"Apologize for what you just said. The Mother Superior is not someone who deserves to hear such words."
"Ha, fine! I’ll apologize! If you can cure all our children within a week!"
It was an absurd demand. Just as Sister Anna was about to flare up again, Roxana, who had been thinking for a moment, stepped forward and replied.
"Very well."
"Sister Roxana!"
Sister Anna called out to her in shock, but it was useless. As if driving a wedge into the conversation, Roxana stated clearly, "One week."
"……."
"I will have them cured in one week. Keep your promise. The children are safe for now, so please take your leave for today."
The method was to go directly to the castle of the Marquess of Russell and ask for help. As expected, the two sisters, who knew Roxana’s circumstances, were vehemently opposed to the idea. However, once she had made the declaration to the villagers, there were no other options. Roxana, being the youngest and most agile, was the best fit to go to the castle.
Because it was early winter, the sun set quickly. Before it got any later, Roxana packed her bags and climbed onto an old mule. She smiled at the two sisters, who were pacing anxiously.
"I’ll be back soon. Please make sure the children’s conditions don't worsen."
"Sister Roxana, the night is dangerous, as you know. Please, leave when the sun rises."
"It’s alright, Sister Elin. You know we don't have the time."
"At least wake the Mother Superior and ask for her opinion."
"She finally managed to get some sleep after such a long time. She would surely forbid it, and I don't have the time to persuade her as well."
Their eyes, filled with worry, wavered. Roxana took Sister Anna’s hand firmly, as if to reassure her, and made a vow.
"I promise. I will return with a physician within a week. And the medicine, too."
***
It was a grueling journey. She didn't even spare time for sleep, braving the nights outdoors and filling her stomach with the hard bread and water she had packed. As she drew closer to the territory of the Marquess of Russell, Roxana recalled the last time she had seen Curtis’s face.
It was about half a year after the House of Dalton had burned to the ground. He had visited the convent once. The moment she saw his profile, she tried to retreat and hide, but he was one step faster.
"Roxana."
She fled to a dead end, but her back soon hit the wall. His smiling face drew near. It was a bright, handsome face, sculpted like a statue, but Roxana knew that the angrier he was, the more he smiled.
"Incredible, Roxana. The Mother Superior has nothing but praise for you. How did you manage to wrap her around your finger?"
She didn't understand a word of what he was saying. However, she could see that he was in pain. The mere act of looking at her—of all people—was agony. Every breath, every tone, and every glance of his was etched with a deep, dark nightmare.
The one who had planted that nightmare in him was none other than her father. Roxana kept her mouth shut instead of answering. Perhaps interpreting her silence in his own way, Curtis’s gaze turned even more savage.
"Answer me. Have you really become a mute in the meantime?"
What he wanted was likely to see her face twisted in pain. Roxana thought back to the day she had left for the convent. Thinking that this would be the last time she would see him, she had desperately wanted to offer an apology on her father’s behalf. But to the man, her apology was like hearing a trivial, nonsensical joke; he didn't even twitch an eyebrow.
Roxana, who had been quietly avoiding his gaze, suddenly noticed something and placed her hand on his cheek. After a moment of surprise, Curtis curled up one corner of his mouth.
"Have you finally decided to change your tactics?"
Curtis wrapped his hand around the back of hers and brought her palm to his lips. His hot breath touched her skin. She flinched, but Roxana reached into her robes with her other hand and held out an ointment.
"You have a wound. It’s good for shallow cuts."
His gray pupils, filled with heat, wavered for an instant. It was so brief that she thought it might have been a mistake.
*Thwack.*
"I don't need it. How do I know you haven't mixed poison into it?"
The ointment, which she had painstakingly gathered herbs to crush and dry, rolled across the floor.
"Hee-haw!"
She was jolted from a light doze by the mule’s pained cry. Roxana opened her eyes in surprise and dismounted. As if waiting for her to get off, the mule let out a ragged breath and collapsed on the spot. Traveling for two days and nights without rest had been too much for the old animal. After checking on the mule, Roxana finally picked up the luggage she had tied to it.
"I'm sorry."
Every second was precious. As she racked her brain for how to overcome this crisis, she spotted a farmhouse.
She hesitated at the door handle, but the owner opened the door, sensing someone’s presence. The moment their eyes met, both of their eyes widened.
"Who is... Miss Roxana?"
The owner of the farmhouse was none other than Mary, her former maid.
Only after giving water to the exhausted mule and letting it rest in the stable were the two able to sit down and speak heart-to-heart.
"I was so worried after what happened to the estate."
"We are doing well. Fortunately, the Marquess accepted everyone as his own subjects and gave each household land to cultivate, so everyone is eating well and living comfortably. They say it’s actually better than before... oh."
