"Oh, what a meeting! I didn't expect to see you here, Duke of Carlisle."
Heavy footsteps echoed outside their box, and then the curtain covering the entrance was swept aside. A portly figure stepped through, greeting Lennox with exaggerated warmth.
"To what do we owe the pleasure of your arrival in the South?"
The man who addressed Lennox was a gray-haired nobleman well past his prime. His waist had long since surrendered to a rounded belly that strained against his vest. His clothing was far too flashy and vibrant for a man of his years—silks in garish colors, rings glittering on thick fingers—but his eyes remained sharp as a serpent's, missing nothing.
Lennox didn't so much as incline his head in acknowledgment.
"Marquis of Guinness."
"What a *great* honor to know that you remember me," the Marquis replied, his voice dripping with mockery. His double chin quivered as he spoke, the flesh beneath his jaw rippling with each word.
Southern nobility rarely traveled without an entourage, and the Marquis was no exception. A retinue of servants clustered behind him, their presence drawing the attention of every eye in the vicinity.
The spectators at the hippodrome turned to stare. They all knew perfectly well that the Marquis of Guinness considered the northern duke his most bitter enemy.
"And who is this lovely lady accompanying you...?"
The Marquis's piercing gaze slid from Lennox to Juliet, appraising her with undisguised interest.
"Young lady, you are the Countess of Montague, are you not?"
He feigned surprise, but the performance was transparent.
"Hello, Marquis of Guinness," Juliet replied evenly.
*His pretense fooled no one.*
"There is a very sad love story circulating around the capital," the Marquis continued, his tone oozing false sympathy. "But in the end, it seems the rumors turned out to be untrue."
His lustful gaze lingered on Juliet as he slowly licked his lips, savoring the moment.
"My heart was *squeezed* with sympathy and concern for you. I thought a very tragic event had befallen your life."
At these words, Juliet's lips curved into a smile—sharp as a blade's edge.
"Really? What a coincidence. My heart also filled with sympathy for *you* when I heard that your son had locked himself in the house and refuses to get out of bed."
***Grinding.***
Those present heard the old aristocrat's teeth grind together as his jaw clenched tight.
"Excuse me, Miss Juliet, but how exactly do you know my son?"
"Oh, *please*—" Juliet's smirk turned haughty. "Call me Countess Montague."
She let the correction hang in the air before continuing.
"About a month or two ago, I had the misfortune of encountering your son at the temple. He grabbed my wrist and attempted to flirt with me—right in front of his fiancée, no less. I simply... *advised* him not to do that again."
"...I see."
The Marquis's eyes flashed with barely contained fury. His face flushed crimson, the veins at his temples pulsing visibly.
At the same moment, Lennox's gaze turned **fierce**.
*How the hell did that bastard dare touch her? Flirt with her?*
***Son of a bitch.***
The curse roared through his mind, savage and absolute.
He understood now. *This* was why Juliet had let Viscount Fusilli go just a few days ago.
She had calculated that if the Viscount witnessed the hallucinations sent by her butterflies and then returned home, the Marquis would react immediately.
Because a couple of months prior, she had shown the very same thing to his adopted son.
Count Casper.
The childless Marquis of Guinness had adopted a distant relative to serve as his heir. And that *idiot*—the one who had dared to grab Juliet's wrist and proposition her in the temple—was none other than the Marquis's precious adopted son.
Lennox had heard the rumors: Count Casper had locked himself away, trembling with terror, refusing to leave the safety of his walls. But he hadn't known the reason.
Now he did.
He also realized that Juliet had deliberately provoked the Marquis with her words—a calculated strike designed to wound.
The Marquis of Guinness made no effort to hide his hatred when he spoke again.
"We'll see each other again in the capital." His voice was low, venomous. "I *promise* you."
There was no point in remaining after such an unpleasant exchange. The furious Marquis turned to leave—then stopped abruptly, as though he had just remembered something. He gestured to one of the servants in his retinue, motioning for them to step aside.
"I completely forgot. I wanted to introduce you to someone."
As the servant moved, a young woman stepped forward and took her place beside the Marquis.
She appeared to be about Juliet's age—fresh-faced, lovely, with an uncertain expression that seemed somewhat... *unnatural*.
"Say hello, Dolores."
