128. It snowed
This is madness.
Peter, watching Bjorn sweep away the chips from the piled-up poker table, stuck out his tongue in awe. His victory, achieved despite a broken arm, defied any other description.
When on earth will the Grand Duchess return?
Eyes exchanged anxious glances, each bearing the question that had become everyone's fervent wish. At this rate, the wolf of frustration would devour all the card players in Schwerin, yet the Grand Duchess, who had left for convalescence, showed no sign of returning.
“Oh. It’s already this time?”
Leonard, who had been observing the situation, opened his mouth slightly. It was barely ten o'clock. It was broad daylight in the card room of the social club, but if he stayed up all night, he might wake up empty-handed.
“Now it’s about time...”
Just as he was about to leave the chair, Bjorn turned his head. His expressionless, cold face brought to mind Robin Heinz, beaten to death and bruised. Come to think of it, Bjorn had drunk more than usual today. It was probably about the same amount as at the party at the Harbour House.
“Shall we start the next round?”
Leonard laughed awkwardly and sat back in his chair. The card players, who were about to leave, quickly adjusted their positions.
Bjorn, who had been watching them without saying much, downed his half-empty brandy in one gulp and lit his cigar again. His uncharacteristically disheveled clothes and hair covering his forehead made him appear even more menacing.
“What the hell is going on? Why is it like that?”
Peter, glancing at Bjorn, who was refilling his glass, whispered in a gravely serious voice. Leonard's eyes also showed serious concern.
Bjorn had been practically living in this club for several days. He spent most of his waking hours playing cards or drinking, and when he wasn't, he was sleeping drunk.
“Do you think that can be explained by sexual frustration?”
“If you’re so curious, ask yourself.”
“So you want me to end up like Heinz?”
Peter straightened his face and started to swear.
Bjorn Dneister was never a model student, but he never let himself go like this. He was the type who never showed his true colors, more akin to a cold-blooded man than a prodigal son, even during his divorce from Princess Gladys and the nation's condemnation.
But why on earth, now that all that stigma has been cleared, does it end up like this?
It was utterly incomprehensible, yet no one dared to delve into it. It wouldn't have been a good idea to stir up a bomb that could explode at any moment.
A new round began while everyone was whispering and exchanging glances.
It was a wonder he was still conscious, yet Bjorn remained quite calm as he played. It was a tenacity that was almost terrifying, if not astonishing.
As the tide began to turn in Bjorn's favor, everyone's faces were filled with a sense of resignation. They'd probably be beggars by dawn, but it was still a better outcome than being carried away as corpses. It was just when Bjorn's victory was practically certain that an unexpected twist occurred.
Bjorn, who had been staring blankly at his own hand, let out a soft laugh mixed with a curse. For a moment, everyone's tense gaze turned to the Prince.
Bjorn, who had been idly looking at the cards with downcast eyes, let out a long sigh and put them down, as if he were giving up on a game he'd already won.
“Hey, Bjorn?”
Peter now looked at him with a face filled with genuine concern. Bjorn, who had been leaning back in his chair, staring at the cigar-smoked ceiling, stood up, running his hand through his tangled hair.
"What? Are you really quitting? What's the stakes?"
Those who had been watching Bjorn, who had suddenly given up, now turned their gaze to the poker chips piled up on Bjorn's seat.
“Share it.”
Bjorn, who had thrown out that one word as if annoyed, left the card room without a single glance back. The sound of the door slamming loudly echoed, and the card players, who had been holding their breath, let out a collective sigh.
“What kind of team came out to do that?”
Peter, barely regaining consciousness, scrambled to his feet and approached Bjorn's seat. The growing embarrassment he felt as he flipped over each card turned into panic the moment he saw the last card.
“You don’t have a fatal disease, do you?”
They looked at each other with astonished eyes, but no one answered Peter's stammered question.
The hand the Prince discarded was a straight flush.
It snowed.
Bjorn realized it as he staggered toward the carriage. A cold, soft touch tickled his cheek, and he raised his head, only to find snowflakes fluttering in the darkness, filling his vision. It was the first snowfall of the winter.
Bjorn stood there, dumbfounded, staring at the night sky as snow began to fall. His occasional laughter and curses quietly filtered through the snowflakes.
