Blair headed to the greenhouse where Agnes would be waiting.
Agnes, who had been reading, spotted Blair entering, stood up, and offered a polite greeting.
“Your complexion looks good today, My Lady.”
The words seemed simple enough, yet Blair felt a sharp, inexplicable pang of guilt.
A month ago, during the time she had been kept confined by Headrin, she hadn’t been able to see Agnes for ten days. It was either because she was physically trapped in their bedroom or because she was so drained of energy that she would succumb to a dead sleep the moment he left her side.
When she finally reunited with Agnes after that week and a half, the woman had looked concerned. “You seem a bit thinner,” she had remarked. While Mason would never have breathed a word of the couple’s domestic affairs to outsiders, Blair’s heart remained heavy.
Today, her good complexion was natural. The man who had haunted her nights, stealing her rest, was finally keeping his distance.
Blair pretended to be indifferent. “Is that so?”
“Yes. Is it because the weather has finally cleared? Regardless, I am relieved to see your health improving.”
After the pleasantries were exchanged, the two settled into their usual rhythm of light, daily conversation. Agnes shared small anecdotes about her family, and Blair spoke of Pippi’s growth and her own evolving feelings toward the creature.
“Shall we talk about memories related to fire today? Anything from before the accident is fine, or even after. It would be best if it were a memory you can speak of happily, My Lady.”
As Agnes began the counseling session as she always did, Blair cut her off.
“Um, Madame.”
“Yes?”
“When will it be possible to attempt hypnosis?”
At the sudden request, Agnes’s gaze deepened. “Something must have happened, hasn’t it?”
Blair’s eyes wavered instead of answering. To Agnes, who had been watching over her for so long, Blair was an open book.
“May I ask what happened? Of course, only if it makes you feel at ease.”
As Blair hesitated, Agnes added, as if reading her heart, “I will not tell His Grace about what is said from here on. Let this remain a secret between us.”
It had been established from the start that Agnes would report the counseling sessions to Headrin—a necessary step toward uncovering the truth of the incident from ten years ago.
After a moment of silence, Blair parted her lips.
“You have served the Del Marc Duchy for a long time, haven’t you?”
“Yes. Both my husband and I were born into vassal families of the Del Marc.”
Blair remained silent for a long time before asking cautiously, “What kind of person is the Duke to you?”
In her past life, and now, after returning to the past, she had become his wife once again. They had spent countless nights together, intimate enough to know the contours of each other’s bodies. Yet, she still felt she didn’t know him at all.
What was he thinking? Was he truly the kind of monster who would attempt to kill her?
She had heard that Agnes had counseled Headrin ten years ago, when he lost his parents to that tragic accident. If anyone understood him, it would be her—certainly better than she, a wife in name only.
“I… I still don’t really know him,” Blair whispered.
She stared into the dark tea in her cup, avoiding Agnes’s gaze. In this moment, she didn’t want anyone to see the raw vulnerability in her eyes. Not even herself.
* * *
“Your Grace, I’m back—”
Ruth entered the office and instinctively furrowed his brow. The room was thick with the suffocating scent of cigar smoke.
The office was hazy, a gray shroud hanging in the air. *I thought he would cut back after getting married,* Ruth mused.
Headrin was a chain smoker. He had seemed to restrain himself for a while following the wedding, but he hadn’t even lasted a few months before slipping back into the old habit. It had been about fifteen days since he’d resumed his heavy smoking.
*He hasn’t been sleeping with Her Grace since around that time, either… I wonder if the timing is just a coincidence.*
It didn’t feel like a coincidence. His Grace’s nerves had been frayed, standing on a razor’s edge for weeks.
Ruth quickly dismissed the thought. It was not his place to pry into the private lives of his master and mistress.
Headrin, having stubbed out his cigar, looked up. “How did it go?”
“Resolved just as you wished. The price adjustment went well, and the deal has been initiated.”
“Good work. You may go.”
Ruth looked at the smoke-filled office, the urge to offer a word of nagging rising in his throat, but he swallowed it down. Headrin was generally a generous master, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t terrifying when crossed. With Headrin’s current foul mood, it was best to simply exit.
“Then I shall see you tomorrow.”
Ruth gathered his documents and bowed. Headrin offered only a slight nod.
After Ruth left, the room fell into a heavy silence, save for the rhythmic ticking of the clock.
