Chapter 03
Arthur woke up as the faint blue dawn light began to fade.
The state he found himself in couldn’t truly be called sleep, but it wasn’t entirely sleeplessness either—an old habit he had grown accustomed to over the years.
Moving slowly, he got out of bed, took a cigarette from a silver box, and went to the window. The chill air creeping through the gap in the curtains was biting, and the morning felt as though it could freeze solid. The sky, heavy with gray clouds, looked like it could burst into snow at any moment.
Arthur lit his cigarette, brushing back his disheveled hair, and leaned against the window frame. His gaze wandered to a portrait on the opposite wall, and his eyes met the boy’s in the painting.
Through the smoke wafting in the air, Arthur stared at the boy who had once called this room his own.
The painting, created after the boy’s ceremony to become the crown prince, showed a child trying to look dignified, though it failed. The royal artist seemed to have focused more on capturing the charm of a six-year-old child than his attempt at maturity.
Ehirie Luciano von Maximilian.
A crown prince who lived only six short years—Arthur’s twin brother.
Arthur narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brow, a habit of his when deep in thought. He inhaled deeply, drawing smoke into his lungs until his cheeks hollowed.
Gray eyes. Reddish-brown hair. A slightly crooked nose.
The figure that formed vividly in his mind vanished with the smoke that dispersed into the air.
Please, let him be alive.
Snapping out of his thoughts, Arthur pulled on a robe and rang the bell to announce he was awake. It was the start of an unusually early morning.
By the time Arthur arrived at his office, his advisor greeted him with a respectful bow. The winter chill still clung to Arthur after his early morning ride around the grounds of Bern Palace.
The advisor waited for Arthur to sit before beginning his report on the day’s affairs.
“Last night, there was a large firearms transaction in the Usherborn (place where illegal activities, particularly the large-scale arms trade, are taking place.) area.”
Arthur glanced at the document Theo Archibald placed on the desk. It detailed the types and quantities of weapons smuggled by the temporary Weildan Republican Army. The arsenal suggested they were gearing up for war—for independence from the Bern United Kingdom.
“They must have raised a significant amount of funds. Have we traced the flow of money?”
“We’re investigating that now.”
As he listened, Arthur flipped through the pages of the report, eventually pausing when something caught his attention. His sharp gaze landed on Theo, prompting him to elaborate.
“The money, one hundred pounds withdrawn regularly each month from a ghost account, was traced back to her.”
The woman had barely crossed his mind since that fleeting encounter. Now, she was suddenly thrust into the spotlight.
Christine faledon.
The name stirred faint ripples in his memory. Theo added further details.
“Born in Bern in 1877. The family includes only her mother, Anna Faledon. She joined the Gounod Opera Company nine years ago.”
Nine years ago.
That seemed young to join a company. Of course, there were parents vile enough to drag their children into such places for reasons far from artistic ambition.
Could her parents have been like that?
Arthur leaned back in his chair. Sunlight slanted across the desk, illuminating the woman’s photograph attached to the report.
Her jet-black hair and porcelain-white skin created a striking contrast. She had a delicate frame, like a flower bending in the spring breeze. It was astonishing to think such a fragile figure could command an audience with powerful vocals and stage presence.
Arthur tapped the photograph with his finger.
“Any connections between her and the Weildan Republican Army?”
“None so far.”
Last night’s conversation with the nobles resurfaced in Arthur’s mind.
‘Shut up, Samuel. Christine Faledon? Plenty of men have claimed to have been with her. Maybe one day, I’ll get lucky too.’
So, even Roman Deimos is just a man, huh?
Arthur’s gaze shifted from the photograph to the newspaper beside it. The front page featured Charlotte’s husband, Duke Deimos, arriving in the country. The cheering crowd at the central station made it seem more like a royal procession than the arrival of a duke.
It blurred the lines—who truly ruled Bern?
Though there was no solid evidence linking Duke Deimos to the infamous kidnapping and murder of the twin princes twenty years ago, Arthur was certain the truth lay hidden in the shadows behind the man.
“What do we do about the woman?”
Arthur glanced at his pocket watch before lighting another cigarette. He stood by the window, looking out at the snow-covered courtyard.
“Keep an eye on her for now.”
The fierce wind rattled the tree branches, scattering snowflakes like glittering dust.
A duke and a young opera singer—it was an intriguing and surreal connection. Arthur’s gaze grew thoughtful as he stared into the distance.
Christine carefully opened the hospital room door.
The air was stagnant, filled with the sharp scent of disinfectant and bitter medicine. Swallowing the unease these smells brought her, Christine schooled her expression.
Anna was seated by the window, her back turned. Mrs. Nora was nowhere in sight. Unaware of her visitor, Anna gazed at herself in a small hand mirror.
“Mother.”
Christine approached the bed, her voice gentle. Anna turned, her face lighting up.
“My dear, you’re here!”
Her pale face beamed under the harsh winter sunlight, exposing the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. Illness had aged her far beyond her years.
Pushing aside her sorrow, Christine removed her worn gloves and faded scarf, hanging them neatly. The doctor’s words—though her mother’s condition hadn’t improved, it hadn’t worsened—felt like a small comfort.
Her only family.
Anna’s frail hands, thin and bony, cupped Christine’s cold face.
“It must be freezing outside.”
“Christmas is near, Mother. Where’s Mrs. Nora?”
“She stepped out to the bank. My hair’s a mess today, dear. Would you help me fix it, Christine?”
“…Just a moment, Mother.”
Christine draped her gray coat over the chair and sat at the edge of the bed.
“Here’s the brush.”
Anna’s red hair, once full and vibrant, now hung limp and thin—a result of the harsh treatments. As Christine gently brushed her mother’s hair, Anna murmured,
“The duke might visit. I can’t look like this. He’ll be disappointed.”
Christine froze for a moment.
She loved her mother deeply but sometimes resented her. And in those moments, she hated herself for feeling that way—like now.
Suppressing her frustration, Christine resumed brushing.
“The duke was always so kind,” Anna continued. “He loved hearing me sing. When things improve, he’ll surely come back. He won’t abandon us. So don’t—”
“Mother.”
Christine cut her off firmly.
“Don’t talk about him here. Especially not in front of Mrs. Nora. Understand?”
Anna looked away, her expression like a sulking child.
Christine was only sixteen when Anna was diagnosed with tuberculosis. From that moment, the responsibility of providing for their family had fallen entirely on Christine’s shoulders.
The opera wages barely covered their expenses, let alone her mother’s medical bills. After borrowing from the theater and her friend Daisy, she had no one left to turn to.
Plenty of “gentlemen” had approached her backstage, offering money in exchange for a night. But Christine wouldn’t stoop so low. She wouldn’t let her family sink further into despair.
So, she had gone to Duke Deimos herself, knowing full well she was walking into a trap.
“‘My bloodline, you say? Why should I believe a nobody trying to blackmail me?’”
Those had been the duke’s first words to her.
In that instant, any shred of hope she’d clung to had vanished.
“‘Anna Faledon. Does that name ring a bell?’”
“‘Who? I have no idea who that is.’” The duke’s sharp tone had cut through her last ounce of resolve.
