The gray-haired old gentleman placed flowers on the velvet and knelt. He slowly stroked the velvet wrapping the coffin with his wrinkled hands. His wrinkled face looked very haggard.
'Count Pison.'
He, famous as a great merchant, was the Marchioness's father and my maternal grandfather. He said nothing.
He was also one of the few people who knew the Marchioness's true cause of death.
He stroked only the velvet in silence for a long time. There were no farewells, nor blessings for the afterlife. He slowly straightened his knees and stood up. The Count's body swayed for a moment as if losing his balance.
"Oh!"
“Ah!”
"This!"
Startled screams and sorrowful groans escaped from among the crowd. In that brief moment, someone moved urgently and caught the Count's body just as it was about to slam into the ground. It was incredible reflexes.
'Who is it? A boy? A young man?'
His face was too mature for a boy, yet too youthful for a young man. The man helped the Count, who had practically collapsed, to his feet. As the Count stood up supported by the man, a faint smile, though barely noticeable, formed at the corners of his mouth.
'Is he the Count's man?'
My eyes met those of the man who was turning his head. His deep bluish-gray eyes stared at me as if piercing.
'Do you know me?'
The man's gaze toward me was practically blatant. I glared at him with wide eyes, as if determined not to be outdone by that inscrutable stare.
'What? Are you picking a fight with me?'
Just as I was starting to feel uncomfortable with the man’s gaze, which seemed about to lose its focus, he turned his head away first. Watching the back of his head as he moved while supporting the Count, I felt a sense of inexplicable emptiness.
Did I just get worked up over nothing for no reason?
The Count returned to his seat, supported by a man. Once back, the Count parted his lips toward the man. Although it was difficult to hear what was said from the distance, the man nodded politely and hurriedly left the funeral hall.
"..."
Before leaving, I thought I had met the man's eyes again, but I no longer had time to think about him. As the Marquis, followed by the Count, bid farewell to the Marchioness, the people who had been whispering and milling about nervously stepped forward one by one.
No one opened their mouth. And so, a wordless final farewell followed.
***
The Marchioness's funeral lasted for a full three days. Finally, the official funeral of the Marchioness came to an end with the Baron and his wife, whom I did not know and whose names I felt no need to remember.
Now, all that remained was the unofficial procedure.
Her body was burned in accordance with protocol in front of the Marquis and me. Blazing flames engulfed her body in an instant. Watching her turn into a handful of ashes, I felt a strange sensation.
There was a time when I craved her affection. I even tried acting like a good girl, hoping for her praise.
I even tried acting like a boy to attract her attention. However, I never once caught her eye. Her gaze was directed solely at the Marquis, and she was blindly devoted to him.
'If I had even the slightest resemblance to the Marquis, would she have taken an interest in me?'
I couldn't ask someone already dead. Even if she had been alive, I wouldn't have been able to get an answer.
She and I were alike in many ways. From our appearances to the lives we had lived, everything was strikingly similar. There is a saying that a daughter resembles her mother's fate. Just as she had gone mad loving the Marquis, I, too, loved a man madly. Unaware that this love was becoming poison and consuming me, I loved him again and again. I wondered if all women driven mad by love were the same, or if we were simply alike because we were mother and daughter.
She and I were exactly the same from beginning to end. I loved him who did not look at me, craved affection, and went mad with love, killing myself.
The flame burning her felt just like it was burning me, and my mouth tasted bitter.
I turned my head and looked at the Marquis's profile. Standing beside me, his face held no emotion, just as usual.
His navy blue hair turned red in the light. Is it just my imagination, or does his face, shadowed by the undulating flames, look a little sad?
He was only 41 years old. His handsome face, adorned with a dignified charm, and his muscular physique, comparable to that of a knight, were more than enough to captivate the hearts of women of all ages. Even when the Marchioness was still alive, there were many women who flocked to him.
He is not only exceptionally handsome but also the master of a powerful Marquisate. Moreover, his only officially known child is a single daughter who cannot inherit the family line. With her death, the position of Marchioness has become vacant. The Marquis currently has no heir to succeed him either. If one could secure a seat by his side, one could seize wealth and power in one hand.
From young girls who had just made their debut in society to widows who had lost their husbands, there were countless women vying for his company. Nobles with marriageable daughters also scrambled to present their daughters to him. Like a swarm of ants drawn to sweet candy, people coveting the position of Marchioness hovered around him.
