Chapter 15
Around that time.
Frédéric was rattling down a shabby country road in a creaky cart, disguised as a humble farmer.
On the cart sat his prize—the guillotine he’d stolen from Lirondelle.
The traffickers’ original guillotine was a rusted, reeking abomination, practically falling apart. There was no way he’d try to smuggle *that* hunk of junk across the border.
As the cart bounced along, Frédéric found himself reminiscing about the first time he’d ever dropped the blade with his own hands.
In that moment, he had become a ghost.
A transparent being—unseen, yet all-seeing. A man who’d stepped outside the world and found clarity there.
Looking back, maybe he hadn’t wanted to kill so much as he’d wanted to die. Maybe death had always been what he was chasing. Otherwise, he would've abandoned the fleeting thrill of espionage long ago.
Because of his noble birth, foreign agents had approached him early on. A noble spy wouldn’t draw suspicion, after all. At first, it was just for some extra coin—minor classified tidbits went for a decent price. But as he grew greedier, bolder, the business consumed him. Before he knew it, he was caught in a web of secrets, blackmailed by enemies and allies alike. One misstep led to another, and soon, he’d dragged his entire family into the mess.
To make matters worse, the Radical Party got wind of it, and shadows began closing in.
In Tranlene, espionage meant death. If he didn’t make it to Gertner soon, he wouldn’t make it at all.
Even if it had been a marriage of convenience, he’d wronged his wife.
He’d asked her to identify a corpse pulled from the river as her husband and to slip a wedding ring onto the dead man’s finger as proof. She had agreed without complaint. He hadn’t expected her to lose the ring later in a brothel, but she’d scrambled to have a replica made. *“I can’t let the family name be stained,”* she’d said. As for his disappearance? She couldn’t care less. If anything, she’d seemed relieved to be rid of him.
Well, none of that mattered now. In another country, finding another guillotine would be nearly impossible. But with this one... a new job, a new life awaited.
Chuckling bitterly at his own foolishness, Frédéric glanced fondly at the guillotine stolen from Brothel Lirondelle.
Right. With this, he could play the ghost again—whenever he pleased.
He was nearly drunk on the thought—until—
“Um—”
A woman’s voice cut through his reverie like a blade.
“...Frédéric-sama?”
That voice—he knew it.
“Josée...!”
Frédéric’s instincts kicked in. He reached for his gun.
But Josée was faster.
She drew her pistol and fired without hesitation.
*Bang!*
“Yeek!”
The gun flew from Frédéric’s hand as the shot rang out. His face turned pale.
Worse, the gunshot spooked the horse. It reared in panic, throwing the cart into chaos.
“Whoa—!”
Frédéric was tossed from the cart, landing hard on his back. He looked up to see Josée looming over him from horseback, calm and composed.
“Y-You can *shoot*!?”
“Hehe. More fun than the guillotine, don’t you think?”
“D-Don’t...!”
Before he could say more, a chorus of shouting echoed from behind.
“It’s Representative Fédor!”
“Move! Surround him!”
Officers who had been trailing Josée stormed in, encircling the cart.
Josée calmly lifted the hem of her mourning dress and holstered her pistol at her thigh.
Frédéric, now bound in ropes, was dragged to his feet. As he passed her, he sneered bitterly.
“Playing the righteous one now? You’re just another spy, aren’t you?”
Josée said nothing. She kept her eyes fixed forward, her expression unreadable.
Frédéric clicked his tongue in disgust.
She turned to the guillotine in the cart—dismantled, stripped of its menace.
“How wretched,” she murmured.
Bernard appeared at her side.
“Taking it back to the brothel?”
“You volunteering to help? That’s rare. What’s come over you?”
“Call it a thank-you—for your cooperation.”
“...I see.”
The cart, now hitched to a fresh horse, rolled slowly off into the night.
***
A few days later.
Josée sat reading the newspaper.
*“Royal Capital Police raid Fédor estate. Copies of classified documents from multiple nations discovered. Representative Fédor’s espionage confirmed. The Liberal Party has suspended his membership, pending official charges and removal from office.”*
She exhaled in relief. No mention of her.
This was Château Fournier, after far too long. With surveillance lifted, the courtesans were finally enjoying a proper garden party. Even in their absence, the roses had grown strong—thorny, budding, resilient.
Josée popped the cork on a bottle of wine and inhaled the fragrance.
“That poison from that day...”
She winced, squeezing her eyes shut as if warding off a headache.
“Josée-sama.”
Marc entered the room with his usual quiet dignity.
“Serge-sama is here.”
“...I see.”
She rose and led Serge to the reception room, just as always.
“Josée, you’ve completed a major job. Here—your bonus.”
He placed a thick stack of bills in front of her.
Josée stared at the money for a long moment, then raised her eyes to Serge—sharp and accusing.
“Hey.”
“...What?”
“That day we first met—Serge, you were the one who poisoned the wine, weren’t you?”