She froze. The air turned to ice in her lungs. The name struck her like a blade—sharp, cold, and devastatingly precise. She stood rooted to the earth, unable to sever her gaze from the stone. It was not a monument of grandeur, but one of tender simplicity. Delicate blue flowers had been scattered across its surface, their vibrant petals a cruel contrast to the grey, indifferent rock.
She did not hear Matthias approach. His footsteps were heavy, his silence a shroud. For a long time, he said nothing. Then, in a voice that was little more than a fractured whisper, he spoke:
"I named him Elias. Exactly as you asked... before he departed."
A violent shudder racked her frame, as if the very ground beneath her had splintered open. Her lips trembled, and when her voice finally broke through, it sounded like the splintering of glass.
"You... you mean to say... this is the grave of our child?"
You mean to say... this is where my child rests?"
The words were barely a whisper, a fragile thread that snapped as she collapsed before the headstone. Olivia sank to her knees, her fingers trembling as she traced the carved name, before throwing herself upon the small mound of earth.
She clawed at the dirt and the scattered flowers, her movements frantic, as if she could reach through the cold ground and embrace the tiny soul tethered beneath it.
"I am so sorry, my little one," she choked out, her voice fractured by a grief so primal it seemed to tear her apart.
"Forgive me... God, forgive me. I am a wretched mother... I wasn't there. I didn't say goodbye. Please... please, forgive me."
Her cries escalated into jagged sobs that cut through the morning air.
Behind her, Matthias stood like a man undone. Tears tracked down his own hollow cheeks, his face a portrait of doubled agony—grieving for the mother he had just buried, and for the wife and son whose loss now bled fresh before him.
He knelt beside her, gathering her shivering frame into his arms. He held her with a desperate strength, his hand stroking her back in a futile attempt to quiet the gale of her lamentation.
"Hush... be at peace. You are no failing mother; it was simply that your heart could not endure the parting. I am certain his soul rejoices in your presence."
From a distance, Isabella watched them. The woman before her was no longer the poised, untouchable Duchess of the court; she was a shattered mother, her dignity stripped away, her strength dissolved into the very soil of her child's grave.
"It seems," Isabella murmured to Leon, her voice heavy with sorrow as she squeezed his hand, "that today we have not buried one soul, but two."
Eventually, the storm of Olivia's grief spent itself. Exhaustion, cold and absolute, claimed her. She curled into the hollow of Matthias's chest, her sobs fading into shallow, rhythmic gasps until sleep finally pulled her under.
Matthias lifted her with a terrifying tenderness, as though she were a porcelain doll already spider-webbed with cracks, liable to shatter if held too firmly.
"To the carriage," Leon said softly, his eyes reflecting a shared gloom.
"Let us return to the manor."
Even in the depths of her unconsciousness, Olivia's hands refused to surrender. Her fingers remained curled around the blue petals she had gathered from Elias's grave, the delicate blooms clutched against her palm like a grim vow.
Throughout the journey back, Matthias watched her, the vultures of guilt picking at his mind. Had he known the cost of this confrontation, he would never have forced her to come.
When Olivia finally opened her eyes, the familiar shadows of her bedchamber greeted her. She lay upon the silk sheets, still clad in the stained mourning dress.
Her reflection in the bedside mirror was a haunting: eyes swollen and raw, lips ashen, her skin the color of parched bone.
She looked down at her hands. Grime and graveyard soil crusted her skin, but nestled within the dirt were the faded blue petals of Elias's flowers.
Her throat tightened. She forced herself to sit, her legs feeling like leaden weights. The room spun violently, and she nearly collapsed before the door swung open.
Isabella entered, her own face etched with fatigue. Seeing Olivia swaying on her feet, she rushed forward to steady her.
"Olivia! What are you doing? You are in no state—"
"Isabella... you are here."
Isabella pressed a glass of water into her hands. Olivia drank in a hollow silence until Isabella's gaze fell upon the crushed blue flowers Olivia still held with stubborn ferocity. As Isabella reached to take them, Olivia recoiled, pulling her hand away with a sudden, sharp violence.
"Olivia," Isabella said, her voice soft but laced with a biting pragmatism.
"You must learn to accept reality. Why do you cling to these... these scraps from a grave? Have you lost your mind? You keep his toys, his cradle, things you no longer have a use for—and now even the flowers from his resting place. Do you think me blind? You won't even let the maids clean his room!"
In a flash of unbridled rage, Olivia raised her hand to strike, but the strength deserted her mid-air. Isabella caught her wrist, holding it firmly. She didn't strike back; instead, her expression shifted into something far worse than anger: pity.
She leaned in, pressing Olivia's frail hands between her own. "Olivia," she whispered, her voice trembling with genuine empathy.
"I know today has torn open an old wound. But you must let it heal. You cannot bleed forever."
Olivia's chest heaved, every breath weighing tons. Finally, she exhaled a long, hollow sigh that seemed to drain the last of her spirit. She looked at Isabella with eyes that had seen the end of the world and gestured for her to sit.
"Enough of the funeral," Olivia said, her voice turning suddenly clinical, almost chillingly calm. "Since you are here, I have a task for you."
Isabella blinked, taken aback by the sudden shift. "What now? What could you possibly want from me?"
"You remember," Olivia began, her voice regaining a sharp, icy edge that cut through the lingering scent of grief, "when I told you I was going to meet that old hag, Talia?"
Isabella leaned back, her brow arching in curiosity. "I remember."
"Well, I had been thinking... there is a haunting resemblance in her features to the late Duchess.
I thought, perhaps, she could take her place. A silent shadow to ensure this cursed wedding proceeds without a tremor."
Isabella let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, the sound jarring in the somber room.
"You actually went to that madwoman and asked her to play the role of the woman who stole her husband?
Olivia, your brilliance is matched only by your audacity. And what was her charming response?"
Olivia's lips curled into a mirthless, self-deprecating smile.
"Naturally, she refused. Quite vehemently."
"I see," Isabella sighed, crossing her arms.
"So, where does that leave us? The secret funeral is done, the earth is fresh, but you know as well as I do that the Duchess's presence at the wedding is non-negotiable. She adopted Lily; her absence would be a beacon of suspicion.
So, what is the solution now, my little genius?"
Olivia stared at the blue petals in her hand, her eyes darkening with a resolve that bordered on the sinister. The grief was still there, a hollow ache in her chest, but it was being rapidly paved over by the cold stones of necessity.
"The solution," Olivia whispered, "is that if the dead cannot walk, we must ensure the living do not speak and do what we want.
I know that, unlike me, you are trusted within the walls of this palace," Olivia remarked, her gaze fixing on Isabella with a dark intensity.
"I am aware. Get to the point."
Olivia leaned in, the blue petals still clutched in her hand like a poisoned offering.
"I want you to poison the young lady, Emilia."