"Hello. I'm Dolores," the young woman said, her voice stilted.
"This is my wife."
---
The moment the Marquis spoke those words, Lennox's frown deepened.
It was common knowledge that every one of the Marquis's previous wives had perished in *suspicious accidents*.
The Marquis had no children save for his adopted son, but in the conservative South, such matters were conveniently overlooked. Since he was the most powerful aristocrat in the region, people turned a blind eye to his multiple marriages—and to the fact that none of them had produced an heir.
At that moment, Juliet suddenly seized Lennox's hand.
She staggered slightly, her grip tightening.
Lennox reacted on instinct, steadying her as he watched her expression transform—shock bleeding across her features like spilled ink.
"Oh, *damn*..."
He sensed immediately that something was terribly wrong.
Without hesitation, he pulled her into his embrace, shielding her stunned face from prying eyes.
"I'm very sorry, Marquis, but we must take our leave from the hippodrome."
Lennox's smile was slight, controlled. He pressed a gentle kiss to Juliet's forehead—a gesture that appeared tender but served a far more practical purpose.
"As you can see, I'm in a bit of a hurry."
"...Yes, of course."
---
## — The Weight of Memory —
Under the Marquis of Guinness's disapproving glare, Lennox guided Juliet out of the box.
She moved mechanically, completely absorbed in her thoughts. The walk to the carriage passed in a blur; she didn't truly register her surroundings until she was seated inside.
"Juliet."
"Yes?"
She raised her head, startled, as though waking from a trance.
"Sorry. I was thinking about something."
Lennox recognized that expression—the distant look, the furrowed brow, the way she retreated somewhere he couldn't follow. He knew better than to press her when she was like this.
Quietly, he draped a blanket over her lap, his voice soft.
"Let's just go back."
"Yes."
The carriage pulled away, wheels rattling over cobblestones, but Juliet remained lost in her thoughts. Her fingertips tugged absently at the soft fabric of the blanket, the motion unconscious and repetitive.
*This can't be.*
Juliet harbored a deep, personal grudge against the Marquis of Guinness.
Although it had been only a short time in this life, she still vividly recalled the existence she had lived as the Marquis's **seventh wife** in her previous one.
She remembered how cruelly and mercilessly he had beaten her—how he had taken *pleasure* in her torment, savoring her helplessness like fine wine.
But it was **Dolores's** presence that had truly shaken her.
When Juliet had followed the Duke of Carlisle to the North seven years ago, desperate to escape that hell, the position of the Marquis's seventh wife had remained vacant. She had not wanted *anyone* to take her place.
What perplexed her most was this: in her previous life, the Marquis had **never** taken a seventh wife. At least, no one had ever heard of one.
So where had this woman—this *Dolores*—come from?
*I thought everything would go smoothly.*
Juliet had been almost *happy* to encounter the Marquis again, believing that nothing terrible could touch her now.
But reality had other plans.
The moment she laid eyes on a woman who was as young, vibrant, and beautiful as she herself had once been—the memories came flooding back.
The beatings. The blood. The helplessness.
The horror of that time crashed over her like a wave, dragging her under.
---
Meanwhile, Lennox's concerns lay elsewhere—beyond the Marquis of Guinness or his suspiciously young wife.
He had noticed something.
An old man in white robes, standing in the shadows behind the Marquis's retinue.
Juliet had been too stunned by Dolores to see him. But Lennox had spotted the priest immediately—the way he tried to make himself invisible, to blend into the background.
The man wore the uniform of an ordinary cleric, unremarkable in every way save for one detail.
The *stains* on his hands.
His sleeves were slightly too short, exposing the skin of his wrists. And there, clearly visible, were dark discolorations—ugly marks that spread across his flesh like shadows.
Lennox recognized them instantly.
*A side effect of divine curse.*
---
## — Schemes in the Shadows —
"Damn it! This vile girl is *exactly* as I heard!"
***BOOM!***
The Marquis of Guinness kicked the carriage door with all his fury as he climbed inside, unable to shake his rage.
"Just as Mistress Dahlia warned me."
He ground his teeth until they ached.
Watching him with palpable apprehension, Father Solon and Dolores quietly took their seats in the carriage, keeping their heads low.
Several months ago, Count Casper—the Marquis's adopted son—had returned from a trip to the capital's temple and immediately locked himself in his house. He trembled at the slightest rustle, refusing to emerge from his chambers.
