Chapter 2

“But I have a fear of blood!”

Charlotte cried out, slamming her head onto the desk. She was so distressed that she felt like she might actually burst into tears.

Her hands shook just at the sight of blood. Her vision would swim, her knees would go weak—how in the world was she supposed to perform an autopsy?

Memories of her internship days flooded back—how she had fainted countless times, only to wake up in the infirmary, humiliated beyond belief.

“Ehem, Charlotte, still…”

Eugene hesitated, trying to console her.

But before he could finish, a cold, sharp voice cut in.

“So, are you saying you refuse to do it?”

The voice belonged to Amila, the director of the autopsy department.

Charlotte stiffened, then slowly got up, shaking her head.

“Director, I just…”

“Everyone in this facility performs autopsies. No exceptions. We’re always short on people, and the workload never gets any lighter.”

Amila crossed her arms, staring Charlotte down.

“If you were going to make a fuss about blood, we should have cut you loose during your internship. And yet, we accepted you as a full-time employee. Why do you think that is?”

Charlotte fell silent.

“Because you’re from a prestigious family? Because we were afraid of pressure from the nobility?”

“Come on, Director, that’s enough. It’s not like Charlotte outright refused—she’s just complaining a little because it’s hard…”

Eugene tried to defend her, but the sharp glare from the director made him shut his mouth immediately.

Without another word, Amila shoved a thick stack of documents into his arms and jerked her chin toward the door.

Burdened with yet more work, Eugene shot Charlotte a look of sympathy—only for it to quickly shift into one of self-pity as he remembered his own string of never-ending night shifts.

With a sigh, he left the room.

Amila turned back to Charlotte.

“The reason we accepted you wasn’t because of your family name. It was because you convinced us you could handle this job. That even if you vomited or fainted, you’d endure it.”

Her sharp gaze locked onto Charlotte, whose face was now flushed red.

“I still remember how you stood in front of me, screaming your head off about how you’d make it through no matter what. I trusted that.”

Charlotte swallowed hard, lowering her gaze.

“You do know, don’t you?” Amila continued.

“That everyone’s been covering for you. The others have been taking on the autopsies assigned to you, even though they’re just as busy. And I’ve been keeping you off the table whenever possible. Not because I want to spare you, but because I don’t see any reason to put you through unnecessary stress.”

A brief silence followed before Amila let out a sigh.

“But this time, there’s no choice.”

Her tone turned heavier.

“Even if the world is changing, nobles are still nobles. Do you think anyone here wants to risk getting caught up in a power struggle between aristocrats? We’re all just weak little shrimp—who would willingly get crushed between warring whales?”

Tl/N:The phrase “then it has to be a whale of our own” is a metaphor based on the earlier saying:
“We’re all just weak little shrimp—who would willingly get crushed between warring whales?” In this context, “whales” represent powerful noble families locked in a struggle, while “shrimp” symbolize the powerless commoners caught in the middle.

Charlotte’s breath caught.

“If we have no choice but to send someone into that mess,” Amila finished, “then it has to be a whale of our own.”

Charlotte nodded slowly.

The director’s words were cold, but she cared about her employees—Charlotte knew that much.

After a brief pause, Amila lifted a hand and gave her shoulder a firm, reassuring pat before stepping out of the room.

* * *

There’s no choice. I have to do this. This is my job. My duty. I am a proud citizen of the Essenharn Empire…

Charlotte muttered the words like a mantra, over and over.

But no matter how much she tried to steel herself, her heart continued to race uncontrollably. If this went on, she might not even be able to begin the autopsy today. And if that happened…

The body would start to decompose. She’d get scolded. The Turove family would flood the office with complaints. The situation would spiral into a complete disaster.

Charlotte shook her head furiously, forcing the terrifying thoughts away.

She took a deep breath, clenched her fists, and reached for the door handle of the autopsy room.

That was when—

A soft voice whispered behind her.

“…Charlotte?”

She turned around.

A woman in a black dress sat in the corner, her face concealed beneath a delicate veil.

As Charlotte watched, the woman carefully rose from her seat and spoke again.

“It’s you… isn’t it? Charlotte?”

“Uh…”

Charlotte frowned slightly in confusion.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but do we know each other?”

At that, the woman lifted her veil just enough to reveal her face.

Her complexion was deathly pale, as if she might collapse at any moment. But the faint light in the room caught the strands of red hair beneath her veil—gleaming like embers.

Charlotte’s eyes widened.

“Lucy?”

She stepped forward instinctively, her voice rising in shock.

The woman gave a weak, tired smile.

“Hello, Charlotte. It’s been a long time.”

Though she said it’s been a long time, Lucy’s voice was calm—so casual, it felt as if they had just spoken yesterday.

As she lowered her hand, the veil fell back over her face, shrouding her features once more.

“Lucy Hamilton! It’s been ages!”

Overcome with joy, Charlotte threw her arms around her.

Lucy let out a small, startled sound before gently returning the embrace.

But something felt… off.

She was so thin.

Lucy had always been slender, but never this frail. Charlotte frowned slightly, puzzled by how much her friend had changed.

Before she could dwell on it, Lucy let out a small chuckle and slipped out of her arms. The veil fluttered against her cheek, and with a slight look of annoyance, she glanced around before finally pulling it back, letting it drape behind her.

“I never imagined I’d see you here of all places,” she said. “I heard you were working, but…”

Charlotte gave a sheepish smile.

“Everyone says the same thing.”

And that was all she said on the matter.

Because, in truth—a noblewoman having a job at all was unusual.

