MLRLM 10

Chapter 10 …
Funerals and Weddings Are Only One Step Apart (2)

Agathe, her biological mother, was a lovely actress with curly blonde hair. Her mother took great pride in “performing well enough to avoid starving in Vannole.” Facing a harsh winter, she secured the lead role in a play at the Honoré Theater.

Yet at that point, her mother always claimed that her own glory had been the source of misfortune.

It was a scandal between the theater owner, the Marquis Menezes’ son, and a talented actress. To the man, it might have been a mere decoration on his chest; to the innocent woman, it brought disaster. After giving birth to a daughter who resembled him, Agathe took over all the theater’s cleaning duties.

From the audience, one could see a small yet stylish woman cleaning the darkened stage alone. That was the first solo performance Philis ever witnessed. There were no cradles or nannies. Later, as she grew a bit older, she sometimes danced on the dark stage with her mother. Their timing was chaotic, and their eye levels didn’t match. Agathe was pure, and Philis simply loved her mother. She never considered that their lives might face even greater upheavals. The following year, a financial plague became just a fragment of that turmoil.

Philis suffered nightly, writhing in agony. The illness might take her eyesight and hearing. Even with money, medicine was impossible to obtain at the time. Her mother, still cleaning and longing for the stage while carrying her sick daughter, was cast out when told that plague victims couldn’t work there.

When she regained her senses, her mother would mutter: at that time, the Marquis Menezes had already married, and the recent loss of her child wasn’t a significant matter to the street beggars. Decency was an extremely aristocratic concept, and for them, survival was paramount, she recited like a prayer. The heartless man, who had suffered two miscarriages, had once looked down on her ailing daughter with amusement and muttered coldly. Instead of saving the child, he claimed he would register her as the Marquis’ wife’s daughter. Philis would scream in rage and pull at her own hair, furious that she had lost both her job and the right to call her one and only daughter “mother,” all because she dared carry Menezes’ child.

But what did bastards mean in Comperre? Worse than twins cursed by the gods, perhaps. The empire itself was a land of contradictions: freedom, pleasure, and legitimacy were all valued. The first emperor surely overlooked that the opposite of pleasure was legitimacy. Enjoying freedom and defining pleasure as humanity’s highest value, yet mercilessly punishing those without legitimacy, the emperor threw stones at them to protect the rights of the privileged. If there was a great sin as serious as theft or harming others, it was being a bastard. Pleasure was embraced, but its consequences were despised. Non-nobles disposed of illegitimate children immediately, while the nobles called unlawful children “pigs.”

“Shameless mother and daughter,” people would say.

“Leave them be. That’s what street folk are like,” others replied.

Thus, Philis had no choice but to grow up apart from her mother. She wasn’t even allowed to call her “mother.” On the rare occasions she did, a “crazy woman in the annex” would get punished in her place. While the young girl Philis, carefully hidden to prevent the Marquis from discovering her, was the subject of gossip among high society, Agathe faded away like a candle’s wick burning down. When Philis was permitted to visit the annex by practically begging the marchioness, her mother would throw candles and dishes at her and behave outrageously. Even when Philis recited lines she had learned in readings with other children, her mother would pinch her hand, saying she didn’t know the meaning of such lofty things and that she wasn’t a noble.

Those things, Philis could endure.

What was truly troubling was that her mother seemed genuinely intent on dying. Despite a life without want and freedom as large as the annex, she somehow found knives. A woman bound to a metal bed reciting lines from a religious play was not of sound mind. Yet Philis could not let her mother vanish. It wasn’t gratitude for being born, nor an obligation of nobility, nor shared hardship—none of that.

If her mother left, Philis would be alone in this cold, unfamiliar castle… and so she wished for her mother’s long life, even more than for herself.

“Mother.”

“Don’t call me that…!”

“Agathe.”

“You… wicked child. Like your father, reckless, careless with your body. You’ll look like a beggar in any clothes. Terrible. I shouldn’t have given birth to you… it feels like a bad dream…”

Such abuse was mild by comparison. Philis gently brushed her mother’s curly blonde hair. Her mother’s forehead was cold.

“Don’t you want to perform on stage?”

The Marquis had once declared her mother’s blood vulgar. She took joy in being on stage, commanding the audience as if she were an emperor, reciting lines with forced smiles—Philis could not understand why others called it vulgar. The little girl often found it hard to believe that the man before her owned such a grand theater.