When the Marquis had demanded to know what the hell had happened, the boy had only muttered strange, terrified things.
*"I saw a monster."*
The Marquis had suspected immediately that it had something to do with *that woman*—Countess Montague.
"Yes, that's absolutely true!" Father Solon agreed hastily. "She's a *slut*, not a lady!"
This old priest had once enjoyed immense wealth and power as high priest and the bishop's right hand. But when it was revealed that Bishop Sebastian—the man he served—was a fraud without divine power, a criminal who had committed countless atrocities... Solon had lost *everything*.
He had fled Lucerne in disgrace, eventually finding his way to a new patron: the Marquis of Guinness, ruler of the South.
"But how do you plan to deal with this girl?" the Marquis demanded.
"I have a plan," Father Solon assured him.
The Marquis's expression remained skeptical, doubt etched into every line of his face.
"I remember that even Bishop Sebastian's *dolls* failed."
"Until the truth was revealed, no one doubted they were real!" Solon protested immediately, as though personally accused.
But in truth, his words were not lies.
Sebastian had indeed manipulated everyone in Lucerne for years, creating mechanical dolls powered by his sister's soul stone. While Sebastian lacked the immense divine power that his sister Xenovia had been born with, he was a genius in other fields.
He had crafted mechanical constructs that moved like living people. He had kidnapped influential figures—including the previous bishop—and used his dolls to impersonate them, concealing their deaths and disappearances for years.
"If that *woman* hadn't appeared, everyone would have continued to believe it!" Solon's voice rose with indignation. He gritted his teeth.
Honestly, none of this would have happened if Sebastian hadn't kidnapped Juliet in the first place.
But Solon chose to believe that his downfall was solely *her* fault.
And was that the only thing she was guilty of? *No.*
From the day she had appeared at the altar, he had suffered from an unknown divine curse. On that day, shining shards had struck him—and he had been paying for it ever since.
"Mistress Dahlia will tolerate no excuses," the Marquis said, his voice solemn and heavy with warning. "If she finds the materials you brought useless, *you* will pay for it."
"Absolutely not," Solon replied quickly. "I assure you—they won't be useless."
Shortly before his escape from Lucerne, Solon had stolen a massive trove of forbidden records that Sebastian had kept hidden away.
Sebastian had always been fascinated by black magic—spells that could bend people to his will. As a false bishop without divine power, he had needed *other* means of control. The amount of data he had collected during his career as an inquisitor specializing in heresy was staggering.
Solon had taken it all when he fled south to seek the Marquis's protection—the same Marquis who had secretly supported Bishop Sebastian all along.
"I accepted you because Mistress Dahlia instructed me to," the Marquis growled. "But you *must* take care of this wretched girl."
"Trust me." Father Solon bowed his head low. "I'll handle everything. You have nothing to worry about."
Privately, Solon found the Marquis himself rather... *suspicious*.
When they had reconnected after several years apart, Solon had noticed a peculiar change. The Marquis had begun following a young woman around, treating her with the utmost deference and calling her "Mistress Dahlia."
Solon was not particularly pleased to learn of this woman's existence. He had no desire for contact with her.
He had never encountered anyone named Dahlia during his years in Lucerne.
This "Mistress Dahlia" dressed in the snow-white robes of a priestess—the kind worn by temple servants—yet Solon had never so much as *heard* her name before.
He had only glimpsed her a couple of times since arriving in the South, but his curiosity gnawed at him.
*What kind of woman could make even a vile creature like the Marquis of Guinness follow her so blindly?*
At first, Solon had assumed she was an honored guest—or perhaps a beloved mistress.
But then she had simply... *vanished*.
Be that as it may, it didn't trouble him overmuch. Their goals aligned, and that was enough.
The Marquis viewed the arrogant northern duke as a thorn in his side.
And this woman called Dahlia seemed to have her sights set squarely on Juliet Montague.
"So what exactly is your plan?" the Marquis demanded.
"I'll make use of *this*."
Father Solon produced a small silk pouch from his pocket and held it up triumphantly.
Inside lay a single strand of long, light-brown hair.
A woman's hair.
It had been carefully extracted from a comb—a comb that a certain maid had managed to steal.
---