He did not deal with the women who rushed at him, just as he had when the Marchioness was alive. The same was true for the nobles who pushed their daughters upon him. He even forbade members of his family from mentioning the matter.
'The Marquis did not take a second wife until the moment I died.'
He might not have hated her as much as I know. No, I want to believe he didn't. If she, who resembles me, was not hated by the person she loved to whom she threw everything, then perhaps I, too, could find comfort in the thought that I was not hated by the person I loved.
The flame that seemed as though it would burn forever died down, and finally, only her remains remained amidst the ashes. Her remains were placed in a small wooden box and handed to the Marquis. He held the box out to me. Following his wishes, I took the box with both hands. The box, which was no bigger than two hands, was much lighter than I had expected.
The Marquis drew a small knife. The blade, about a handspan long, looked incredibly sharp. He grabbed a handful of hair and brought it down. As the gleaming silver blade grazed it, his navy blue hair was snapped with a crisp sound. He gathered the hair and placed it inside the box containing her remains. It was the final ceremony before the remains were interred in the mausoleum.
It meant that the bond continues even after death by placing the hair of a direct blood relative together with the deceased's remains in the urn.
The Marquis cut off my hair as well. My golden-brown hair was mixed with the Marquis's navy blue hair and placed in a box. The Marquis closed the lid of the box and took it back from me. Now, all that remained was to place the box in the mausoleum.
Among the Marchioness's direct descendants, besides the Marquis and me, there was also her father, Count Pison. However, he could not stay until the very end of his daughter's funeral. The Count, who had stayed by the Marquis's side for three days straight despite his frail body, eventually collapsed with only the final procedures remaining. Even he, who was usually vigorous for his age, must have been unable to break down in the face of his child's death.
He lost his wife early and raised the Marchioness with great care all by himself. His devotion was so extreme that it was rumored to be exceptional even within aristocratic society. For such a man, the Marchioness's suicide must have been a tremendous shock.
He has not been able to get up since collapsing. The doctor diagnosed him with stress from a tremendous shock and overwork. Since we could not wait for him to recover, the Marchioness's funeral proceeded with only the Marquis and I in attendance.
The Marquis headed toward the ossuary carrying the box. I followed behind him.
"It seems I wasn't too late."
A woman was waiting in front of the ossuary. She bowed deeply toward the Marquis.
"I was waiting here because you can't enter the crematorium unless you are a direct descendant."
She covered her mouth with her hand and smiled shyly, as if she couldn't help it. Her eyes crinkled into a slender shape, curving like crescent moons. It was a smile that seemed to flirt with a man.
"You have no idea how worried I was that I might be late."
She wiped the smile from her face and approached us. The woman's face, devoid of the eye smile, looked as if she had never smiled.
She looked wretched. Her eyes, slightly drooping compared to the average person, made her impression even more sorrowful. The mole just beneath her eye complemented her look, appearing like a black tear.
Unlike her sad-looking face and melancholic aura, her figure wrapped in the black dress was incredibly sensual. The large, fair breasts visible through the black dress looked alluring even to me, a woman.
She rummaged through her bosom and pulled out a black silk pouch. Every movement she made was elegant and seductive, like a dance. As she opened the pouch, a handful of severed hair emerged. Spots of red were visible here and there among the white strands.
"I ended up acting rudely like this because I thought he would be very sad when he woke up."
Her eyes became moist. Her tears blended with the atmosphere she exuded, evoking a protective instinct in those who saw them.
She was the second wife of Count Pison. She could be called my maternal grandmother. Of course, she and I shared not a single drop of blood. She was five years younger than the Marchioness. There was a whopping 32-year age difference with the Count.
I heard that the former Countess of Pison, my real maternal grandmother, died giving birth to the Marchioness. The Count lived alone his entire life, unable to forget the deceased Countess. Then, suddenly, he remarried three years ago. And to a woman 32 years younger than himself.
In fact, among the nobility, marriages with an age difference of about 32 years were not unusual. Among powerful nobles, it was not uncommon for them to marry young ladies old enough to be their granddaughters.
The reason the Count's remarriage became a topic of conversation was not the 32-year age difference, but the fact that he had remarried at all. The remarriage of the Count, who seemed destined to live alone for the rest of his life, aroused curiosity among many people. Various rumors circulated, ranging from the theory that he was infatuated with a young lady to the claim that he had gone senile as he was nearing death.
'That certainly sounds plausible.'
Actually, when I saw the Countess, I thought that her unique aura might have played a part in the cause of such rumors.
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