Obituary 3

Chapter 3

***

“Oh, I see you conversed quite fluently with the Ambassador of Antaka earlier. Antaka? I have a friend there too. What was your mother’s maiden name?”

Someone asked as if pleased to meet her.

“D’Tua.”

Rose responded to the man's feigned familiarity with a perfunctory smile and a clichéd nod.

Her mother was indeed an Antaka, but calling her a noble was a stretch.

Her maternal grandfather was the third son of a low-ranking Antaka noble. He inherited neither title nor fortune, nor could he provide either to his children. What he did pass down, however, was a pride as ambiguous as his standing.

Her mother, who resembled her grandfather...

No.

I can’t.

Rose ruthlessly cut off the thoughts that had begun to flow freely.

She didn't want to think about her mother. Especially not here, where everyone was so busy watching to see what mistake she might make.

"So, how did your mother end up living in a place like Bolton?"

Even seemingly innocent questions like this, remarks that treated living in Bolton as equivalent to choosing the lowest rung of life, no longer surprised her.

When she first arrived here, she had been shocked to realize how excessive the contempt for Bolton was, far beyond what she'd imagined. But hearing such things daily, she was starting to get used to it.

"I hear there was another massive strike in Bolton recently. And women participated in that kind of antisocial collective action! I've heard Bolton women do all sorts of things, but... it's unthinkable in Orthuran. How! I simply can't imagine it."

"Oh, don't be surprised.”

Rose managed a smile without much effort.

"The people of Orthuran already have plenty to be proud of. They don't need to be as imaginative as those in Bolton."

The fact that such a simple sentence as 'Their imagination is so poor, that's why' required such a long explanation was maddeningly frustrating.

For a country where machinery was so advanced, it was remarkably inefficient in its way of speaking.

Now Ray Crawford was staring intently at her. Perhaps signaling her to be quiet.

Rose smiled at her husband and continued nonchalantly.

"What about Her Majesty Queen Catherine, especially? I heard you had an audience with her a few days ago? Please tell me about it. I don't get to see her often, so I'm always curious."

Whenever she wanted to change the subject, bringing up the ruler of Orthuran never failed to work.

The Orthurans, fascinated by her as someone from a country without a king, sometimes even pitying her, would enthusiastically launch into lengthy speeches about their monarch.

Their arrogance was remarkable—interpreting her simple curiosity as admiration mixed with envy.

"His Majesty is remarkably robust for his age. While the rulers of this land have always been so, he truly is exceptional..."

Listening to the world's most tedious story, Rose watched the pianist performing in the corner of the hall.

The pianist's hands gradually slowed as the nocturne neared its end.

The piece chosen was a famous one, and it was splendidly performed, as befitting its fame. The playing was flawless. The aftertaste of the wine she had sipped moments before was bitter.

<We found no particular reason to publish Miss Davis's composition.>

Recalling the brief, gloomy letter she'd received before her marriage, Rose felt an inexplicable ache in her wrist and unconsciously clenched and unclenched her fist.

Suddenly, it all felt meaningless.

Did this meaningless life, this marriage that felt like a lie, this country that ignored her, really matter so much?

As the publishers said, she wasn't particularly special, and if that was the case, then there was even less need to assert her pride and cherish herself.

She was nothing, nobody, in this vast world.

The moment she realized once more the truth her mother had tried so hard to awaken in her before dying, Rose's smile deepened.

* * *

Orthuran was a country where the sun rose late.

Having finished preparing to go out, Ray Crawford descended to the main hall on the first floor of the mansion. He greeted the butler while looking out the window at the still bluish morning sky.

He wanted to think it was the same morning as always—the same view, the same servants he saw every day—but...

"Where is Mrs. Crawford?"

He swallowed a lump as thick as sand and managed to utter the words.

The butler seemed quite surprised that Ray was inquiring about his wife so early in the morning.

And rightly so. Ray never mentioned her unless absolutely necessary, nor did he seek her out. The couple had remarkably little contact.

