36. I drew the curtains
Erna crouched beneath the clock tower, gasping for breath. She felt compelled to enter the station to escape the rain, but her battered body refused to move. Now, even the weight of the pouring raindrops felt burdensome.
Pavel didn't come.
She believed he was just a little late due to some circumstances and that he would arrive soon, but Pavel never showed up. Something was definitely wrong. He wouldn't break a promise like this, otherwise.
Having reached that conclusion, Erna hurriedly left the station and boarded a stagecoach headed toward Pavel's house. Could there have been an accident? What if he got sick? What on earth could have happened? Amidst her constant worry, she arrived at Pavel's house, shrouded in deep darkness. She knocked hard on the door and called his name, but there was no answer.
Pavel didn't come. And Pavel's house is empty.
Erna, feeling lost, stared out into the pouring rain for a long time. "So, what should I do now?" she asked herself. The more she questioned it, the more despair and helplessness grew.
Erna eventually returned to the station, having found no answer. Without the money Pavel had promised to lend her, she would find it difficult to escape her father's presence even if she returned to Burford. But with that house—the Hardy mansion she no longer wanted to call home—out of reach, Erna's only option was the train station.
Erna, her half-closed eyes struggling to open, bit her lip hard. The pain of her wound opening slowly brought back her consciousness, which had been fading away.
I have to get up, go into history, and wait for Pavel.
Erna, having sorted out her to-do list, tried to stand up, but her body, shivering and aching, refused to move as she wished.
If Pavel doesn't show up by midnight, she'll head back to Burford alone. If the train's been cancelled, she'll just have to find a place to stay nearby for the night.
Erna slowly began to think of a plan for the worst-case scenario. She folded her umbrella, now completely broken and useless, and held her trunk tightly, trying to control her hot breath.
It's so easy. It's so easy.
Despite trying to console herself and exert herself once more, Erna still couldn't keep her balance. Instead, she lost her balance and collapsed onto the wet floor. Raindrops dripped down her dazed face, streaming down like tears. Disgusted, she tried to wipe her face with her sleeve, but her clothes, already soaked, proved useless.
Erna pressed one hand to the floor, supporting her tilting body, and squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them again, the rain had stopped. No. The world was still filled with the sound of pouring rain, but only Erna's rain had stopped. Only when she realized this did her senses return. Shoesteps entered her vision. The long shadow cast by the gaslight. The umbrella overhead. And that person.
Erna raised her head and looked at the man standing before her, holding an umbrella. It was Prince Bjorn. It was hard to believe, but it was definitely him. Unsure of how to react, she just blinked as he leaned down before her. The sound of raindrops falling on the umbrella grew closer. So did his familiar scent and his quiet, gray eyes.
A thunderclap from the distant sky woke the two people who seemed to be frozen in time.
The first to turn away was Erna. Bjorn's gaze sharpened as he watched the woman flinch and lower her head.
Slowly opening his eyes, he reached out and grabbed Erna's face. The woman's trembling, terrified, was vividly felt through his fingertips.
Bjorn, letting out a low curse mixed with a sigh, once again cupped Erna's cheek, this time with a much gentler touch. Slowly, carefully, and cautiously, he lifted her face to meet his own. Their eyes met in the still-pounding rain.
Until his trembling throat subsided, Bjorn gazed silently at Erna. The woman's eyes, no longer avoiding him, were clear. Just like on that night, believed to be the last, by the riverside during the festival.
Erna looked at Bjorn, feeling as if she was wandering somewhere between dream and reality.
The running carriage, the unending rain, the sight clouded by heat, and the man's face within it. It felt utterly unreal, yet too vivid to be a dream.
Why did you appear there? Were you looking for me? Why?
Countless questions flickered through her hazy consciousness, but Erna couldn't utter a word. Even trying to hold on to consciousness was exhausting, and she felt like she couldn't even speak properly. That was also why she ultimately had no choice but to follow Bjorn's orders and board the carriage.
'I don't know who you're waiting for, Miss Hardy, but that person isn't coming.'
To Erna, who was stubbornly refusing to go, Bjorn spoke in a voice as calm as the wind and rain.
'He's not coming. He's abandoned you.'