The moment Mary realized her slip of the tongue, she flinched. Just then, the newborn baby sleeping in the cradle burst into tears. Mary jumped up and cradled her son in her arms to soothe him.
"That was a slip of the tongue. I’m sorry."
"No. I’m actually relieved to hear you’re doing well. You got married."
"To a man I met here. He’s not exactly handsome, but he’s sincere and kind, so I married him for that alone."
Roxana smiled faintly at her playful remark.
Curtis Russell had kept his promise. He was a man who seemed to have neither blood nor tears, but he was thorough in such matters. Even though his sharp, cold eyes were terrifying, this was the very reason she had broken her vow to never leave the convent. It was because of her belief that he was a man who would never break a debt of gratitude or a promise.
"By the way, I never thought such a thing would happen. I thought you had died, Miss."
"The Marquess saved me without anyone knowing. Thanks to him, I survived and became a nun."
"Now that I think of it..."
Mary scanned Roxana’s attire. It was old and worn, but what she saw beneath the robe was clearly a nun’s habit. Her eyes were as kind as they had always been, but for some reason, Roxana seemed more resolute and hardened. She had likely endured much during her time away.
Mary, having laid her son back in the cradle, asked cautiously, "Have you already taken your final vows?"
"Not yet."
She had completed her time as a novice, but for some reason, the Mother Superior had not contacted the diocese to proceed with the final vows. She only said it was still too early. Seeing the shadow cross Roxana’s face, Mary immediately changed the subject.
"No, that’s not the issue right now. More importantly, how did you get all the way here? And all by yourself, at that?"
Getting lost in memories of the past had been a momentary lapse. Returning to reality, Roxana took both of her hands.
"I’m ashamed to ask, but could you help me one more time?"
***
Roxana secretly hitched a ride on a wagon driven by Mary’s husband. It was the last wagon of a merchant caravan.
"It’s strange. This is the first time I’ve ever had a nun in my wagon."
"I beg of you. I will stay quiet."
"Since you’re an old friend of Mary’s, of course I have to help. They say you paid for all the expenses when Mary’s younger brother was severely injured in his leg, right?"
"It wasn't much of a help. I’m embarrassed."
"What do you mean, not much? Thanks to you, my brother-in-law is now perfectly healthy and working as a tanner’s apprentice."
"That’s a relief."
"Stay quiet inside the crate. It won't take long to reach the Lord’s castle, so when we arrive at the destination, give two loud coughs."
"I understand."
Roxana quickly climbed into the empty crate. It was just the right size, and she had to fold her knees and curl her body as tightly as possible to fit.
"If you get caught, it won't end with just being kicked out, so stay absolutely silent."
The moment Roxana nodded and John closed the lid of the crate, someone approached dangerously close. It was the manager of this caravan.
"You there! Everyone else is in their saddles, so why are you fidgeting?"
"Ah, my apologies. I was checking the items inside the crate. I was worried something might have broken."
"I see. You’d better be extra careful. Your head might be the price if you aren't."
"Yes."
John scratched the back of his head and stepped into the stirrup of the horse next to the wagon. The horses, stomping their hooves, began to move. Another driver, who had been holding the reins alongside him, glared at the manager as he walked away.
"I don't know why that guy has to be so difficult. He’s been riding us hard since the very first day."
"Tell me about it."
Just then, a driver from the next wagon, who had been listening to their conversation, chimed in.
"Shh. Watch your tongue."
"What?"
"That wagon you’re hauling. Do you know who it belongs to? It’s covered in white cloth, so I don't know what’s inside, but it’s likely luxury goods that commoners like us couldn't even dream of."
"……So, whose is it?"
"Lean in."
As they leaned their bodies as far as they could, the driver whispered, covering his mouth with his hand.
"The Duke. These are all tributes to be presented to His Excellency."
"What?"
Normally, carrying people in the wagons was forbidden. However, since one or two people usually went unnoticed and undetected, it was a common side job to take a small bribe to carry someone in a pinch for a short distance, with everyone turning a blind eye. Even if they were caught by their employer, they might get a scolding, but it wouldn't be a major offense.
But if the owner of this procession was the Duke of this country, it was a different story. Wasn't he the "Iron-Blooded Duke," famous for being strict and sharp as a blade? Even at the young age of thirty, he was known to be cruel when it came to principles. The incident where he had executed a close aide on the spot for raising taxes was secretly well-known. Let alone if it were a tribute for the King...
At the sight of John’s pale complexion, the driver tilted his head.
"Are you feeling sick or something?"
"Ah, no."
John, barely managing to lower his voice, gripped the reins tightly with a face he hoped looked indifferent.
If he were caught, it would be the end.
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