"She's out walking in the garden."

"At this hour?"

Ray repeated the butler's words quietly to himself.

It was seven in the morning.

"She's been out for quite some time."

What an absurd woman.

Ray wasn't so rash as to show his displeasure with his wife in front of the staff, but he couldn't help the criticism of her that arose spontaneously in his own mind.

"It seems she has something troubling her."

Though Ray completely disagreed with the butler's cautious report delivered in a lowered voice, he merely nodded.

The day before, a newspaper article had appeared about that woman's father meeting all sorts of city hall officials under the pretext of business.

The butler, who had clearly read that paper, seemed to guess that was the reason for the woman’s early walk.

Disturbed by that, huh. That woman.

As if.

It was a rather unconvincing guess.

In Ray's estimation, Rose Davis was quite brazen, much like her father.

Her expression in the embassy gallery room a few days ago was still vivid in his mind.

All sorts of insignificant people were gossiping about him, saying he'd made a marriage beneath his station.

It was ridiculous to react to every idle chatter of those pathetic people with nothing better to do, so he ignored it. But shouldn't she have reacted?

Even after witnessing the scene caused by her very presence, she just stood there silently, staring at him without a word.

So that woman...

How to put it? She was excessively composed.

There was no sign of proper guilt. No shame either.

Always that doll-like, expressionless face.

"I'll go out and see."

He didn't feel like it, but today he had something to confirm with her.

Ray Crawford stepped out into the garden, trying to shake off the sensation of humiliation he felt for the first time in his life—that unpleasant feeling that resurfaced whenever his wife reminded him of it, just when he thought he might forget.

But then, the woman came to mind. The one who had uttered those words in a voice like singing, so soft it didn't even sound like mockery. Despite all his efforts, he was instantly rendered speechless.

He had thought that since she had witnessed the kind of remarks her husband endured because of her existence, she might keep her mouth shut that evening. But that had been too much to hope for.

She would be perfectly quiet one moment, then blurt out something inappropriate the next.

Was she in her right mind?

Shifting the topic from the Bolton strike to the monarch of this country was not just audacious, it was downright dangerous.

In that brief exchange, King Orthuran became equated with the Bolton strike.

The woman would casually bring up this country's king whenever she was bored. As if the king were some light snack.

Fortunately, the Orthurans seemed oblivious, thinking she was merely fascinated and envious of the monarch's existence—that she had to be. But who knows.

A woman born in a land without a king, raised there her entire life...

"Do you think winning the war will make things better for us? Do you? Do you think we'll last long?"

Her father's words, muttered from his sickbed long ago, came back to him.

He hadn't understood his father's constant anxiety, as if the monarchy might collapse at any moment, but now he couldn't say his fears were overblown.

After all, the King of Planto had won the war only to end up on the executioner's block.

That woman kept reminding Ray of things he didn't want to recall.

Annoyingly so.

With irritation bubbling up to his throat, Ray stopped walking.

The woman sat on a bench, head bowed. There was nothing on the ground, yet her face and gaze were fixed downward.

Even without that, the petite woman looked like she might collapse.

Was she crying?

Pulling a cigarette from his pocket and placing it between his lips, Ray glanced at Rose absently.

Then again, even a woman who didn't particularly care if her husband got criticized for her sake might feel hurt about her father or her own reputation.

Honestly, just looking at her, it wouldn't have been strange if she cried at any moment. She looked like she'd cry easily.

Even if that wasn't the case, he thought it was about time she did cry.

Ray wasn't unaware that the Orthuran people treated her like an animal trapped in a zoo, or an actor in a circus troupe.

Even when Ray or his mother were watching, people made scratching noises occasionally; when they weren't around, it must have been worse.

But... her blank, expressionless face was irritating enough, but crying was even more unbearable. It was a hassle to comfort her.

Just as he was debating whether to turn back, Rose lifted her head.

Then she yawned.

Big. And long.