he was on his little sister. Cute, tiny Marie would return home holding her brother’s hand, both of them grinning ear to ear as always. Maybe she’d even get a piggyback ride tonight.
Thinking of Marie reminded Léonard of his eldest niece, Louise—about the same age. His chest tightened.
Louise Henriette de Charleroi.
The Crown Prince’s daughter. That little girl was probably lying cold and lifeless now in the high, frigid eastern tower. Léonard bit the inside of his cheek hard, swallowing the sob that rose in his throat. He had once carried his nieces on his back, played with dolls and toy soldiers, read them fairy tales. Now, all he could hope was that their final moments hadn’t been too full of pain.
“If it’s not too much trouble, could you come by this evening to take a look?”
And yet—after all that—Anaïs had stood there, calm as could be, saying such a thing. The more he thought about it, the more absurd and infuriating it seemed. Yet, alongside the anger, curiosity stirred: what on earth was she planning to tell him?
Unaware of the storm in Léonard’s heart, the young man nudged his arm playfully with an elbow.
“I know where you’ve been.”
He grinned, a smile that was oddly hard to read.
“You went with Madame Bruni to Miss Belmartier’s house, didn’t you?”
“…How do you know that?”
“I overheard her saying something about wanting you two to get along since you’re both city folks who suddenly ended up living in this backwater. When I saw her picking out potatoes for the lady, I figured she’d drag you along.”
“She didn’t have to.”
“Tell me about it. I said as much, but she never listens.”
The young man clapped Léonard’s shoulder in an encouraging gesture, as if to cheer him up. Though Léonard hadn’t said a word, his friend had sensed his sour mood—and for that, Léonard felt a flicker of gratitude.
Marcel Blanc’s friendly smile glowed red in the light of the setting sun.
