Chapter 10
10.02 White Flower (4)
That day too, after a restless night, Anaïs opened the door, thinking it must be a patient visiting the clinic. Standing at the entrance was a tall young man with red hair, panting heavily, holding what looked like a ten-year-old girl in his arms.
“I-I’m sorry for coming so suddenly, Doctor. My… my sister fell from a tree, and I think she’s bleeding a lot from her head…”
The young man stammered, words tumbling out in a panic. Anaïs quickly told him to bring the girl over to the bed. Compared to the young man’s ashen face, the girl’s condition was relatively mild—just a rather deep cut on her forehead.
Surprisingly, for someone who had fallen from a tree, the girl was extremely calm. While Anaïs administered anesthesia and stitched the wound, the child didn’t shed a single tear. Instead, her big, curious eyes roamed around the room, taking in every corner of Anaïs’ unusual home, so different from an ordinary house.
The treatment ended quickly, and Anaïs reassured them multiple times that it wasn’t a serious injury. Still, the young man kept bowing his head, overflowing with gratitude.
“Thank you so much, Doctor. I thought it was something terrible…”
“No need to thank me so much—you’ll make me feel awkward. It wasn’t serious this time, but there’s no guarantee you’ll be this lucky again. Please make sure your sister knows to be careful when climbing trees.”
“Of course, I’ll make sure of it. Thank you again, truly.”
After a few more words of thanks, the young man, with the easy friendliness typical of people from Dunan, started chatting.
“I’d heard that Doctor Belmartier had come to our village, and I wanted to pay my respects, but it’s only now that I get to meet you—under these circumstances, no less. Ha-ha.”
“Come to think of it, this is our first meeting. I see you already know my name, but I’m Anaïs Belmartier. Please take care of me from now on.”
“The pleasure is mine.”
The young man extended his hand for a handshake and introduced himself.
“My name is Marcel Blanc.”
Marcel.
The moment she heard that name, Anaïs thought she was still dreaming.
⚜ ⚜ ⚜
The funeral of Marcel Belmartier, organized by the Imperial Household, was grand.
So grand, in fact, that it felt less like a funeral and more like a celebration. On the surface, the justification was noble: to honor a hero who had sacrificed his life in place of the Crown Prince. But everyone knew the truth—the Imperial Family did not truly value Marcel Belmartier’s sacrifice that highly.
The streets erupted with fireworks and fluttering flowers, eerily reminiscent of the Crown Prince’s birthday parade—the very event during which Marcel had died. For the royal family, Captain Marcel Belmartier—posthumously promoted two ranks for his sacrifice—was nothing more than an excuse to hold another victory banquet, celebrating the Crown Prince Henri’s survival.
For Anaïs, however, this was agony beyond words. In a single day, the girl had lost her only brother. She was twelve years old then, and while her mind could half-understand why the world seemed to be rejoicing at her brother’s death, her heart could not accept it. The other half of that incomprehension, mingled with a pain that tore her apart, kept her eyes brimming with tears.
Those around her—especially Frédéric Belmartier, her father—feared that her grief might cause trouble at the funeral. Some, more pragmatic, even worried that everyone connected to Frédéric and Marcel could suffer consequences because of one tearful child.
The Imperial stance was clear: Marcel’s noble sacrifice in place of Henri Georges de Charleroi was an honor. Even if no one truly believed it, they had to act as though it was glorious. From the Imperial Family’s perspective, for Marcel to climb into the Crown Prince’s carriage and die—albeit deceptively, as a stand-in—was a tremendous privilege for the Belmartier family. It was not something to mourn, but to be proud of.
Therefore, showing tears at such a funeral was unthinkable. Especially since the funeral was a state funeral, held at the grand Haute-Corrèze Cathedral of the Roabéron Summer Palace. That cathedral was a place only royalty or the great nobles—those who owned one of Léon’s twenty legions as fiefs—could ever dream of using. For the Belmartier family, mere bourgeois despite their prestige, this was supposed to be an incomparable honor.
“Marcel’s death… was an honor, Anaïs. So you mustn’t cry. Ever.”
That unspoken pressure eventually forced a grieving father to tell his only remaining child that her brother’s death was “an honor.” Frédéric Belmartier, suppressing his anguish, gripped Anaïs’ shoulders and repeated over and over: do not cry during the funeral. Everyone else echoed him: they knew she was hurting, but begged her to hold on just a little longer—she could cry as much as she wanted once they returned home. But a few tears here could ruin everything.
At twelve years old, Anaïs felt fear toward the world for the first time. A world where a few tears could destroy everything. A world where, though her heart was breaking, she could not even weep freely. And what did “glorious death” even mean? Her brother was gone, never to return—how could that be glorious? They said he was shot three times. How much pain did he endure before the end?
Though neither Frédéric nor Marcel were the kind of guardians who would ever hand a gun to a child, Anaïs knew well enough what a terrifying and painful weapon it was. She had overheard whispers: one bullet pierced his head so badly that his body was unfit for viewing. The Imperial Household decreed that no royal eyes should be sullied by such a sight, so the funeral would be held with an empty coffin.
Anaïs never even got to see her brother’s body. Perhaps it was for the best, but the girl, who loved him dearly, had to send him away without a final farewell—without even the tears of parting.
The funeral robbed the bereaved of their grief. Presided over by royals who looked down upon the empty coffin with cold, lofty gazes, it was both magnificent and utterly wretched.
Marcel had been a promising officer, and Frédéric had just become rector of Boarnet University, so countless mourners attended. Yet their faces were stiff with fear—afraid that the slightest misstep might offend the royals. Meanwhile, nobles who came under the pretext of “honoring the hero who died for the Crown Prince” turned the solemn occasion into a social gathering, laughing and flaunting their charms as if at a ball.
Worse, in making room for these nobles, many who truly mourned Marcel were unable to attend—a bitter irony, given that the funeral was held at the Summer Palace.
And there stood Anaïs, like a doll beside the coffin, struggling desperately to hold back her tears as advised. While mourners stepped forward one by one to lay a single white flower in the empty coffin, Anaïs stared blankly at its ornate carvings, trying to keep her tears from falling.
Then, as the floral tribute neared its end, something suddenly appeared in her vision—a white handkerchief. Startled, Anaïs looked up.
The handkerchief belonged to a boy holding a flower in his other hand. He looked about her age, though taller, and his face—tinged with both guilt and sorrow—was turned toward her as he silently offered the cloth. Confused, yet bound by the command that she mustn’t cry, Anaïs accepted it awkwardly. At that moment, a flustered voice sounded beside her:
“Your… Your Highness!”
“Anaïs, greet His Highness at once,” whispered Frédéric Belmartier, patting her back with a trembling hand. Your Highness? People had told her she mustn’t cry because of the royals. But now here was a royal prince himself, who had stepped down from the dais just to lay a flower—and to give her a handkerchief?
Even more bewildered, Anaïs bent her knees in an awkward curtsy and rose again.
“I-I greet Your Highness…”
The boy looked at her for a brief moment, then bent slightly so their eyes met. His voice, calm yet gentle—so warm and tender that, in hindsight, Anaïs realized she hadn’t heard such kindness since Marcel died—fell upon her like a short, sweet melody.
“You can cry.”
“…What…?”
“That’s what I came to tell you.”
At those words, a clear tear slid down the girl’s cheek—just like that, as if it had been waiting all along.
