The moment they set foot back in the mansion, Richard was fairly vibrating with questions about the gun. But his mother shut him down on the spot, decreeing that Lili needed to rest.
Leonhart couldn’t come check on her either; he had his hands full investigating how a mountain-dwelling wyvern had wound up in the heart of town.
That left Rita with some rare quiet to soak in a warm tub and sort through her thoughts. The moment she requested a bath, maids scrambled to fill a marble basin with steaming water, laced it with fragrant bath salts, and scattered gold leaf and flower petals over the surface.
To Rita, who hadn't known the luxury of warm water in twelve years, the indulgence was almost dizzying. Yet in Lilietta’s memories, this was an ordinary, everyday bath. The jarring contrast between their two lives pressed in on her once again.
She slid down into the perfumed warmth, feeling the tightness in her muscles begin to melt. Resting her head against the smooth marble rim, she took a long breath and looked down at the rippling violet surface.
Staring back was an unforgettable face: spun-gold hair, eyelashes catching the light like gilded thread, and fairy-bright amethyst eyes.
‘Is this really me…?’
It still felt alien. The Lilietta in her memories had only ever been a young child, and the reflection she had lived with for over a decade looked nothing like this.
‘…It’s completely different.’
And it wasn’t just the face. “Lili” and “Rita” were worlds apart.
‘No, Lili. You should be angry. You ought to feel wronged, furious at what happened to you. Anyone else would weep, scream, and complain about how much they suffered. But you’re too calm. It’s unnatural.’
Leonhart’s reaction had brought home just how far she had drifted from the child she used to be. The thought terrified her.
She couldn’t forget the fate of a certain Pascal—used, betrayed, and discarded by the very people she considered family, dying without ever being truly claimed as one of their own.
She remembered the adults who had coddled her, promising she’d never have to face the misery of the front lines, only to turn on her with bared blades, screaming that any child of Pascal was nothing more than a monster.
‘What if my family turns out the same way?’
“Lilietta” shrank back from the prospect. But “Rita Pascal” weighed the truth with cold precision.
‘I’m afraid.’
She had gone out of her way to mimic her younger self. She feigned delight over shopping that bored her to tears, blunted every sharp instinct, and took pains to hide any trace of “Rita Pascal.”
“Lili, just now…”
She had fired purely on reflex, thinking a child was about to be snatched up by the beast. But the raw shock on the Duchess’s face had left her utterly paralyzed.
“Ah, um, I…”
Her mind had scrambled for an excuse, unsure of who or what she was even trying to justify herself to, when Hannah glanced outside.
“Heavens! Milady brought down a wyvern in a single shot! The child is unharmed! That was incredible!”
While the maid marveled in breathless delight, the Duchess had merely blinked in stunned silence.
Rita would have brushed it off without a second thought. Lili would have puffed out her chest and boasted.
Instead, Lilietta had desperately wished she could make the gun vanish. She wanted to deny it outright, even though she had pulled the trigger right before their eyes.
The sheer dread of her mother looking at her like an unfamiliar stranger had shaken her to the core.
“I, um… it just sort of happened…”
The words had stumbled out of her mouth, disjointed and frail.
After a long silence, the Duchess had spoken with quiet tenderness.
“It’s all right, Lili. It’s all right.”
At the time, Lilietta hadn't understood. Only now, back home after her mother had quietly stepped away, did she grasp the meaning behind those words.
‘I’ve turned into a complete coward.’
Her mother hadn’t misunderstood at all. She had seen right through her. Lilietta was terrified—terrified of being seen as something unnatural.
‘This isn’t who I am.’
She stirred the water with her fingers, shattering her reflection.
‘It isn’t like Lili. Nor is it like Rita.’
Rita Pascal had never cared what others thought. She knew she wasn't a monster, so what did their whispers matter? She had come to terms with herself long ago.
And Lili had never once doubted her family. She lived with complete certainty that they would love and stand by her through anything.
Yet the Lilietta sitting here now was neither. She fretted over how her family perceived her, even as she second-guessed them.
Cupping the violet water in her hands, she splashed it over her face. She wiped the drops from her skin and brushed back her wet hair.
