#021 Anne's Marriage

That short phrase, Anne's marriage, brought one face immediately to mind.

Charles Kilholder.

He had been Catherine's fiancé right up until she stormed out of Orleans—and the man who, despite falling head over heels for Anne, couldn't let Catherine go either.

Yet Catherine didn't hate Charles or pity him. If anything, she felt a touch of gratitude toward him.

After all, he was the one who'd done the most to help her break free from Orleans.

"Just so you know, it's not Charles Kilholder."

Catherine blinked in surprise at the unexpected words and shot back, "It's not?"

"Miriam Chen. You know him, right? The Chen Viscount who monopolizes the trade routes across the Cortapus Great Desert. She's going in as that old man's wife."

Of course she knew him. Miriam Chen was over sixty, with three previous wives and a rumored ten concubines to his name.

But Anne marrying a man like that? It was unbelievable.

"Her pride would never allow it."

"The old man's head over heels for her—showering her with villas and jewels. And you know how crazy she is about money. After tasting wealth that makes the backwater Kilholder family look like a joke, she fell for it hook, line, and sinker."

"It's ridiculous. Miriam Chen's the kind of guy who's lured in two young noble ladies just like this before."

And divorced them all before they even hit twenty-five.

Magi pulled a cigarette from her flashy red leather bag. She lit the end with practiced ease and exhaled a sigh-like plume of smoke.

"Anne's full of herself. You know it too, sis—she's got nothing but that pretty face and the confidence it gives her. Ever since she stole Charles Kilholder out from under you, her ego's been through the roof. Thinks she can wrap that old geezer around her finger even after he's past forty."

Catherine waved off the cigarette case Magi offered.

Magi arched one eyebrow curiously. "Don't tell me you quit?"

"Hard as it might be to believe, Magi... I've changed a lot since leaving Orleans."

"Yeah, I can see that." Magi nodded slightly, tapping ash from her cigarette. "Not that I think it's for the better, mind you... Here, Anne's wedding invitation."

From the back of the bag where she'd stashed the cigarette case, Magi drew out a luxurious letter on glossy paper.

The moment ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Catherine spotted the seal stamped on the letter, she scowled fiercely.

How dare she send this to me.

Just because she no longer cared about Charles didn't mean she'd completely shed her lingering feelings toward Anne.

Forget the rest—Catherine had zero desire to see that face again. Even she, who'd grown numb to most things, might end up slapping Anne if they crossed paths.

"I've swiped about five of them and passed them out to people who hate her guts. Who knows? Maybe someone'll crash the wedding for us."

Magi slid the invitation across the table.

Catherine pinched it between two fingers like filthy trash and tossed it onto the sideboard by the fireplace.

"Were things that bad between you two?"

Hmph. Magi took a drag and snorted.

"She's gotten so full of herself, it's turned my stomach. Honestly? I wish you'd stirred up those famous salon ladies and turned her wedding into a disaster."

So that's the real goal.

Sadly for Magi, Catherine had only one thing to say.

"I don't talk to them anymore, Magi. Let me be clear: I've cut ties with Orleans and everyone from my old life. You're the only one who knows I'm here."

Magi furrowed her brow in disbelief. "What? Then this mansion... It wasn't those salon ladies who helped you get it?"

"No. I bought this place and everything in it with my own money—and yeah, it's been a struggle."

Magi's face twisted in shock as she stubbed out her cigarette in the crystal ashtray. "Ahh... That explains why it felt off when I walked in. Those women wouldn't have let you end up in a dump like this."

If only she knew the hell Catherine had gone through turning that "dump" into a livable home. Not that it'd get any sympathy.

Catherine cut to her most pressing question. "Speaking of... how the hell did you find me here?"

"How? From the newspaper, obviously!"

Ah, damn it. That cursed Christopher paper.

As Catherine clutched her forehead, Roze bustled in with a steaming towel and draped it over Magi's feet.

Worried about more weird remarks, Catherine shooed Roze out quickly.

"Heh. Gotta be someone like me to notice. I was in Christopher for a party, and bam—that article drops the same day: 'Panya lady who moved here from afar a month ago, scandal with a famous holy knight.' Had to be you, sis."