“Teasing me?”

“I’m not teasing. I just asked for Agathe’s opinion.”

Her mother never answered, yet Philis felt the silence was an affirmative. It had been a foolish question anyway—who would come to see the ruined performance of a woman once intoxicated by fame?

The Honoré Theater was to be handed down to the royal family someday, as the Marquis had no sons or sons-in-law. Yet Philis appeared, and the theater, historically significant enough for the royal family to covet, was also needed by her. She could not change her gender overnight, so she began seeking a suitable partner with the mind of a ten-year-old. Her idea, that anyone would do, came from listening to the lower ranks. As typical nobles did, she planned to make a seemingly proper marriage vow and later hire a lawyer to secure the theater from the Marquis. And on a lavish stage, Philis would feature her beloved elderly actress as the lead…

But that was merely theatrical.

Her gaze met Timéo de Vellorban’s, who likely would never know that Philis Menezes was only a crafted illusion. In Vannole, she had been the most noble woman, but the moment she stepped into the Menezes estate, she became the vulgar product of having two mothers. Hiding behind a pillar, she muttered like a spell: if she could speak and walk, she could marry anyone. When Timéo looked down at her with a proud face, her chest felt tight. At twenty-two, Philis still needed the theater, a lawyer, and a husband—three things.

Marcel de Vellorban should have died younger, too. As Marcel’s fiancée, she shouldn’t have been trapped in a ten-year engagement; if he truly cared for Philis, he would have fulfilled at least one of the three needs.

A presence shifted behind the pillar. Someone leaned against it. Philis didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

Philis needed a husband who would accept appearances at face value, stay indifferent enough not to pry too deeply. The Menezes estate had its madwoman bursting from the annex, a foolish man whispering that everything belonged to Philis if any Vellorban son attached himself to the ten-year-old, and another sick woman acting as a strict mother to the illegitimate child. Timéo had no reason to meddle.

A deep shadow fell over Philis’ crown. Slowly, she lifted her head, and Timéo extended his arm. The ceremony was almost over. Instead of taking his arm, she looked up at his solemn face. Majestic choral music filled the space between them.

Having spent a season with the two boys, Philis remembered weighing endlessly whether her brother’s temperament or Timéo’s gentleness was preferable. Ultimately, she chose her brother and now knew how reckless it had been to displace him, though that was all.

Philis occasionally glanced at Timéo conversing with others. Despite years in the convent, he appeared at ease with noblewomen. Even those who had complained around him approached and acknowledged him. They commented that none of his childhood features remained, expressed regret for his brother’s fate, and observed Timéo’s expression. Once Marcel’s body was transferred underground, the remaining nobles in the garden quickly left.

Meanwhile, Philis received comforting messages from friends of the reading circle. When Marcel was alive, their hostility had prevented even eye contact. These formal exchanges, however, made Marcel’s death feel real.

“Philis, is that really Timéo de Vellorban?”

“He just returned yesterday.”

“Oh my… Marcel never once mentioned him all these years. I assumed he was missing… my apologies.”

“No worries. Anyone would understand. Thank you for coming to Brzul. It helped.”

“Are you alright?”

Huh? Philis asked calmly.

“Marcel… even to another man, he was remarkable.”

Suppressing nausea, she looked at Gérard. She did not want to say, even as a courtesy, that Marcel would live forever in their hearts.

“Biang.”

Timéo, who had just escorted the Marquis and Marchioness, shook hands with Gérard Biang. His hands, accustomed only to prayer, were large, rough, and marked with small scars.

“You really resemble your brother,” Gérard remarked.

Philis tried to pull her wrist free, but Timéo held on firmly, his gaze fixed on the man before him. Gérard Biang made a peculiar expression, reading the tension between them.

As they descended to the chapel, Philis lightly scolded Timéo for wandering about with such a casual expression. He noted that she herself didn’t look particularly solemn. Her expressions weren’t of grief, sorrow, or despair—they were occasional sighs, as if pondering her future, or shielding her eyes from the sun.

The Vellorban family gathered in the chapel. The Marquis, absent for much of the funeral, was present. Even the uncle, whom Timéo had frightened, entered cautiously, avoiding eye contact with his nephew. Compared to the second nephew, who had learned to intimidate him, he seemed more comfortable shedding forced tears over the first, now deceased, nephew.