Headrin’s gaze lingered on his desk, where the image of Blair rose unbidden in his mind—the way she had been sprawled across that very surface.
The mere mental image triggered a desire so intense it felt like a throbbing, festering wound. Irritation surged in his chest.
It had been fifteen days since he last visited Blair. Just because she didn’t resist didn’t mean it hadn’t been a violation. Knowing that she was desperately enduring those nights made him feel a sickening sense of disgust.
It felt as though he had pried open a gift box, only to find it entirely empty.
Headrin stood and moved to the window. Through the glass, he caught a glimpse of Blair walking back from the greenhouse with Agnes.
Suddenly, the face that had glared at him with tear-filled eyes flashed into his mind. Her trembling voice echoed in his memory.
*‘I truly, I hate you…’*
Words have no power. A gaze has no strength. They were meaningless things that should have been unable to leave a scratch on him.
And yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Her face, as she delivered those words as if they were some grand, devastating attack, was simultaneously laughable and bewildering.
Headrin pulled his eyes away from the scene.
*Again.*
His stomach churned, and his vision clouded with a sharp, white flash. Blair’s face surged forward again—but this time, she was wearing a wedding dress.
It wasn’t the wedding ceremony he remembered. Beneath the lifted veil, her face held a look of profound, transparent nervousness. She had lifted her gaze to meet his, looked dazed for a heartbeat, then hurried to look away as if coming to her senses.
*She had eyes devoid of any emotion during the actual wedding.*
The moment the realization hit him, the vision vanished as if wiped away by an eraser.
What were these memories? Why did images that weren’t his own keep bleeding into his mind?
As he struggled to compose himself, a knock sounded at the door.
“Your Grace. May I come in?” It was Agnes.
“Come in.”
Headrin leaned against the window frame. Agnes entered and began her report on the day’s counseling, carefully omitting the secrets she and Blair had agreed to keep.
She knew that passing that information to Headrin would be more “helpful” for the situation, but she had no intention of doing so. This was their business; intervention without consent was merely arrogance.
When the report concluded, Headrin changed the subject.
“There is something I want to ask you.”
“Yes?”
“Deja vu—is it only felt when a similar situation occurs?”
Headrin had asked out of desperation, trying to make sense of the phantoms in his head. A symptom like that was, after all, a common experience.
“Yes. Because you cannot experience deja vu before a situation unfolds.”
However, the memories he was seeing were completely disconnected from his current reality. It had to be something else.
At that moment, words Blair had once said resurfaced: *‘I… I can see the future.’*
Could it be? Had he, like her, become capable of seeing the future—or whatever this hallucination was?
Headrin closed his eyes, his expression tightening in irritation. To entertain such nonsense was beneath him. It couldn’t be true. It shouldn’t be true.
Agnes watched him with a puzzled expression. “Is there a problem?”
“…No. I just seem a bit tired lately.”
“If you need my help, please let me know.”
“I will. You may leave.”
Agnes bowed and exited. Headrin swept his hair back, pressing his throbbing temple against the cool glass of the window. As the cold seeped into his skin, the headache subsided.
He stood up, his mind churning, and headed toward the study. There was much that needed to be investigated.
* * *
The carriage Agnes was riding in pulled up to the Lorellain mansion. The servants and the butler stood waiting, their faces grave.
Before Agnes could even step down, the butler spoke. “A guest is waiting for you, My Lady.”
Typically, a visit between noble families required an appointment at least two days in advance. To arrive unannounced was either a sign of someone lacking manners or someone who felt they were far above them.
Agnes knew exactly who it was.
“Did someone come from the Imperial Palace?”
“Yes. The Countess Magrid has arrived.”
Agnes’s expression stiffened. Every noble in the empire knew that Countess Magrid was Katrina’s closest confidante.
Headrin had anticipated this day. He had warned her: *‘If someone from the Empress Dowager comes, tell them you are conducting counseling for the wife’s psychological treatment. Since you are doing it for the daughter, they won’t be able to say much. Do not be nervous. Forget not that the Del Marc stands behind you.’*
Agnes smiled, a sense of awe hitting her. The boy who had once lost his parents, fragile and in danger, had grown into a man who stood behind her like a wall.
She was his servant, and he was her master.
Reflecting on those words, Agnes straightened her back and walked toward the drawing room.
“Bring tea.”