Chapter 21
**"The culprit is you."**
Bernard’s voice rang out as he pointed directly at Claude.
Caught off guard by the sudden accusation, Claude reeled in shock.
“Huh? There’s no evidence—why are you blaming *me*?!”
But Bernard, having already pieced everything together in his mind, began to explain calmly and methodically.
“That sleeve of yours. I suspect it’s been dyed green with arsenic, hasn’t it?”
Claude’s mouth opened, but no words came out. She choked on her reply.
“Let me take a closer look.”
Bernard stepped forward and lightly pinched the ruffled edge of her sleeve.
Even after all this time, the hem still felt damp to the touch.
“When Lady Deborah reached for the sweets, you must’ve dipped your ‘poisoned sleeve’ into her tea while she wasn’t looking. The arsenic from the fabric dissolved into the drink—that’s what killed her. And what seals your guilt is the tableware. You deliberately brought porcelain as a ‘gift’ beforehand, didn’t you? Because if she’d used the silver cutlery Lady Barbara provided, the arsenic would’ve reacted and exposed the poison immediately.”
Claude shot back, still desperate to deny it.
“That’s ridiculous! You don’t have any—”
“We *will* have the proof. That’s our job—*investigation*.”
“Wha—?!”
“You must’ve had someone dye those sleeves for you, right? If we question the seamstress at your estate, I’m sure we’ll find the truth. People take pride in their work—they don’t usually cover up crimes.”
“Tch...!”
Even without orders, the officers moved in. Claude tried to resist, but they grabbed her arms and held her fast.
Then—
“This world is *insane!!*”
Claude screamed.
Josée instinctively shielded a trembling Michelle.
Claude thrashed wildly, forcing Bernard himself to help subdue her.
“Why... *why* can’t I marry the one I love?!”
Her anguished wails echoed through the grand estate.
“And Deborah—she was *pregnant*?! That’s not fair! I *hate* it!”
Josée looked at the broken woman with somber eyes.
“What does rank matter? What does marrying first even *mean*?! Ugh... I won’t forgive *anyone* who gets in my way! *Just die,* all of you!!”
Michelle listened in silence to Claude’s cries before murmuring softly:
“...How foolish. We all feel the same way.”
Josée turned to her in surprise.
“Loving someone who doesn’t love you back… being loved by someone you *can’t* love... Isn’t life just full of that?”
The words didn’t quite sink in for sixteen-year-old Josée.
“Yeah... Nothing ever turns out the way you want, huh?”
Her world had been one of bloodshed and survival. She’d never known love, nor had she ever had the luxury of choosing her own path.
“Hey, *hold still*!”
Bernard grabbed a rope from one of his men and bound Claude’s arms with practiced efficiency. Still sobbing, she was dragged away from the estate.
Just then, two dresses—one red, one pink—moved.
“I’ve had enough. I’m cutting ties with Baron Aubry today.”
“Same here. This is just... not worth it.”
Berenice and Cassandre walked up to Barbara to declare the end of their association with the baron.
Though clearly stunned, Barbara quickly began restoring order, calling servants over to clean up the mess.
Josée and Michelle exchanged a glance.
“...Should we head back too?”
“Yeah.”
Left behind in the aftermath was a single tin of galettes.
Michelle picked it up with a cheerful hum and started walking.
After offering a courteous farewell to Barbara, Josée followed her out.
On the carriage ride back to the capital, Michelle opened the tin and asked:
“Hey Josée, have you ever been in love?”
Josée gave a sheepish smile.
“No.”
Her answer was blunt.
“Seriously? Don’t you *want* to fall in love?”
“Not really.”
“Wha—that’s such a waste! Love is *amazing*! It’s like a drug—or no, *poison*! It drives people *crazy*!”
Josée rolled her eyes and turned to the window.
*(Exactly why I want no part of it. Living your life consumed by something like that? No thanks.)*
Still—for some reason, Michelle’s words lingered in her thoughts.
As the silhouette of the capital came into view through Josée’s shadowed gaze, a loud *crunch* echoed beside her.
“Whoa~! Just like the rumors said—this galette is *delicious*!”
Josée glanced at Michelle, then at the pastry in her hand.
“…Looks good.”
“Here, have one!”
“Ah, thanks.”
“Want me to set you up with a nice guy?”
“I *said* I’m not interested! I don’t *need* that!”
“Calling men *‘that’*?! *Nice*, Josée! Now *that’s* the spirit of a true virago!”
Michelle burst into laughter, then launched into a love song, her voice swaying with the carriage—drunk on twilight.