The more Erna tried to deny it, the colder his words became. The clock tower, looking down on them, had already struck midnight. That was the moment when the last glimmer of hope in Erna's eyes faded.
Erna finally closed her eyes, unable to overcome the extreme chills and dizziness.
A deep sigh escaped Bjorn's lips as he watched her stubbornly cling to her dripping hat and cloak. He felt the urge to immediately remove these cumbersome items, but he felt it would only further torment her, so he decided to leave them alone for now.
The moment he saw her scarred face, Bjorn knew. This woman's reason for running away from her father wasn't simply because of the marriage deal. And that the scandal was likely the cause of the brutal violence inflicted on her.
One day, Erna Hardy suddenly disappeared around the time the first scandal broke. She reappeared about two weeks later. A cold rage welled up in him as he thought about how long it would take for those bruises and wounds to heal without a trace. How could he have tarnished the product that was his lifeline? Walter Hardy was a miserable man, both as a father and as a merchant.
He thought he had a perfect deal, but he ended up in unexpected debt.
Bjorn looked at Erna, who was curled up in a small ball of blood and shivering, her cheeks as red as fire, her breathing ragged. It was only natural, having wandered in the rain in this state.
The person you've been waiting for so eagerly will be a man.
The moment he saw Erna, who had lingered in front of the clock tower and collapsed, Bjorn had a premonition. He knew she had an accomplice who would aid her in her midnight escape. He also knew that it was highly likely that this man would betray her at the last moment.
As his thoughts reached that point, he suddenly remembered the young artist he'd seen at the Royal Academy of Arts exhibition. The red-haired, robust man this woman had been searching for so desperately. He thinks his name was Pavel.
Now that he thinks about it, the Princess's man was a poet.
A memory that unexpectedly came to mind brought a glimmer of hope to Bjorn's eyes. The genius poet of Lars. He had been adored and admired across the continent, but two years earlier, before he was thirty, he had passed away, joining the ranks of other genius artists.
Are the deer all weak to the artistic young men?
With a cynical laugh, Bjorn turned his head and looked out the carriage window. The streets were empty in the deep, stormy night. The sound of horses' hooves galloping down the road from the other side of the road was all the more vivid.
Bjorn absentmindedly cast his gaze there. His once calm gaze sharpened when the distance narrowed enough to make out the red hair of the man driving his horse from beyond the darkness. His name came to mind clearly. Pavel Lore. The man who had likely planned to flee with the daughter of the Hardy family.
The situation, which surprisingly matched his expectations perfectly, made Bjorn chuckle. No. The painter hadn't abandoned the woman yet, so at least one thing was different from what he'd expected. Bjorn didn't particularly like these kinds of variables that lay beyond the realm of prediction and control.
A loud thunder rumbled through the sky again.
Erna, who had been unconscious, flinched at the loud noise and opened her eyes. Her eyes, blank and unfocused, wandered around the rattling carriage until they landed on Bjorn's face. They were the eyes of the lost child who had occasionally come to mind and irritated her nerves.
The moment her eyes landed on the windowpane, Bjorn drew the curtains. Almost simultaneously, the man on horseback and the carriage passed each other. Erna, who had been staring blankly at the window obscured by the curtains, soon lost consciousness again.
Bjorn, who had been observing the situation once again under his control, closed his eyes and leaned back deeply into his seat. The carriage, accelerating, soon arrived at Tara Avenue, where the Hardy family lived.
The coachman, who had knocked on the carriage door to announce his arrival, was twice astonished: once by the sight that unfolded beyond the open door, and again by the order given by his master.
The young lady of the Hardy family, her head drooping limply, lay asleep, her head resting on Bjorn's lap. Instead of her disheveled cloak and hat, she was wrapped in the Prince's robes. Unlike the flustered coachman, Bjorn's demeanor toward her was as calm as ever.
That's why the coachman obeyed his master's orders without question. Looking back, it seems strange, but every command delivered by the Prince felt like a natural, logical thing.
If this continues, something really big will happen.
The coachman hesitated for a moment, looking at the mansion where he should have dropped the girl off, but eventually he took the reins again.
The Grand Duke's carriage left the Hardy mansion and began to speed away, heading north of the city, far from Schwerin Palace.