Of all things, that pattern came out.
A straight flush. A lucky hand that had drawn him into that pitiful betting game, one he could never lose.
So, he won. That was all he knew. He never dreamed that he would be so easily defeated and knocked out by such a sloppy counterattack.
“Are you alright, Prince?”
The coachman, who had been watching from a few steps away, approached cautiously. Bjorn waved him off as he tried to help him up. Despite being utterly drunk, he remained conscious. Perhaps even that was just an illusion brought on by the extreme intoxication.
Why.
After receiving the divorce papers, the questions that had been nagging at him began to swirl around in his head like snowflakes.
Why, why on earth did your love, which seemed like it would last forever, disappear?
He was maddeningly curious. Was it because of Gladys's truth? Because of the miscarriage? Or because of his own past actions? Of course, this shitty day was probably the result of all those worst things combined, but even so, Bjorn couldn't accept this reality. To endure it alone, to collapse alone, to disappear alone, and then to announce the end like this, was a cowardly and degrading act.
“Excuse me... Prince?”
The coachman's anxious voice was heard, but Bjorn remained fixed on the night sky. The snow, its infinite cold and softness, brought back memories of Erna, sinking quietly into the depths of his heart.
Every moment was love.
Bjorn knew all too well the feelings Erna had for him, expressed in her gaze, her smile, and even the smallest gestures. That made it even more unbelievable. That Erna's love had ended this way.
I don't know.
Even if it was my fault, how could you abandon me like this?
The hypocritical laughter dissipated along with the white breath.
She gave him everything, and then in an instant, she took it all away. Without a word. Without even a chance.
Bjorn slowly opened his eyes and faced the coachman. It took just enough time for the snowflakes that had settled on his long eyelashes to melt and disappear before he slowly pulled his lips away.
“...Go to the station.”
The gray eyes that had finally regained focus were as cold and settled as the night.
“Hey, when you say station, are you talking about the station where the train stops?”
The astonished coachman questioned, but Bjorn got into the carriage without giving any answer.
It was snowing, and he had an answer he absolutely had to hear from the woman.
That was enough reason for the carriage to head to Schwerin Station that night.
She woke up to the howling of wild animals.
After blinking a few times, Erna finally remembered that she was in Burford.
Erna, who had been staring blankly at the ceiling beyond the darkness, let out a sigh of resignation and got up, turning on the lamp. She decided not to make the pointless effort to fall back asleep. She knew it would only deepen her thoughts.
Erna, wearing the shawl she'd left on the bedside chair, slowly approached the window and opened the curtains. From beyond the complete darkness, devoid of any light, came the faint howl of a wolf. A belated regret for having used the guest bedroom came flooding back, along with memories of Bjorn, who had stayed with her there last spring.
Erna leaned against the windowsill, gazing at the familiar scenery. It was absurd that the memories of a mere few days could overwhelm the long years she'd spent in this room, but she didn't try to deny it.
She loved him.
She loved Bjorn with all her heart. She loved him so much that she hated herself, almost to the point where she wondered if it was possible.
It was such a love that it left such a deep and clear mark.
The day she was able to acknowledge that truth, Erna awoke from a long sleep. Sometimes, the sudden onslaught of fond memories would cause her heart to sink and tears to flow, but she humbly accepted the pain.
As the clock struck midnight, the howling of the wolves subsided.
Erna closed the curtains and threw more firewood into the dying fireplace. She also tidied up the books and scraps of cloth on the desk. She decided not to touch the rose wine her grandmother had brought to prepare for sleepless nights. It was time to do so.
Erna, who had been staring silently at the flames, turned away with a silent sigh. As she lay back down on the bed, memories of that spring day came flooding back.
Throughout their stay at Baden, Bjorn slept with Erna on this old, narrow bed. This was such a surprise and delight that Erna couldn't sleep well into the night.
She gazed at Bjorn's sleeping face, then gently stroked his fine, soft hair. She felt the warmth of his body as they lay pressed against each other, and sometimes she listened intently to his heartbeat.
Then there was a night when Bjorn woke up.
Erna, who realized this too late, tried to get up quickly, but Bjorn reached out and wrapped his arms around her back. He was literally lying on top of her.
'Stop sleeping, wife.'
