Chapter 36 : A Crown Stained by War
The hour had already passed six.
Johannes sat in the opulent carriage of the House of Schultz, the glowing ember of a half-smoked cigarette casting fleeting sparks into the dimness. His gaze was fixed, cold, on its tip—then slowly drifted to the gold-accented watch upon his wrist. Again. And again.
An escort had been arranged, and Edith was unlikely to bring about any trouble.
Yet still, unease gnawed at him.
‘At this pace… she will never yield her heart to her husband.’
Perhaps Fret Gunner’s words still echoed within him, needling his composure with unwelcome truth.
With a flick of his wrist, Johannes sent the dying cigarette to the winds.
When he returned to his senses, he found himself before a modest home, warm lamplight spilling from its windows. Laughter and spirited chatter floated through the glass—a kind of joy unfamiliar to his ears.
Was she truly enjoying herself that much? So much so that time itself seemed forgotten?
Had she ever laughed like that before?
A discomfort, subtle yet piercing, stirred within him.
As he nodded once, the coachman of House Schultz dismounted and rapped upon the door.
Moments later, Mrs. Pensler appeared, her expression a mixture of surprise and confusion. Her gaze shifted between the emblem on the carriage and the figure seated within. Without a word, she hastened inside.
Soon after, Edith stepped out. A trace of tension shadowed her flushed cheeks. Her brows furrowed, her eyes cautious—warily so.
Her emotions, always delicate and ever-shifting, were today clouded with something else.
Before he could ponder further, Edith spoke.
“Johannes. I know you love me, but… you really didn’t need to come all this way.”
The words, clumsily sweet, were clearly rehearsed. Her tone held none of the warmth such sentiments deserved. She forced the charm, as if playing a role that didn’t fit.
Johannes arched a brow.
Before he could respond, Mrs. Pensler burst forth with theatrical flair.
“Oh dear, I’ve kept you too long, haven’t I? Newlyweds shouldn’t be parted!”
Her laughter, exaggerated, carried back into the house. Through the open door, Johannes caught a glimpse of a narrow dwelling—kitchen and parlor visible at once. Cozy. Intimate.
A shadow of irritation crossed his features.
So that was the cause of her unusual tension.
“Scandian blood… of course.”
The journey back to Castle Evanstein was cloaked in silence.
Edith said nothing.
Johannes seemed unbothered by the way that young woman—Sheena, if he remembered correctly—had trembled at the mere mention of his name. He had even gone so far as to verify her documents, ensuring she wasn’t an illegal resident of Chilia.
It was expected, logical.
And yet…
Once at the castle, Edith did not linger. She disappeared swiftly into her study. There, Ahin greeted her with practiced calm.
“Milady, a letter has arrived. Addressed to you.”
“A letter?”
She tilted her head. Who would write to her?
“Yes, milady. The sender is listed as Mrs. Pensler.”
A small smile touched her lips. Perhaps a forgotten errand?
“Thank you, Ahin.”
She unfolded the letter.
And froze.
The paper—it was identical to the stack she had found crowding her mailbox days ago. Not the type used in Mussen.
‘Did Mrs. Pensler post it while traveling?’
Then her eyes landed on the handwriting.
‘Father…?’
That script—unmistakably her father’s.
She stopped breathing.
All thoughts of Johannes faded like dust.
“Milady?” Ahin asked gently. “Is it ill news? You look pale.”
“Oh… it’s nothing.”
[Edith, I cannot come to you, so I write instead.]
The opening line alone seized her heart.
But it made no sense. Her father was dead.
Or was he?
She dismissed Ahin with trembling fingers and returned to the letter.
It was filled with cryptic lines. Reminiscence of words once spoken during his service. A confession—he was alive but in hiding. A plea to come to him. A warning not to involve Johannes.
Madness.
It was his handwriting. Of that she was certain. But he had died. Hadn’t he?
If this was truly from him, would he not have found a gentler, more secure way?
‘Is someone mocking me?’
Her eyes narrowed. Could this be the same hand behind the anonymous letters—those vile warnings? If so, why impersonate her father?
She retrieved the crumpled pages from her bag.
The handwriting differed. But the paper was the same.
Too much of a coincidence. Too cruel.
Who hated her enough to sow such doubt?
‘I must trace the origin of this letter.’
She tucked the page away, her resolve hardening.
Another night.
Another empty bed.
Johannes stared at the closed door to their chamber. She would not come tonight either. He was certain.
She had looked shaken—more so than usual. From the story that Scandian girl shared? Perhaps.
Was she now afraid of him?
Let her be.
He was accustomed to suspicion. Familiar with isolation.
And yet, when the door opened and Edith stepped into the room, a wave of quiet relief swept through him.
He straightened.
She walked in silence, a heaviness in her every step. Then, without a word, she climbed into bed beside him.
No formality. No tension.
Only stillness.
His brow furrowed. What had shifted?
He watched her as she pulled the blanket to her neck.
He could not help but ask:
“Did something happen?”
“No. I’m just tired.”
Too simple. Too clean.
But Johannes was no fool. Years at sea, battles won and lost—he read people better than most.
Edith was spiraling within.
“I feel like… you have something you wish to say.”
Her gaze met his—green, deep as ancient woods.
She exhaled slowly.
“Ah… thank you.”
His expression twisted in confusion.
“Thank you?”
“For coming to get me. I hadn’t expected that.”
He stared. As if her words had struck him more deeply than she could know.
Then he laughed. Once. Quietly.
“I didn’t realize you thought me so unfeeling.”
Edith blinked.
“Of course not! I thought it was… something noble. A duke fetching his beloved wife.”
Her voice was hesitant, as if unsure where truth ended and imagination began.
He tilted his head.
“You believe I treat you cruelly by default?”
She faltered. “No. I know you’ve been… generous. I try to keep my distance. After all, we share no love—”
“Why are you so certain?”
He cut her off.
Her lips parted. Stunned.
“Why are you so sure I feel nothing for you?”
Johannes moved without thought.
He wrapped his arms around her, drawing her into his chest.
She gasped, and before she could protest, he guided her gently to lie beneath him.
Their eyes locked.
His voice was low.
“Is that why you came to bed dressed like this? So innocently, so easily?”
In the dim candlelight, his gaze bore into her soul.
And for once, there was no answer left in her lips.
Only the silence that separates fear from longing.