Erna crouched beneath the clock tower, gasping for breath. She felt compelled to enter the station to escape the rain, but her battered body refused to move. Now, even the weight of the pouring raindrops felt burdensome.
Pavel didn't come.
She believed he was just a little late due to some circumstances and that he would arrive soon, but Pavel never showed up. Something was definitely wrong. He wouldn't break a promise like this, otherwise.
Having reached that conclusion, Erna hurriedly left the station and boarded a stagecoach headed toward Pavel's house. Could there have been an accident? What if he got sick? What on earth could have happened? Amidst her constant worry, she arrived at Pavel's house, shrouded in deep darkness. She knocked hard on the door and called his name, but there was no answer.
Pavel didn't come. And Pavel's house is empty.
Erna, feeling lost, stared out into the pouring rain for a long time. "So, what should I do now?" she asked herself. The more she questioned it, the more despair and helplessness grew.
Erna eventually returned to the station, having found no answer. Without the money Pavel had promised to lend her, she would find it difficult to escape her father's presence even if she returned to Burford. But with that house—the Hardy mansion she no longer wanted to call home—out of reach, Erna's only option was the train station.
Erna, her half-closed eyes struggling to open, bit her lip hard. The pain of her wound opening slowly brought back her consciousness, which had been fading away.
I have to get up, go into history, and wait for Pavel.
Erna, having sorted out her to-do list, tried to stand up, but her body, shivering and aching, refused to move as she wished.
If Pavel doesn't show up by midnight, she'll head back to Burford alone. If the train's been cancelled, she'll just have to find a place to stay nearby for the night.
Erna slowly began to think of a plan for the worst-case scenario. She folded her umbrella, now completely broken and useless, and held her trunk tightly, trying to control her hot breath.
It's so easy. It's so easy.
Despite trying to console herself and exert herself once more, Erna still couldn't keep her balance. Instead, she lost her balance and collapsed onto the wet floor. Raindrops dripped down her dazed face, streaming down like tears. Disgusted, she tried to wipe her face with her sleeve, but her clothes, already soaked, proved useless.
Erna pressed one hand to the floor, supporting her tilting body, and squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them again, the rain had stopped. No. The world was still filled with the sound of pouring rain, but only Erna's rain had stopped. Only when she realized this did her senses return. Shoesteps entered her vision. The long shadow cast by the gaslight. The umbrella overhead. And that person.
Erna raised her head and looked at the man standing before her, holding an umbrella. It was Prince Bjorn. It was hard to believe, but it was definitely him. Unsure of how to react, she just blinked as he leaned down before her. The sound of raindrops falling on the umbrella grew closer. So did his familiar scent and his quiet, gray eyes.
A thunderclap from the distant sky woke the two people who seemed to be frozen in time.
The first to turn away was Erna. Bjorn's gaze sharpened as he watched the woman flinch and lower her head.
Slowly opening his eyes, he reached out and grabbed Erna's face. The woman's trembling, terrified, was vividly felt through his fingertips.
Bjorn, letting out a low curse mixed with a sigh, once again cupped Erna's cheek, this time with a much gentler touch. Slowly, carefully, and cautiously, he lifted her face to meet his own. Their eyes met in the still-pounding rain.
Until his trembling throat subsided, Bjorn gazed silently at Erna. The woman's eyes, no longer avoiding him, were clear. Just like on that night, believed to be the last, by the riverside during the festival.
***
Erna looked at Bjorn, feeling as if she was wandering somewhere between dream and reality.
The running carriage, the unending rain, the sight clouded by heat, and the man's face within it. It felt utterly unreal, yet too vivid to be a dream.
Why did you appear there? Were you looking for me? Why?
Countless questions flickered through her hazy consciousness, but Erna couldn't utter a word. Even trying to hold on to consciousness was exhausting, and she felt like she couldn't even speak properly. That was also why she ultimately had no choice but to follow Bjorn's orders and board the carriage.
'I don't know who you're waiting for, Miss Hardy, but that person isn't coming.'
To Erna, who was stubbornly refusing to go, Bjorn spoke in a voice as calm as the wind and rain.
'He's not coming. He's abandoned you.'