He smiled, putting strength into his arms as he held Erna, who was struggling.
'It must be heavy and uncomfortable.'
'It's okay, Erna.'
The voice was affectionate, mixed with a soft sigh.
'Because if we switch positions tomorrow night, it'll be fair.'
The words he added while chuckling were not like that, though.
Erna, who had been stiff, gradually found stability under Bjorn's hand stroking her spine. For the first time in her life, having someone she could freely lean on and rely on was a strange yet sweet feeling.
That was Bjorn.
Erna counted the number of tears, pressing her palm against her eyes. She could feel the warm tears flowing down her palms.
As she counted to ten again, her memories shifted. Back to that harsh summer, when she had confronted Bjorn, who had told her she was nothing more than a harmony that existed for him.
He was also Bjorn.
Erna clutched the quilt with her soaking wet hands. The tears that hadn't stopped flowing silently, soaking her earlobes and pillowcase.
I wish I could not love you.
Now, useless regrets came, but they didn't stay for long.
I loved a man I couldn't help but love. It was an incredibly lonely and difficult unrequited love.
Although that love ended with only this pain, Erna had no regrets. No lingering attachments. That was all that mattered.
As the tears stopped flowing, Erna closed her eyes calmly.
She really hopes the mail carriage comes tomorrow.
That was all Erna wanted now.
The moment the train started to move with the horn blaring, a man who had been running on the platform jumped into the carriage.
The conductor, who had just finished checking tickets and was on his way out, flinched and took a step back. The last man to board, a tall man, emanated a strong, head-splitting odor of alcohol. He had a neat appearance, but no matter how you looked at him, he looked like a drunk.
“The ticket...”
Just as he was about to speak, the man handed him a ticket. It was definitely the night train to Burford.
It was a first-class ticket.
After the ticket check was completed and the man stepped back, he staggered across the aisle of the carriage. The conductor ensured he had safely entered the compartment indicated on his ticket before moving on to the next car.
Now that he thinks about it, it looks familiar somehow.
Although he felt a strange feeling belatedly, he didn't think long and just focused on his mission.
The train began to speed up into the darkness where sleet was falling.
This is madness.
Peter, watching Bjorn sweep away the chips from the piled-up poker table, stuck out his tongue in awe. His victory, achieved despite a broken arm, defied any other description.
When on earth will the Grand Duchess return?
Eyes exchanged anxious glances, each bearing the question that had become everyone's fervent wish. At this rate, the wolf of frustration would devour all the card players in Schwerin, yet the Grand Duchess, who had left for convalescence, showed no sign of returning.
“Oh. It’s already this time?”
Leonard, who had been observing the situation, opened his mouth slightly. It was barely ten o'clock. It was broad daylight in the card room of the social club, but if he stayed up all night, he might wake up empty-handed.
“Now it’s about time...”
Just as he was about to leave the chair, Bjorn turned his head. His expressionless, cold face brought to mind Robin Heinz, beaten to death and bruised. Come to think of it, Bjorn had drunk more than usual today. It was probably about the same amount as at the party at the Harbour House.
“Shall we start the next round?”
Leonard laughed awkwardly and sat back in his chair. The card players, who were about to leave, quickly adjusted their positions.
Bjorn, who had been watching them without saying much, downed his half-empty brandy in one gulp and lit his cigar again. His uncharacteristically disheveled clothes and hair covering his forehead made him appear even more menacing.
“What the hell is going on? Why is it like that?”
Peter, glancing at Bjorn, who was refilling his glass, whispered in a gravely serious voice. Leonard's eyes also showed serious concern.
Bjorn had been practically living in this club for several days. He spent most of his waking hours playing cards or drinking, and when he wasn't, he was sleeping drunk.
“Do you think that can be explained by sexual frustration?”
“If you’re so curious, ask yourself.”
“So you want me to end up like Heinz?”
Peter straightened his face and started to swear.
Bjorn Dneister was never a model student, but he never let himself go like this. He was the type who never showed his true colors, more akin to a cold-blooded man than a prodigal son, even during his divorce from Princess Gladys and the nation's condemnation.
But why on earth, now that all that stigma has been cleared, does it end up like this?
It was utterly incomprehensible, yet no one dared to delve into it. It wouldn't have been a good idea to stir up a bomb that could explode at any moment.