With her fatigue easing a bit, Magi propped both feet on the towel and closed her eyes. "But seriously, sis... you've changed so much. Where'd that Catherine ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Orleans who owned high society go? Whatever. I'm crashing for a bit. Spent too much energy getting here."

Muttering to herself, Magi slumped on the sofa like melting ice cream.

No wonder she was wiped—those ankle-pinching heels looked painful just to look at.

Catherine draped a blanket over her lap and left the parlor.

Her first family encounter since fleeing Orleans. Her head felt strangely muddled.

How had she ended up striking out alone in a place like this?

Catherine gazed at the sunset dipping behind the ridge, lost in faint reverie.

Leaving Orleans hadn't been some impulsive whim. Tracing her memories, it felt more like a conclusion slowly built from not-so-distant events.

I'll leave Orleans.

The idea first solidified during her solo spring trip to Panya.

More precisely, that spring when she met Percival Benedict Parhenrine in Panya.

It was the day acacia blossoms in full, pale bloom rained down in droves.

"You'd better manage fine without me."

Percival turned at Catherine's words. Water dripped from his wet hair ends, trickling down his cheek to pool at his jaw.

His face was like a painting, making even the falling droplets seem artistic.

Catherine brushed an acacia petal half-draped over her hat brim and continued. "Like bathing in the stream with just your top off."

"Where you selling yourself off to?" His tone was irritated, his face screaming what bullshit is this?

"Fair point. With a face like that, you'd fetch a good price."

Shaking water from his ears, Percival strode toward her.

The day was warming, but a faint chill still lingered in the breeze. Catherine had never seen anyone wash up in a stream in this weather.

Percival was a sturdy holy knight, only wetting his upper body, but it still impressed her.

Water dripping from him, his approaching face was etched with irritation.

A week earlier, before truly knowing him, she might've wondered why he snapped over nothing.

But now she understood. He wasn't truly angry—just roughened by long hours amid monsters and knights.

"You'll avenge me against the guy who sells me, right?"

A gust blew. With the chin strap loosened, even a mild breeze sent her hat flying.

Catherine lunged to grab the loosening strap and brim, but her effort was thwarted.

A careful yet firm grip seized her wrist.

The hat fluttered like a butterfly and landed under a jagged rock.

"Let go—my arm'll break."

A thick grassy scent wafted. Against the watercolor sky, his soft brown hair swayed.

A droplet from his jaw splashed onto her cheek.

"Your jokes are vicious. Makes me wanna rip your throat out."

"Watch your mouth, Percival. All bark, no bite."

She eyed him to back off, but he had no intention of moving. His cold gaze locked on her eyes.

Old scars dotted his bare torso. Being this close to a man's naked skin felt profoundly odd, even if he acted nonchalant.

"It was Mom's favorite saying."

The kind that made her lips purse every time she heard it.

You need to learn properly while I'm here. Otherwise, you'll be a laughingstock when I'm gone, Catherine.

You can handle it on your own now, right?

The nuance differed slightly, but all stirred deep unease. It birthed her habit of peeking into her mother's room each night under the pretense of a goodnight—until adulthood erased it.

"Why'd ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠she always say stuff like that?"

"Probably planning to ditch you for a boyfriend and run off."

No interest colored ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠his voice. Catherine used her free left arm to gently push his chest.

The muscle meeting her palm was startlingly firm. Percival didn't budge, of course.

"Mom's the type who'd introduce her lover to me. She'd kiss him right in front of Dad."

"Don't care about your family drama. Shut up."

"Dad wouldn't say a word anyway. He's got his own skeletons."

Tsk. With a tongue-click, Percival finally rose. He turned toward his carelessly tossed shirt.

Maybe it was seeing his densely muscled back, but Catherine felt she shouldn't push him too far. The vertebrae trailing down his short hair looked thicker than her wrist.

She watched white fabric wrap around his wet body and said, "And she's scarier than anyone to Mom."

"Didn't I say shut it?"

"Feels weird sharing this. You're the first, Sir Percival."

He turned, meeting her eyes. Catherine flashed a grin at his rose-red eyes, fresher than a vast field.

Who could she confide such a shameful family secret in? Everyone knew, but all zipped it around her—for the salon ladies' formidable influence cherished her.

"Talking like this just turns stomachs."