The more Erna tried to deny it, the colder his words became. The clock tower, looking down on them, had already struck midnight. That was the moment when the last glimmer of hope in Erna's eyes faded.
Erna finally closed her eyes, unable to overcome the extreme chills and dizziness.
A deep sigh escaped Bjorn's lips as he watched her stubbornly cling to her dripping hat and cloak. He felt the urge to immediately remove these cumbersome items, but he felt it would only further torment her, so he decided to leave them alone for now.
The moment he saw her scarred face, Bjorn knew. This woman's reason for running away from her father wasn't simply because of the marriage deal. And that the scandal was likely the cause of the brutal violence inflicted on her.
One day, Erna Hardy suddenly disappeared around the time the first scandal broke. She reappeared about two weeks later. A cold rage welled up in him as he thought about how long it would take for those bruises and wounds to heal without a trace. How could he have tarnished the product that was his lifeline? Walter Hardy was a miserable man, both as a father and as a merchant.
He thought he had a perfect deal, but he ended up in unexpected debt.
Bjorn looked at Erna, who was curled up in a small ball of blood and shivering, her cheeks as red as fire, her breathing ragged. It was only natural, having wandered in the rain in this state.
The person you've been waiting for so eagerly will be a man.
The moment he saw Erna, who had lingered in front of the clock tower and collapsed, Bjorn had a premonition. He knew she had an accomplice who would aid her in her midnight escape. He also knew that it was highly likely that this man would betray her at the last moment.
As his thoughts reached that point, he suddenly remembered the young artist he'd seen at the Royal Academy of Arts exhibition. The red-haired, robust man this woman had been searching for so desperately. He thinks his name was Pavel.
Now that he thinks about it, the Princess's man was a poet.
A memory that unexpectedly came to mind brought a glimmer of hope to Bjorn's eyes. The genius poet of Lars. He had been adored and admired across the continent, but two years earlier, before he was thirty, he had passed away, joining the ranks of other genius artists.
Are the deer all weak to the artistic young men?
With a cynical laugh, Bjorn turned his head and looked out the carriage window. The streets were empty in the deep, stormy night. The sound of horses' hooves galloping down the road from the other side of the road was all the more vivid.
Bjorn absentmindedly cast his gaze there. His once calm gaze sharpened when the distance narrowed enough to make out the red hair of the man driving his horse from beyond the darkness. His name came to mind clearly. Pavel Lore. The man who had likely planned to flee with the daughter of the Hardy family.
The situation, which surprisingly matched his expectations perfectly, made Bjorn chuckle. No. The painter hadn't abandoned the woman yet, so at least one thing was different from what he'd expected. Bjorn didn't particularly like these kinds of variables that lay beyond the realm of prediction and control.
A loud thunder rumbled through the sky again.
Erna, who had been unconscious, flinched at the loud noise and opened her eyes. Her eyes, blank and unfocused, wandered around the rattling carriage until they landed on Bjorn's face. They were the eyes of the lost child who had occasionally come to mind and irritated her nerves.
The moment her eyes landed on the windowpane, Bjorn drew the curtains. Almost simultaneously, the man on horseback and the carriage passed each other. Erna, who had been staring blankly at the window obscured by the curtains, soon lost consciousness again.
Bjorn, who had been observing the situation once again under his control, closed his eyes and leaned back deeply into his seat. The carriage, accelerating, soon arrived at Tara Avenue, where the Hardy family lived.
The coachman, who had knocked on the carriage door to announce his arrival, was twice astonished: once by the sight that unfolded beyond the open door, and again by the order given by his master.
The young lady of the Hardy family, her head drooping limply, lay asleep, her head resting on Bjorn's lap. Instead of her disheveled cloak and hat, she was wrapped in the Prince's robes. Unlike the flustered coachman, Bjorn's demeanor toward her was as calm as ever.
That's why the coachman obeyed his master's orders without question. Looking back, it seems strange, but every command delivered by the Prince felt like a natural, logical thing.
If this continues, something really big will happen.
The coachman hesitated for a moment, looking at the mansion where he should have dropped the girl off, but eventually he took the reins again.
The Grand Duke's carriage left the Hardy mansion and began to speed away, heading north of the city, far from Schwerin Palace.
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