A new round began while everyone was whispering and exchanging glances.
It was a wonder he was still conscious, yet Bjorn remained quite calm as he played. It was a tenacity that was almost terrifying, if not astonishing.
As the tide began to turn in Bjorn's favor, everyone's faces were filled with a sense of resignation. They'd probably be beggars by dawn, but it was still a better outcome than being carried away as corpses. It was just when Bjorn's victory was practically certain that an unexpected twist occurred.
Bjorn, who had been staring blankly at his own hand, let out a soft laugh mixed with a curse. For a moment, everyone's tense gaze turned to the Prince.
Bjorn, who had been idly looking at the cards with downcast eyes, let out a long sigh and put them down, as if he were giving up on a game he'd already won.
“Hey, Bjorn?”
Peter now looked at him with a face filled with genuine concern. Bjorn, who had been leaning back in his chair, staring at the cigar-smoked ceiling, stood up, running his hand through his tangled hair.
"What? Are you really quitting? What's the stakes?"
Those who had been watching Bjorn, who had suddenly given up, now turned their gaze to the poker chips piled up on Bjorn's seat.
“Share it.”
Bjorn, who had thrown out that one word as if annoyed, left the card room without a single glance back. The sound of the door slamming loudly echoed, and the card players, who had been holding their breath, let out a collective sigh.
“What kind of team came out to do that?”
Peter, barely regaining consciousness, scrambled to his feet and approached Bjorn's seat. The growing embarrassment he felt as he flipped over each card turned into panic the moment he saw the last card.
“You don’t have a fatal disease, do you?”
They looked at each other with astonished eyes, but no one answered Peter's stammered question.
The hand the Prince discarded was a straight flush.
***
It snowed.
Bjorn realized it as he staggered toward the carriage. A cold, soft touch tickled his cheek, and he raised his head, only to find snowflakes fluttering in the darkness, filling his vision. It was the first snowfall of the winter.
Bjorn stood there, dumbfounded, staring at the night sky as snow began to fall. His occasional laughter and curses quietly filtered through the snowflakes.
Of all things, that pattern came out.
A straight flush. A lucky hand that had drawn him into that pitiful betting game, one he could never lose.
So, he won. That was all he knew. He never dreamed that he would be so easily defeated and knocked out by such a sloppy counterattack.
“Are you alright, Prince?”
The coachman, who had been watching from a few steps away, approached cautiously. Bjorn waved him off as he tried to help him up. Despite being utterly drunk, he remained conscious. Perhaps even that was just an illusion brought on by the extreme intoxication.
Why.
After receiving the divorce papers, the questions that had been nagging at him began to swirl around in his head like snowflakes.
Why, why on earth did your love, which seemed like it would last forever, disappear?
He was maddeningly curious. Was it because of Gladys's truth? Because of the miscarriage? Or because of his own past actions? Of course, this shitty day was probably the result of all those worst things combined, but even so, Bjorn couldn't accept this reality. To endure it alone, to collapse alone, to disappear alone, and then to announce the end like this, was a cowardly and degrading act.
“Excuse me... Prince?”
The coachman's anxious voice was heard, but Bjorn remained fixed on the night sky. The snow, its infinite cold and softness, brought back memories of Erna, sinking quietly into the depths of his heart.
Every moment was love.
Bjorn knew all too well the feelings Erna had for him, expressed in her gaze, her smile, and even the smallest gestures. That made it even more unbelievable. That Erna's love had ended this way.
I don't know.
Even if it was my fault, how could you abandon me like this?
The hypocritical laughter dissipated along with the white breath.
She gave him everything, and then in an instant, she took it all away. Without a word. Without even a chance.
Bjorn slowly opened his eyes and faced the coachman. It took just enough time for the snowflakes that had settled on his long eyelashes to melt and disappear before he slowly pulled his lips away.
“...Go to the station.”
The gray eyes that had finally regained focus were as cold and settled as the night.
“Hey, when you say station, are you talking about the station where the train stops?”
The astonished coachman questioned, but Bjorn got into the carriage without giving any answer.
It was snowing, and he had an answer he absolutely had to hear from the woman.
That was enough reason for the carriage to head to Schwerin Station that night.
