Episode 12
As Helen quelled the turmoil welling up inside her, Carlyle asked a harmless question.
"When do you leave for Hexilov?"
"I'm not going. Hmm, or perhaps I am."
The answer differed from what he had expected—something along the lines of a week, or perhaps a month later. Carlyle thought that Count Platini's daughter had been fully cured of the illness she had long suffered.
If that was the case, it was cause for celebration. He could only imagine how much the years spent recuperating far away, away from the warm embrace of family, must have pained her.
Perhaps yearning for her family's embrace had been more difficult than suffering from her rumored illness. So how could he not celebrate her return to the family's fold after all this time?
"Then you shall reside at the count's estate."
"No. I'm going somewhere else."
To a place so far that the count's reach could not extend.
Helen turned her head slightly to look up at the dark sky. It was a night when the moon they had watched together that night in Hexilov had hidden its face. Helen's cheeks and nose were red from the cold winter wind as she gave a bittersweet smile.
"To a place where the moon is even more beautiful. The exact location is a secret."
"If that is your wish, my lady, I shall inquire no further."
She had shed tears, saying the moon was beautiful even in Hexilov—she seemed awfully fond of the moon. To love something forever beyond one's reach, no matter how far one stretched. What a strange woman.
Carlyle pressed his lips together in awkward silence.
Gazing at the dark night sky, Helen thought of Violet and her luscious black hair. Curious if he harbored the same thoughts, she cautiously asked Carlyle.
"Um... who is Violet? It's not that, I just met someone earlier who spoke of her. But I've only just returned to the capital after a long absence, so I didn't know. If it's difficult, you needn't tell me!"
Carlyle—whom she had expected would not readily answer—unexpectedly spoke up at once. It was no illusion that his voice sounded wistful.
"She is His Majesty's sister, and my wife. Though she is not by my side now."
Helen bowed her head. She had asked about something she shouldn't have. It was something she had known all along. There was little point in pondering what she had hoped to gain by asking; the answer was painfully obvious. Deep down, she had wished—hoped—that he had forgotten Violet, if only somewhat.
Even though she knew, from having met Carlyle in Hexilov during the last monster subjugation, that he had not forgotten Violet in the slightest, she continued to wish. She told herself that was the only way Carlyle could be happy, but if that had truly been her intention, she should never have asked in the first place.
Could she really have been unaware that her question would only make him think of Violet again?
She had asked only because she wished for even the tiniest crack in Carlyle's heart where Helen Platini—not Violet Driphon—might wedge herself.
Helen apologized, wishing she could disappear into a mouse hole.
"I'm sorry."
"You have nothing to apologize for, my lady. Everyone must die. Only the timing is different."
At his unbearably detached tone, Helen was at a loss for words.
Was he forgetting Violet? Or had he forgotten her already?
Helen had wanted Carlyle to forget her. Even if his heart were papered over with happy memories of her, it would crumble from that single death. For Helen Platini alone to crumble was enough. That way, Carlyle, Lucas, and everyone else who had loved Violet could live out their remaining lives in happiness. So if he had forgotten, it was for the best.
It was clearly a blessing, so why did it hurt so much?
Helen pressed a hand to her heart. She felt her heart pounding fiercely beneath her skin.
I am still alive. My heart is beating like this. Yet I feel as though my very existence is being denied.
Ah, with Violet's death, even the tiniest thread of connection between herself—as Helen Platini—and him had vanished. But she hadn't wanted to confront death in this manner. As Carlyle said, death comes for everyone eventually; only the timing differs. Violet had already died, but the one who loved Carlyle Everett, the one you loved, was still alive. Even now, was she not remaining by your side just like this?
She had thought she had crumbled all she could, that there was nothing left to crumble, yet she was still falling apart. Every time she thought she had hit bottom, a deeper hole yawned open below.
So before she learned where the true bottom lay, she had to stop.
"Your Grace."
Carlyle looked at Helen with the very eyes that had once reserved their rarest smile for Violet alone. Now, there was no trace of love within his jet-black eyes. Yet the reason he still felt like a man deeply in love was because the one he ceaselessly longed for—though he could no longer see her—lived on in his heart.
"Be happy."
She moved her lips several times before finally speaking words she herself found presumptuous. Carlyle's brow furrowed at the unexpected words.
"Be happy? Those are words for someone who is leaving."
"But you'll live happily, won't you? Promise me."
She had ended up making him think of Violet again. Helen bit her lower lip hard, her face crumpling. Why did she only ever say things that wounded Carlyle? He was already suffering enough as it was.
"I must return to the hall. I only meant to greet you, yet I've ended up speaking out of turn. I truly only came to greet you. I meant it. I shall take my leave."
Helen turned to leave without a moment's hesitation.
No snow fell upon the imperial palace today. In Hexilov, it would have been falling heavily enough to soak her shoes. Why would it not fall here?
Taking out her frustration on the innocent weather, Helen exhaled and stepped forward. But the feeling quickly faded.
Because Carlyle had silently taken her hand.
"...!"
Helen gasped. The texture of the leather glove registered clearly against her palm. She could almost swear she felt a warmth that was strangely familiar. In such bitter cold, body heat could not possibly permeate a glove; it was surely an illusion.
Helen tried not to turn around. But she quickly realized the futility and met Carlyle's dark eyes.
He was such a tender man. To think he could look so warmly upon her simply because she had done him the kindness of a single night. His gently curved eyes and the tip of his nose, slightly reddened by the cold. Even the corners of his mouth bearing his characteristic stiff smile—all of it spoke of his tenderness.
But Carlyle had not always been a kind man. The man once so cold they called him the Bloody Duke had, at some point, changed into someone tender.
