Chapter 6
Can I Truly Move You?
2023.08.06.
Lowell still didn’t know why Peter had ever liked her so much.
At that time, Lowell had only been a child—an ailing, somewhat selfish one at that, after years of illness.
That was why Peter’s words had sounded like an eternal promise of love to the young Lowell. There had never been a reason for her to dislike Peter.
It had become a kind of ritual between the two of them: whenever Peter said what Lowell wanted to hear, she would throw her arms around him.
Lowell knew well enough that her black eyes and hair were nothing to be proud of. Luckily, she resembled her father so much that no one dared question her bloodline, but sometimes she saw her parents sigh secretly.
[“Why is Lowell’s hair so dark, dear? She alone is so frail and now with this hair color too… I feel so guilty. I feel so sorry for her…”]
Her parents certainly loved her, but they could not bring themselves to love her blackness. Because she was born with it, Lowell would always suffer whispers of scandal about her lineage. Her black hair and eyes were nothing short of a defect.
So, never once did her parents call her pitch-black hair or eyes beautiful.
The only one who loved Lowell’s blackness was Peter.
The only one who sought something special in her was Peter.
Peter… was the Emperor.
Lowell sat sunk into the bath, lost in thought. This wasn’t her bridal chamber anymore—she was in a bathroom newly assigned to her as the Emperor’s bride.
Last night, after the Emperor stormed out of the bridal chamber, Lowell had lain down on the bed of flowers and slept soundly. The taut tension she’d felt about meeting him had long since vanished. The reason was simple.
The Emperor can’t kill me.
She recalled the startled face of the maid who opened the door that morning.
The maid hadn’t opened the door with the slightest caution. Naturally, she must have expected to find the bride dead.
But when no stench of death greeted her, she looked startled.
And when she saw Lowell lying there with eyes wide open, she looked as if she had seen a ghost.
She must have wondered how I was still alive.
Lowell understood her well. She herself had come to the palace expecting to die.
And yet, she had survived. Ironically, clinging to the very longing of the one who had meant to kill her.
Should I call that fortunate?
Can you call the lesser of misfortunes good fortune?
Plop—her hand, which had been resting on the edge of the tub, slipped into the perfumed water. She had been sitting in the hot water too long, and her body was losing strength. A healthy person wouldn’t have been so weakened by this much heat, but frail Lowell was different.
Even just leaning back against the tub made her dizzy. The steam choked her lungs, and she gasped for air like a fish thrown onto dry land. Still, she made no move to rise. Staring blankly at the ceiling, her consciousness grew heavy, her body slack.
As if in her last moments, she slowly closed her eyes and remembered one truth.
The best way to break a person was to take away their only thing.
It didn’t have to be something precious. It could be a scar that never healed, or a gem that existed nowhere else in the world.
As long as it was the one thing.
Something that must exist in the world around them, without which their life would stumble like a body missing a limb. Taking that one thing away—
Only then does a person truly collapse.
Lowell knew this from experience. The world called it falling into despair.
And so, despair had become Lowell’s sword.
Therefore, before all else, she had to confirm one thing.
As the water pulled at her dying body, she blinked slowly.
The puppet thrust before the Emperor by the nobles—the fake Lowell that I am…
Could she truly move the Emperor?
* * *
“I’ve brought the records you requested, Your Majesty.”
At the voice behind him, the shadow of the man standing in a wrecked room stretched across the floor. In the Emperor’s right hand, gripping his longsword, crimson liquid dripped in long trails down the blade. Anyone else would have been shocked, but the visitor seemed too used to such sights to flinch.
“I’ll summon the physician at once.”
“No. The records first.”
The Emperor automatically held out his hand, then realized it was covered in blood and clicked his tongue. He couldn’t take the documents like this. He would have to wipe it first. With that thought, he gestured lightly.
“You read it, Shimoren.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
The knight named Shimoren answered out of habit and immediately opened the documents.
What he had brought were records of an unofficial imperial order from ten years ago—when an entire family had been annihilated.
The Emperor listened to Shimoren reading for a while before raising his hand to stop him.
“By imperial command, the mansion’s entrance was sealed and set aflame. Care was taken to prevent damage to nearby civilian homes. The confirmed dead numbered thirty-two. Is there any difference from what you’ve read?”
“None, Your Majesty.”
The Emperor’s brow furrowed. Whether it was because Shimoren’s words displeased him, or because the wound bound in cloth throbbed, was unclear.
“Any chance of survivors?”
“No one left the mansion at that time. Forgive my boldness, but isn’t it meaningless to even speak of such a possibility?”
“…Yes, of course. There’s no way anyone survived.”
In the end, the Emperor turned away. There was no more he needed to hear. The facts were clear. Lowell was dead.
Even if she had survived that fire… with her health so fragile…
Peter recalled the last time he had seen her. Even to his untrained eye, she hadn’t looked as if she could live out the year. Even if she had survived the fire, she could not have lasted long.
He knew that. He knew it was futile to hope.
“And yet… why can’t I let go of hope?”
Peter muttered bitterly, and worry flickered across Shimoren’s face.
“…I heard the ‘puppet’ you took in yesterday is still alive.”
“Yes. She said I would need her. That I was on the verge of madness. That no one else could possibly serve the role.”
“She dared say that to Your Majesty? On what authority—”
“She wasn’t wrong. I am on the verge of madness. And aside from Anette Martinek, there’s no one suitable.”
Peter flexed the hand wrapped in bloodstained cloth and let out a dry laugh.
“She really does resemble her.”
“…That much?”
“For a moment, I thought Lowell had come back to life.”
Yes, if Lowell had lived, she might have had that face.
A little slimmer than in his memories, more mature. Of course, Anette’s face looked far more sharp-tempered, but then, Lowell had never been a sweet-natured child either. Long illness had a way of shaping children that way.
So when Anette’s lips had formed the word, “Peter?”—he had nearly lost his mind.
She looked too much like the girl he had loved, the girl now buried in the ground.
Even though he knew Anette was not Lowell, he felt madness crawl up his spine and fixate on her. Had he been just a little weaker, he might have truly believed her to be Lowell.
“But that can’t be her real face. It must be some magic tool… some trick.”
“Most likely. But effective nonetheless. It makes enduring easier.”
“Then… your hand…”
Shimoren trailed off, staring at the cloth wrapped around Peter’s bleeding hand. Feeling the gaze, Peter raised it and waved lightly, chuckling.
The wound was already half healed, as if it had never been cut.
“Nothing serious. I only wanted to see if I was mad.”
Even that morning, Peter couldn’t erase Anette’s face from his mind. No sane man would be so haunted. So if he truly were mad, if it were all a hallucination, then he shouldn’t feel pain.
But unfortunately, his senses were intact. The blood was real, hot and red. Reality was undeniable.
And reality was mercilessly clear:
Anette Martinek was not Lowell Hessen.
That could only mean one thing. Whoever had placed Anette before him knew something about Lowell.
Peter frowned at the thought.
But surely, everyone connected to her died back then.
Even every record of the Hessen family had been erased under imperial law.
And yet ten years later, how had the Martineks found a woman who looked exactly like Lowell?
Could this truly be coincidence?
“Shimoren, the records of Anette Martinek—”
Just as he began to order the records brought, a knock sounded at the door.
When he bid it open, a maid fell to her knees before him.
“Your Majesty, Lady Anette’s life is in grave danger.”