***
She woke up to the howling of wild animals.
After blinking a few times, Erna finally remembered that she was in Burford.
Erna, who had been staring blankly at the ceiling beyond the darkness, let out a sigh of resignation and got up, turning on the lamp. She decided not to make the pointless effort to fall back asleep. She knew it would only deepen her thoughts.
Erna, wearing the shawl she'd left on the bedside chair, slowly approached the window and opened the curtains. From beyond the complete darkness, devoid of any light, came the faint howl of a wolf. A belated regret for having used the guest bedroom came flooding back, along with memories of Bjorn, who had stayed with her there last spring.
Erna leaned against the windowsill, gazing at the familiar scenery. It was absurd that the memories of a mere few days could overwhelm the long years she'd spent in this room, but she didn't try to deny it.
She loved him.
She loved Bjorn with all her heart. She loved him so much that she hated herself, almost to the point where she wondered if it was possible.
It was such a love that it left such a deep and clear mark.
The day she was able to acknowledge that truth, Erna awoke from a long sleep. Sometimes, the sudden onslaught of fond memories would cause her heart to sink and tears to flow, but she humbly accepted the pain.
As the clock struck midnight, the howling of the wolves subsided.
Erna closed the curtains and threw more firewood into the dying fireplace. She also tidied up the books and scraps of cloth on the desk. She decided not to touch the rose wine her grandmother had brought to prepare for sleepless nights. It was time to do so.
Erna, who had been staring silently at the flames, turned away with a silent sigh. As she lay back down on the bed, memories of that spring day came flooding back.
Throughout their stay at Baden, Bjorn slept with Erna on this old, narrow bed. This was such a surprise and delight that Erna couldn't sleep well into the night.
She gazed at Bjorn's sleeping face, then gently stroked his fine, soft hair. She felt the warmth of his body as they lay pressed against each other, and sometimes she listened intently to his heartbeat.
Then there was a night when Bjorn woke up.
Erna, who realized this too late, tried to get up quickly, but Bjorn reached out and wrapped his arms around her back. He was literally lying on top of her.
'Stop sleeping, wife.'
He smiled, putting strength into his arms as he held Erna, who was struggling.
'It must be heavy and uncomfortable.'
'It's okay, Erna.'
The voice was affectionate, mixed with a soft sigh.
'Because if we switch positions tomorrow night, it'll be fair.'
The words he added while chuckling were not like that, though.
Erna, who had been stiff, gradually found stability under Bjorn's hand stroking her spine. For the first time in her life, having someone she could freely lean on and rely on was a strange yet sweet feeling.
That was Bjorn.
Erna counted the number of tears, pressing her palm against her eyes. She could feel the warm tears flowing down her palms.
As she counted to ten again, her memories shifted. Back to that harsh summer, when she had confronted Bjorn, who had told her she was nothing more than a harmony that existed for him.
He was also Bjorn.
Erna clutched the quilt with her soaking wet hands. The tears that hadn't stopped flowing silently, soaking her earlobes and pillowcase.
I wish I could not love you.
Now, useless regrets came, but they didn't stay for long.
I loved a man I couldn't help but love. It was an incredibly lonely and difficult unrequited love.
Although that love ended with only this pain, Erna had no regrets. No lingering attachments. That was all that mattered.
As the tears stopped flowing, Erna closed her eyes calmly.
She really hopes the mail carriage comes tomorrow.
That was all Erna wanted now.
***
The moment the train started to move with the horn blaring, a man who had been running on the platform jumped into the carriage.
The conductor, who had just finished checking tickets and was on his way out, flinched and took a step back. The last man to board, a tall man, emanated a strong, head-splitting odor of alcohol. He had a neat appearance, but no matter how you looked at him, he looked like a drunk.
“The ticket...”
Just as he was about to speak, the man handed him a ticket. It was definitely the night train to Burford.
It was a first-class ticket.
After the ticket check was completed and the man stepped back, he staggered across the aisle of the carriage. The conductor ensured he had safely entered the compartment indicated on his ticket before moving on to the next car.
Now that he thinks about it, it looks familiar somehow.
Although he felt a strange feeling belatedly, he didn't think long and just focused on his mission.
The train began to speed up into the darkness where sleet was falling.
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