Even as times changed, working for a living was still considered beneath the aristocracy.

And if that noblewoman was a lady?

It was seen as even worse.

Just having a job was already considered scandalous for a noblewoman—but working in an autopsy facility? That was beyond shocking.

Charlotte thought about her reputation in high society—the way it had crumbled to the very bottom.

A bitter sigh slipped from her lips.

Had someone else made a comment like Lucy’s, she might have responded with biting sarcasm. But she knew Lucy well enough to recognize the pure admiration in her words.

Lucy had always been that way.

She never mocked what was different, nor judged what she didn’t understand. She simply respected it.

“When we were at the academy, we were always stuck together…” Lucy murmured. “Remember? Every summer, I’d stay at your estate, and every winter, you’d come to mine.”

Charlotte felt a nostalgic tug at her heart.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “We did.”

“I always wondered how you were doing after we lost touch…”

“I wondered the same, Lucy.”

Lucy’s voice was warm, but for some reason, Charlotte felt oddly awkward.

A heavy silence settled between them, stretching into something unfamiliar.

Charlotte fidgeted with her fingers, unsure what to say.

And then—she realized.

How strange it was.

Back then, no matter how long the silence lasted, it had never felt uncomfortable.

“What brings you here?”

As Charlotte spoke, trying to shift the topic, Lucy’s face stiffened slightly.

“Ah, I…”

Lucy hesitated, unable to continue her sentence. She reached up and let the veil she had pushed back fall over her face again, only the corners of her lips lifting into a faint, self-mocking smile.

“Look at my clothes, Charlotte…”

Only then did Charlotte realize—Lucy was wearing mourning attire.

“Oh, my god. Lucy, don’t tell me… Turove Baron is…”

“My husband.”

Charlotte pressed her lips together, unsure of what to say. For a moment, the world around her seemed to blur.

Beyond the hazy veil, she saw Lucy’s expression contort faintly.

“…I was actually against the autopsy,” Lucy murmured.

“He was always a bit timid, you know. He was terrified of getting hurt…”

But—

His parents and siblings had insisted on it. They demanded it.

Charlotte already knew.

“Please, Charlotte.”

“Take care of him.”

Charlotte barely managed to nod.

Lucy sank back into the chair, her movements weak, lifeless.

She looked so fragile, shrouded in black.

Charlotte let out a slow, quiet breath. Then, without another word, she turned toward the autopsy room.

She placed her hand on the door. Pushed it open.

At the last moment, something made her glance back.

Through the narrowing gap, she saw Lucy lowering her hand, fingertips brushing over her veil as if adjusting it.

And beneath it—

Charlotte saw her lips, quivering faintly. Trembling.

A whisper of movement, shaping into something—but what?

Before she could tell, the door shut behind her.

And in that exact moment—

A thought surfaced in Charlotte’s mind.

“Why did Lucy and I stop keeping in touch?”

* * *

The autopsy process was anything but smooth.

Over the course of two hours and twenty minutes, Charlotte gagged twenty-three times, screamed fourteen times, dropped the scalpel seventeen times, and fainted once, only to be revived with a splash of cold water.

By the time she stumbled out of the autopsy room, she was half-conscious.

Still trembling, she washed up before dragging herself back to the office.

Lucy was nowhere to be seen—most likely having grown tired of waiting and left.

Maybe she’ll come back tomorrow.

Slumped in her chair, Charlotte found her thoughts drifting back to Lucy. But she quickly shook her head and reached for a pen.

She pressed the nib to paper, scrawling ‘Autopsy Report’ at the top.

Then, she bit her lip.

Her mind was a mess.

Her fingers, still weak from exhaustion, trembled faintly.

According to the initial reports, the first person to find Baron Turove’s body was a maid.

She had testified that, as part of her daily routine, she entered the baron’s chambers to clean.

She found him lying face-down on the bed.

Assuming that he had slept in after a night of heavy drinking, she left the room quietly, not wanting to disturb him.

Hours passed.

The sun inched toward the horizon, yet the baron never emerged from his chambers.

That was when his wife, Lucy, returned from an early morning trip to see a play and went to look for him.

The maid hurried back to his room to wake him—only to find him ice-cold.

Traces of vomit had been found near his mouth.

A simple assumption would be that he had drunk beyond his limit, passed out, and suffocated when his own vomit blocked his airway in his sleep.

Charlotte let out a deep sigh.

However, the autopsy revealed that the baron’s airway was clear.

There was no sign of obstruction, no indication that he had choked in his sleep.

Instead, traces of silver nitrate had reacted with the contents of his stomach.

A clear sign of arsenic poisoning.

Charlotte’s fingers anxiously drummed against the desk.

Who poisoned the baron?

Who stood to gain the most from his death?

Absentmindedly, she twirled her pen, her thoughts drifting—until her gaze landed on a name she had unknowingly scrawled across the paper.

Lucy.

Lucy Hamilton… no, Lucy Turove.

The Baroness.

By law, a widow inherited all of her late husband’s wealth and title.

With her husband gone, Lucy Turove had become a young, beautiful, and incredibly wealthy noblewoman.

If she remarried, both the title and fortune would transfer to her new husband.

With no children to complicate matters, suitors would line up at her door.

Who wouldn’t want a wife who could guarantee them a life of luxury?

If the baroness had been the culprit, she would have had countless opportunities to administer the poison.

She could have laced his wine.

She could have mixed it into his water, knowing he would drink it in his drunken haze.

She could have poured it straight into his mouth while he lay unconscious.

Had she truly poisoned her husband?