Looking down at the trembling ripples, she gave a dry, self-mocking laugh.
“…How pathetic.”
She thought of her eldest brother, weeping as he embraced her. Her second brother, clutching her in tears. And her mother, who had looked her in the eye and said it was all right, knowing full well she had just lied.
Lili thought:
‘My family would never see me as a monster, no matter how much I’ve changed.’
Her parents and brothers would love her as she was. They would always be on her side.
Rita thought:
‘What does it matter how people see me? So long as I can look myself in the eye without shame, that’s plenty.’
She liked who she had become. She had fought with everything she had, never once compromising her will or convictions. There had been agonizing hardship, memories so vile she dreaded to revisit them—yet they were part of her. She refused to pretend they didn't exist. She would face them head-on.
Lilietta thought:
‘I won’t hide anymore.’
She would show them who she was and take whatever response came.
‘Because I am Lili. I am Rita Pascal. And I am Lilietta del Nissa Laskail.’
The knot in her chest smoothed into quiet resolve. Without another glance at the water's surface, she stood, dried herself off, and stepped out of the bath with an easy stride.
***
The following day.
Birch Castle was in an uproar. The Duchess had moved out of the annex and back into the main quarters, the young lady’s bedchamber—untouched for ten years—was undergoing a complete renovation, and on top of it all, the Duke had rushed back from the capital, throwing the entire household into chaos.
“Father’s arrived. Looks like he rode through the night without a wink of sleep. He insisted on seeing you the moment he got here.”
Leonhart spoke as he guided Lilietta toward the back garden.
“He’s out by your grave right now. First thing he did when he stepped through the gates was order the coffin dug up.”
“My grave?”
At her question, Leonhart’s lips twitched between an amused smirk and a wince. He gave a nod.
“Yes. Your grave.”
He pulled open the door leading out to the grounds, and she stepped through.
Several groundskeepers were shoveling into the earth, carefully setting aside neat piles of displaced dirt and flowers.
And standing before a headstone of white marble was Duke Laskail.
He was clad head to foot in black—a tailored coat, a mahogany cane, and a silk top hat, as if he had just stepped away from a funeral. Lilietta walked closer and spoke softly.
“Dad.”
His broad shoulders stiffened. Slowly, he turned around.
The same golden hair she shared, the same amethyst eyes of House Laskail. Her own reflection looked back from his gaze.
After a breath of silence, his eyes welled. The black silk hat tumbled from his head. The mahogany cane fell useless into the grass. Casting both aside, the Duke lunged forward and crushed Lilietta in his arms.
His massive frame shuddered as he wept aloud. No words came—only raw, guttural sobs, stripped of every ounce of aristocratic composure.
The workers paused in their shoveling. A few doffed their caps and held them over their hearts; others quietly wiped their eyes. Lilietta didn’t say a thing. Words weren't needed. She simply reached up and wrapped her arms tight around her father.
***
The empty coffin was exhumed and the headstone cleared away. The open pit was filled back in and replanted with vibrant spring blooms—daffodils, tulips, and crocus in an array of shades. The aged gardener looked beside himself with joy as he worked the soil.
Looking down upon that garden was the family salon, the most private sanctuary in Birch Castle, reserved solely for the direct Laskail line.
The circular room sat where the corridors leading to each family member's quarters met. Plush carpets lined the floor beneath a scatter of dark, generously stuffed cushions. One wall housed a wide fireplace, while the other opened out into a vast window overlooking the rear grounds.
In their childhood, Ri and Lili would sprawl on the rug to play chess. Leon, reading nearby, would chime in with unasked-for critiques until Ri snapped at him to mind his own business. Invariably, that led to a grudge match between the brothers, while Lili sat back, giggling as she sketched them in her book.
The Duchess would sit by the window, knitting or doing needlework while watching her children. Then the Duke would stride inside, balancing steaming mugs of coffee and sweet hot chocolate for everyone. After handing each cup out, he’d sit beside his wife, murmuring quiet words and leaning in for an occasional kiss.
They had been small, fleeting moments, but priceless all the same.
For ten long years, the hearth in that room had remained cold and dark. Today, for the first time in a decade, its fire burned bright once more.