Timéo stared down at Marcel’s remarkably preserved corpse. This was his first time in such a space. During his mother’s funeral, Marcel had locked him in a room, and he had fainted from the enclosed space, only to be discovered the next day. Some of those praying for Marcel must have understood Timéo’s situation.

“If they block the exit and set fire, I wonder how many would survive.”

“You seem different. I doubt I could escape,” Philis replied.

Timéo looked at her curiously.

“Why? Everyone else would be roasted, wouldn’t they?”

“Are you granting me special mercy? I’m not sure how to respond.”

When the priest began the final prayer, the Marquis raised his hand to stop him. He then called forward his son, who had been standing somewhat apart.

“You were a priest, weren’t you?”

Though the Marquis knew what his son had done in Alzaz, he asked the question mockingly.

Timéo answered earnestly. Relatives held their breath, listening closely. The high ceiling carried even low voices. The Marquis gestured toward the older priest on the dais.

“Recite a prayer for your brother.”

It had been ten years since Timéo had examined his father so closely. From his deep blue eyes, nothing could be read. Though blessings for the family were not uncommon… this was for Marcel.

“I was still a novice priest.”

“This is no monastery; use discretion.”

“I thought blessings at funerals were only given to noblemen of virtue.”

“You’re still immature… do you still hate your brother?”

“Not hate, but misunderstanding.”

“Nothing is more immature than holding onto childhood events… and yet you shamelessly speak of marriage?”

“Father.”

“With your brother’s woman…!”

The Marquis, known for rarely raising his voice, had been angered by Timéo’s attitude. Philis internally applauded. She, too, felt deeply uncomfortable. The chapel could only be entered by family; she had planned to return to her room, but Timéo naturally led her here. The funeral, compounded by Marcel’s last words, left her dizzy.

“Boring.”

“Weren’t you saying boredom is the epitome of aristocratic life?”

“Philis… you’re surprisingly innocent.”

“That’s not what I wanted to hear.”

“I can’t bear my own body anymore.”

“When did you tell me to admire the shell for so long… regrettable.”

“If I… were to abandon this body…”

A sharp headache struck her forehead. Breathing slowly, she prepared to leave the chapel. All attention was on the Marquis and Timéo, so her exit caused no disturbance.

From Marcel’s bedroom with thick curtains to the garden left in its natural state… Philis sometimes imagined the Vellorban estate as a vast graveyard. Marcel’s sickly voice asking to be buried with her lingered in her ears.

“Won’t you allow it?”

“Crazy man… you must’ve learned only the worst in Alzaz… I will one day burn that monastery and convert it into the Vellorban graveyard…!”

“My father always reacted that way whenever I wanted something.”

“You….”

“You confuse your sons, mistaking your second for those trying to nibble at your side.”

A harsh scraping sound echoed in the chapel, yet Timéo did not turn. Standing with his hands behind his back, he silently faced his father. The Marquis’ eyes, filled with anger, flickered like candle flames.

“If you weren’t my son… if you weren’t my blood…! I would tear out your eyes, organs, and breath and give them all to Marcel.”

“Please restrain yourself.”

“Recite it! I commanded you to recite that damned prayer!”

Timéo’s lips remained tightly closed. The Marquis’ gaze dared him to defy.

“You may marry… now recite something. You strutted around all funeral long, making your presence known. How could you… inform Menezes of your proposal? Do you not pity your brother, dead in bed?”

“I did not act arrogantly.”

“The funeral is for your brother! Dare not act like the host, even for a second—mourn your brother!”

Only then did Timéo glance at Marcel’s coffin. Hearing his father’s reproach was rare. Yet he achieved half of what he wanted. Making the sign of the cross, he pressed two fingers to his forehead and lips, then lightly touched Marcel’s pale eyelids.

Even in death, people live, and the faithful never truly die.
We cry from the abyss, grant him eternal rest and peace,
And reveal the communion of all saints, for which we are grateful.

The Marquis staggered into a chair. After speaking, he seemed drained, repulsed. Timéo, having completed the blessing, stood and slowly observed the chapel. Relatives, when meeting his gaze, bowed submissively.

Opening her mouth felt nauseating. Timéo looked at Philis, who also wore a stunned expression. He likely hadn’t expected to recite a blessing for Marcel himself. It was perhaps his very first blessing, a clear declaration: if necessary, he could pray as many times as needed for the one he desired.

Even if no one understood, it didn’t matter. He had grown skilled at hiding his thoughts, unlike Marcel, who would throw a tantrum when unrecognized.