The decision had been made long ago, so the execution was swift. Ariadne was imprisoned in the west tower of the San Carlo castle, still wearing her thin nightclothes.
She sat on a bed of sparse straw scattered across the cold stone floor, the events of the past flashing before her eyes like a revolving lantern.
Cesare was a man of many whims, but as long as one catered to him, he was as refreshing as a summer breeze. They had spent fourteen years that were, by all accounts, delightful.
Cesare was impulsive. He would often drop by the De Mare Mansion, seat Ariadne behind him on his horse, and gallop away. He would pluck lily of the valley from the forest path and tuck them into her hair.
“You are just like them—obedient and knowing only me.”
The wildflowers, having nowhere else to lean, had bowed their heads toward the ground, looking rather unimpressive. But back then, she had believed it to be the highest of compliments.
From afar, the festive music of the coronation drifted toward her. She was the one who had selected and arranged it all. She had truly believed it would be her own coronation. She had convinced herself that this was the day her fourteen years of devotion would finally be rewarded.
Ariadne’s thoughts were shattered by a melodic voice.
“Lily of the valley blooming outside are never valued as highly as roses grown in a greenhouse.”
At the top of the west tower appeared the new Queen, Isabella, who had just been crowned. Her flaxen hair was swept into an intricate style, lavishly adorned with pearls. Resting upon it was a lace veil as delicate as dandelion seeds.
The white silk dress she wore was draped like a tulip, softly complementing her slender frame. It was obvious at a glance that immense effort had been poured into it—a dress Ariadne had never seen before. Isabella must have known about this day in advance and had it tailored specifically for the occasion.
There were so many things Ariadne wanted to ask. Since when? Why? If you wanted Cesare, why did you push him onto me and claim you didn’t want him? Why now, of all times?
Ariadne looked up at Isabella, her face a map of silent questions. Big sister. Isabella tilted her chin and looked down at her. As soon as she met Ariadne’s eyes, her expression sharpened.
“How dare you do that to my husband?”
Isabella was turning the tables. Ariadne habitually bowed her head and began with an apology. It was a reflex ingrained over many long years.
“…If it is about Prince Alfonso, I am sorry. I have nothing to say.”
But that was not the answer Isabella wanted.
“I’m talking about Cesare, you idiot. How dare you try to become Queen, leaving me behind?”
‘What?’
To the stunned Ariadne, Isabella lashed out mercilessly.
“I am the most noble woman in this country. At this point, you should have known to step down from the position of the Regent’s fiancée on your own. Do I have to go through all this trouble because of trash like you?”
Leaving the bewildered Ariadne in a daze, Isabella waved her fan and continued.
“Father said the same—that I am the daughter who will raise the name of the De Mare high. You were only supposed to fill the seat for a while. You are too insolent.”
Isabella’s pretty face twisted.
“Because of you, my name is smeared with mud—talk of me being a widow, of having had a child. How are you going to take responsibility for that?”
Caught off guard by the sheer absurdity, Ariadne found herself talking back.
“Is that what you’re angry about? Prince Alfonso… does he not matter at all?”
Even though she had repeatedly vowed to herself never to rebel against Isabella, the words slipped out.
“He was good to you, sister. Were you not loved?”
“Love?”
Isabella smiled brightly.
“All men are good to me. If I had to return every ounce of that affection, would I have to love everyone like a whore?”
With her delicate features, Isabella—listing the reasons why Alfonso De Carlo had to die as if she were merely pouting—looked as beautiful as a devil.
“Alfonso could not bring me the position of the most noble woman in this land. That is reason enough for him to die.”
Ariadne turned pale, her voice trembling as she countered.
“Cesare… Sister, do you love Cesare?”
Cesare had been something most precious to her. He was a value more noble than her own life. Even at the cost of her own suffering, she had worshiped and protected him.
But Isabella stared straight at Ariadne, her eyes brimming with laughter, as if she had just heard something truly ridiculous.
“My cute, foolish little sister. Life is a series of equivalent exchanges. Cesare made me Queen. In exchange, he can now have me. What we have is a fair deal.”
Her fairy-like, shining violet eyes seemed ready to burst into laughter at any moment.
“Alfonso simply failed to bring a price worthy of my value. The contract is terminated. There is no love in that.”
Isabella’s smile deepened.
“In place of love, there is longing.”
She was smiling, yet it was a dry, flamboyant expression—like a rose made of artificial silk, completely devoid of warmth.
“Before Alfonso died, Cesare came to find me and begged. He said he hadn’t been able to forget me for a single day since he got engaged to you.”
“What?”
Ariadne stammered, utterly flustered. Isabella replied sonorously.
“He said I appeared in his dreams. He said that even when he held you, he was imagining me.”
Ariadne stared fixedly at her sister, frozen and pale. Isabella continued, elegant and pretty as a chirping lark.
“He said you were too big, so it felt like he was holding a man. He said your hair was black, like a raven.”
Isabella’s pretty eyes glinted with malice.
“He said your breasts were too large and saggy, so he thought you were a dairy cow.”
As Ariadne stood speechless, Isabella stroked her own soft, flaxen hair.
“He said a woman should be small and fit right in one’s arms so that it feels like she needs protection. He said my hair is noble blonde, like an angel from the holy books.”
