Translator: Nox

Chapter 25

Thanks to the warmth from the hearth Adel had stoked, the kitchen brimmed with cozy heat, filled only with the sound of soup being ladled. Occasionally, the clink of an emptied glass or the crunch of vegetables joined in. Frida, sitting blankly and watching Daniel eat, stealthily reached for her glass. Her face, flushed hot from the quick intoxication, made her thirsty. Like drawn by some force, her hand kept going for the glass. Then, wobbling, her arm shook, spilling liquor from the rim.

"Oh dear."

She must really be drunk. Ugh... she should've listened when Muriel tried to stop her. At that moment, spotting a stain forming on the documents atop the table, Frida quickly lifted the papers and shook them out.

"Whew, whew."

She hurriedly blew on them to keep the liquid from spreading further. Fortunately, she shook off the moisture before it reached the written parts. As Frida moved toward the fire to dry the papers, Daniel spoke up.

"What were you looking at?"

"Ah, recommendation letters for the new hires."

Frida shook the papers, tilting the wet part downward.

"I narrowed it down to ten for now, the most urgent ones. With more hands for Baron Boild's wife and extra kitchen help needed, I picked a few more good cooks too. Want to see?"

"No."

Ignoring the papers Frida offered, Daniel picked up the glass instead. Swallowing the liquor—sharp with herbs, especially strong mint—cooled his throat refreshingly.

"First time trying this flavor."

"Adel distilled herbs to make it. Feels like Anton's medicine sometimes."

Suddenly reminded of medicine, Frida shuddered. The liquor she'd guzzled moments ago suddenly looked repulsive. Then Daniel's knuckles touched her forehead.

"You seem feverish."

Startled, Frida set down the papers and waved her hands frantically.

"N-No, it's not. This is from the alcohol. Really. I downed two glasses in a row..."

"I know. The physician said you've had no fever these past few days."

Though acknowledging it, Daniel didn't remove his hand from Frida's forehead. Her face, flushed like petals dyed red unlike her usual pallor, felt unfamiliar. So did her purple eyes, flickering like contained flames dancing wildly.

"Don't let the Duchess hear the vulgar gossip."

Dominic's words hadn't particularly bothered him. He hadn't expected to encounter his wife like this here. Returning to the castle later than planned, he was just hungry. But he didn't want to ring for someone. Unused to being waited on—never raised as a pampered noble—Daniel handled everything himself. Same in the mercenary corps. Being served and fussed over felt uncomfortable. He'd come to the kitchen alone for that reason—to scrounge something. Yet hearing the women's chatter and laughter, he hadn't turned away... Why? He wasn't sure. Maybe feigning indifference while quietly minding Dominic's words. Lowering his hand, an unexpected question slipped from Daniel's lips.

"Are you angry with me?"

Daniel hated anything vague, especially with people—straightforwardness was key. Of course, annoyances were unwelcome too. If angry, just say so. Then if he could fix it, he would; if not, he couldn't. Why hesitate on something so simple? Not talking? Then do as you please. Asking his wife anyway made him equally odd. Too sober to blame liquor, he briefly considered a few more glasses.

"No. Hic."

But he soon decided against it. Seemed like a long talk ahead, and with his wife already glazing over, he should stay clear-headed.

"Strange. I could feel the anger from the sullen wife. And you know or not, but you don't hide your feelings well."

Frida pouted her lips forward like a sulky child. She must truly be drunk—showing unseen sides.

"It was anger at me, not Your Grace. Of course... Your Grace provided the cause, but that doesn't make it Your Grace's fault."

He knew right away. His wife got talkative and rambling when drunk. To hear a long story from her today, he'd need patience—and that was one of his strengths. Silence stretched. Like resolving something, Frida gulped down her glass, slammed it on the table, and glared at Daniel. Not angry, yet oddly fury flickered in her eyes.

"Your Grace... is so annoyingly lucky."

Today's Frida's feelings toward today's Daniel were somewhat radical. Daniel silently watched his wife down another sip of the minty liquor.

"Right? Waking after three whole years... you're too... fine. How can a person be like that? Not a beast—such recovery speed? Makes no sense. I lie abed for days with just a fever."

First reason for annoyingly lucky: beastly recovery.

"Walking dark paths like nothing. I can't see ahead once the sun sets."