It was all thanks to Violet.
"Carlyle, smile for me."
"So suddenly?"
"The sun is bright today, the breeze is pleasant, and not a cloud dots the sky—if only you would smile, it would make the day absolutely perfect!"
When Violet, sitting beside him, bounced her feet and begged him to smile, he had obliged her immediately. In hindsight, his smiles had been meant for Violet alone. It could never be replicated for another. Even if he smiled, it would never be the smile he had kept for her alone.
Just as it was now.
Emotions surged at the sudden, bygone memory. Helen forcibly spoke to suppress the emotions welling up within her.
"Your Grace, my hand..."
Only then did Carlyle realize he had been holding the hand of Count Platini's daughter, and he withdrew. Then he removed the leather gloves from both hands and pressed them into Helen's.
Startled by the unexpected gesture, Helen asked in astonishment.
"Why are you giving these to me?"
"The weather is cold. If you do not plan to return to the ballroom straightaway, I thought they might help."
"They look too big for my hands."
"Still, they will be better than bare hands."
Indeed, the gloves were large, lined within with fur that would preserve a pleasant warmth.
But she could not willingly accept a kindness so freely given. Accepting them would warm her hands, but leave his bare to the cold. Moreover, she had said she hated parties. So it was evident she would roam outside until the party drew to a close.
She knew Carlyle was kind, but she hated this sort of consideration.
His consideration would only deepen her attachment to him. Pure kindness would be buried beneath rampant desire, driving her to chase his shadow.
Helen stared at the gloves in her hands. Between the smooth leather, she could feel someone's warmth.
"Thank you."
She had tried to distance herself, but had only drawn nearer. Was it because she wished to draw near, if only a little, if only by a single step? Knowing she shouldn't, she wanted to wallow in Carlyle's small kindness. She wanted to use these gloves—a trifling kindness to him—as a pretext to arrange another meeting. She wanted to use that promise as a chance to stand beside him, to walk shoulder to shoulder, to speak of trivial things, to hold his hand again. She wanted to carve a small fissure into his heart and wedge herself inside, taking Violet's place.
Her lips tingled.
"Violet is actually me."
Words that would surely see her deemed mad fought desperately to spill from her lips. Helen kept her lips sealed tight. She was revolted by herself—by the sight of her own willingness to trample her beloved's happiness in pursuit of her own.
* Sibello
Helen returned to the ballroom, where the party still raged on. Her feet had begun to ache; part of her thought it was good she had returned.
But the true reason she had returned to the hall she had fled was to escape an unbearable reality. She didn't care if it made her a coward.
As she passed the tireless dancers, she spotted Liandor in a corner, staring at her intently. Fury surged the moment she saw his face. Yet she desperately needed his help.
Though she could never forgive Liandor for pushing her into hell's abyss, she walked toward him of her own accord. Countess Platini was nowhere nearby.
"Where did she go?"
"I sent her away. Far."
"Ha."
Should she commend him for this? Only yesterday he might have patted her head, but circumstances had changed; such a thing was unthinkable now. Helen arranged her features into the most fearsome expression she could manage, then crossed her arms.
Something previously unseen filled Liandor's eyes as he observed her antics with interest. Brown leather gloves he had never seen before—and unmistakably a man's. They did not suit her teal gown. Moreover, having belonged to a man with notably large hands, the fingertips hung loose on Helen's slender fingers. Others would surely find the sight laughable.
Liandor knew that Helen, abandoned by a father she had once trusted, was not quick to place her faith in others. Yet here she was, wearing another's—a man's—gloves. He smiled as if he already knew their owner.
"You ran into Carlyle?"
More than the malice in his smile, Helen was chilled by her utter inability to hide anything from him.
"It was by chance..."
It truly was a coincidence. She had not the slightest intention of meeting Carlyle. Even though she spoke the truth, she only grew more uneasy, as though she were weaving some elaborate lie.
There had been only one reason Carlyle took Helen's hand when she turned to leave: because she looked cold. She had accepted that selfless gesture, offered without hesitation.
Carlyle had not asked for the gloves back. To him, they were but one possession among many. But that one item happened to hold the warmth of bygone days for Helen. The gloves gave rise to the illusion that a warmth not yet grown unfamiliar still lingered within. Helen clutched the gloves tightly enough to crush them.
Liandor snickered at the sight.
"It is a party for Duke Everett, so I'll let that much slide. But I'd like to hear why you've come back to me."
"I'm leaving. I'm going far away. That is what I have decided."
She had believed herself ready to discard her entire past, Violet included, but she had been mistaken. Had she truly been prepared, she would not have accepted his gloves. In taking his gloves, she had nurtured attachment.
How cruel. The more she resolved to cast aside all that was Violet's, the deeper she found herself trapped in her shadow. This was undeniably real, yet she felt as though she stood in the heart of darkness. Unable to hold fast to those blissful moments, yet unable to release them either—reality was cruel.
More cruel still was the fact that to forget her happiness, she needed the help of the one who had made her happy. This was the one thing she wished to avoid, yet without it, she hadn't the confidence to go on living.
Liandor's eyes drifted once more to the brown leather gloves. Helen spoke.
"I am a noblewoman who keeps her word, after all."
"Surely you haven't changed your mind?"
"No."
He didn't know if such a thing were truly possible, but oh, how he had wished for her resolve to cast everything aside and leave.
"My heart will never change."
Unless her own heart were to change, perhaps.
Liandor smoothed Helen's side-swept hair, rustled by the winter wind. When his hand brushed her ear, Helen turned her head and brushed his hand away. His exceedingly tender touch froze in midair.
"Then that's settled. Since I've decided to see this through, I want it done properly. Wipe my memories."