The small, dainty amethyst angel smiled wickedly. She thrust her perfectly featured face right in front of Ariadne’s nose and asked.
“Have you ever been the object of such a hungry longing?”
Ariadne couldn’t breathe; no words would come. She wanted to scream that Cesare—her Cesare—could not possibly be like that, but the pieces fell into place with agonizing clarity.
His shifting attitude after ascending to the regency, the engagement ring he had stopped wearing, his waning passion, and the wedding dates that kept being postponed. Isabella asserted with a face glowing with victory.
“This is the difference between you and me. Even if you stake your life and devote yourself to a man, nothing returns to you.”
Isabella offered advice to her simple-minded younger sister, though whether the girl, who was soon to die, would have a chance to use it was another matter.
“They do not know gratitude. You should not trust men.”
Isabella pouted her full lips.
“Cesare must be dying to have me right now, too. But after a year or three years pass, he will eventually get sick of me.”
That was a problem even the thirty-two-year-old beauty, Isabella, could not overcome.
“Men are so strange. Even when they do things that deserve a scolding, if you get angry, they end up hating me.”
She continued, twisting a strand of stray flaxen hair around her finger.
“Then, he will think of my loyal little sister, who was trampled under him for fourteen years without ever letting out a peep.”
“…Loyal?”
“I don’t like loose ends. Father taught me. It is safest to cleanly eliminate every possibility. Don’t you agree, my dear sister?”
As Isabella raised her hand, the Moor who hovered around her like a shadow drew his sword.
“I’ll be going now. I have to attend the coronation commemorative parade.”
That coronation was to be Ariadne’s.
“Don’t make it too painful, Agosto. After all, she is my beloved sister.”
Isabella played the hypocrite to the very end.
Beyond the small back of Isabella as she turned to leave, her Moorish knight approached with his sword held upright. His left eye glowed with an ominous red light, the radiance deepening to a vivid crimson, as if the intensity of a lamp were being turned up.
But Ariadne, her eyes wide and fixed on Isabella’s departing figure, did not look closely at the Moor. The agony of the moment had left her unable to utter a single word in return.
The Moor’s scimitar swept across her vision.
*Slashed!*
The sensation of searing pain invaded her neck, a fountain of blood erupted, and Isabella’s small back began to recede into the distance.
Her face was warm with her own blood.
And then, darkness.
She could have rested forever, but there was still much left to be done in this world. She could not close her eyes like this.
*—The Golden Rule.*
A faint, whimpering sound drifted into her ears.
*—The sins you have committed shall have their price, and the good deeds you have sown shall be returned to you. That is The Golden Rule.*
*I want that. I wish it would be so. Why is the world not like that?*
*—Can you do it?*
Ariadne nodded frantically. *I will. I can do it. I will see it through to the end.*
She thought she heard the owner of the voice sneer, or perhaps she felt another presence looking upon her with pity, but a drowsy heaviness climbed over her entire body, filling every extremity until Ariadne lost consciousness.
***
“Gasp!”
She opened her eyes, bracing for the burning pain, but there was no agony. Instead, she stared at the ceiling of an old wooden house with its rafters exposed. It was the farm where she had lived as a child.
*What is happening?*
Her body felt strangely light. Ariadne raised both hands.
She saw thin arms and small, young hands. The firm skin was that of a child. Having endured the cruelest taunts about her physique less than five minutes ago, she reflexively looked down at her own torso.
Fortunately, the scrawny young girl, still in her growing years, had a flat chest, a small ribcage, and narrow shoulders.
*My God.*
Ariadne bolted from the bed and scrambled toward a dusty, cheap mirror. A girl of about fifteen stood inside the uneven glass.
Though she was thin from a recent growth spurt, her limbs were gracefully long. Her black hair, reaching down to her waist, swayed. Her deep green eyes glared intensely at her own reflection.
It was her past self. Except for two things.
Ariadne raised a hand and touched the skin under her left eye. There was a bright red tear mole. It had not been there before.
And there was the last joint of her long, shining left ring finger—the one she had once severed for Cesare.
As if by magic, the finger was whole and in its place. However, the last joint, which had originally been missing, was slightly redder than the rest of the hand. A crimson flush glowed bewitchingly on the tip of her ring finger.
Ariadne’s awe was interrupted by an uninvited guest.
*Bang!*
“Ariadne, you useless thing!”
The scrawny old woman shouted as she threw open the bedroom door.
“The sun is already high, yet you’re still lazing about!”
The woman swung her broom wildly, striking Ariadne’s head and neck indiscriminately.
“You can’t even keep track of the time! Do you have any idea how many people are starving because of you?”
Ariadne was actually on cleaning duty today, so the incident had nothing to do with meals. But even if she had tried to explain, Gian Galeazzo would not have cared. Beating the young maids was her favorite pastime, and she took particular pleasure in tormenting Ariadne.
The sight of someone of such noble blood rolling on the dirty floor—reduced to a state even lower than her own—always gave the spiteful woman a thrill.
Ariadne raised her arms to shield her face. The broom struck her repeatedly; each blow was sharp and searing. The past was repeating itself.
It was the spring of her fifteenth year. The day she had been thrown into a society teeming with beasts, without a single soul to protect her.
Today was the day Ariadne was summoned to the Cardinal’s residence in the main fortress of San Carlo.