Second: superior eyesight.

"And no matter how sturdy, treating your own body so carelessly annoys me. That duel with Muriel—you deliberately didn't dodge the sword, right? I clearly saw Your Grace extend your leg toward the falling blade."

Third: mishandling that precious body.

"Thought I was wrong. No person could do that. Sword piercing your flesh—how no fear? You could've died."

"Not from that."

Frida shrieked at Daniel's sole quiet interjection.

"That's annoying too! Acting like you'll never die."

His strength was cool, impressive, enviable, jealous-making. He had what she lacked, couldn't have—made him amazing. Heart-pounding good. Had she not seen him clearly before dusk, etched in her eyes, maybe forever. Amid suffocating tension, shivering sweetly, she couldn't look away from Muriel and Daniel. Attacking, defending, countering. Swordplay so beautiful—eyes glued. Muriel striking full force, husband receiving unshaken. Their duel like a dance in their world. Then his sword snapped. That instant, his grounded leg—pushing back or bending till then—twisted toward the falling blade. Clearly. Lightning realization: to unsettle Muriel. Later casually asked Muriel, fearing mis-sight.

"The sword piercing His Grace's thigh startled me, breaking my flow."

As expected. Planned, maybe intended—so calm despite the leg wound. Thinking again, anger surges.

"Sure. Your Grace's strength must be nice. Tall, healthy, superb swordsmanship. That's why it annoys. Not Your Grace's fault I'm weak, but..."

Frida twisted and twirled her innocent hair strands. Today, her empty, colorless locks looked utterly repulsive.

"Born like this, unrelated to Your Grace, but what to do—it's annoying. I, I... obviously can't even bear your child, yet you keep on about fulfilling duties."

Blaming others is petty. She knew... Knew, yet lately viewing Daniel felt uncomfortable. Himself preaching wifely duties, then retreating when he approached—absurd self fueled it. Day he said he'd come to her room, monthly bleeding started like a lie. Relieved, truly—how she patted her chest. Yet sad too. Husband weary of bastard taunts, no mistress plans—her plight unable to give even children.

"Damn."

Among Ricardo's many curses taught, none fit her heart better. Heavy head too hard to hold. Gloomy Frida thudded her forehead on the table, collapsing. Muffled through wood grain:

"Still, don't lose hope, Your Grace. I won't live long, so the next Duchess will surely bear your children."

What am I saying? Face burning uncontrollably, head bells ringing. Upset past days true, but right to unload on him? Eyes drooping. Amid it, low stable, calm voice. Even his voice impressive. Truly annoyingly lucky.

"People die easier than thought."

Right. Lotte unnie too.

"But cling tenaciously long too."

Is that so. Why I'm enduring.

"Madam, humans can't decide life's start—like its end."

I know. Think I don't? So I live diligently. Till inevitable last day, no wasting life.

"Besides, twenty years isn't short-lived."

Forcing eyelids open, Frida turned her head sideways. Blinked slowly. Blink... blink. Husband, chin on hand knuckles, gazed at her.

'Smiling?'

Blurred vision hid his expression, but seemed a smile glimpsed.

"Don't... smile."

Pop—lips bursting confirmed he was. Steady reply following.

"Well. That might be hard."

"Really... annoyingly lucky."

Mint lingering in mouth, low chuckle. Frida's last memory of that night. *** Feels like dying. Frida, who consciously avoids such words, had no choice today.

"Ugh... M-Mu, Muriel. Muriel. Save me."

Now she knew head-splitting pain. Better if it split. Then no more hurt. Frida clawed her hair, curling tight.

"Muriel..."

Painful, agonizing moments—habitually calling her name, nothing else possible. Writhing so, icy cold cloth hit her forehead, snapping senses.

"Better to rise and sip warm tea than lie there."

"...!"

Eyes flying open: water ash tree ceiling mural. Means... my room. Why this voice here? Slowly sitting, Frida spotted Daniel bedside, clapped hands over mouth.

"Wh-Why is the Duke here..."

Suddenly, memory never hers crept up.

"Trust only me, Your Grace. I'll bear it. Next Rihardt Duke. Hic, I'll bear it."

Gasp. Daniel handed steaming teacup before still-shocked her.

"Don't remember. Forget. Unless you want to die of shame."