"Yes."
Even in the darkness, she caught the corners of Lennox's lips lifting. An outside observer might have mistaken it for a smile — but Juliet knew better.
It was mockery. Pure and unvarnished.
Yet she did not falter. Her voice remained steady, unhurried.
"I will be of use to Your Grace."
She took a step forward, closing the distance between them with deliberate care.
Lennox sat with his back against the sofa, his eyes lower than hers for once. From where she stood, Juliet looked *down* at him — a rare inversion of power that she intended to use.
"Useful?" The word dripped with skepticism.
"Yes." She gestured toward the luminous shapes drifting around her. "As you can see — thanks to them."
The butterfly wings that had been shimmering faintly in the darkness flared to life, their blue-white glow intensifying until they cast flickering shadows across the walls.
*The key.*
She had never imagined that the artifact her father had guarded so carefully — the object whose purpose no one in her family had ever understood — would turn out to be *this*. In her previous life, her parents must have died because powerful nobles had wanted it for themselves.
But Lennox's expression remained unchanged. Cold. Dismissive.
"I have no use for someone who doesn't know how to wield her own power."
The words cut, but Juliet refused to retreat. She took another step toward him.
"I'll learn. If you teach me—"
"And why," he interrupted, his tone laced with open contempt, "would I do that? I don't make a habit of tutoring women I've only just met."
Silence stretched between them.
Instead of answering, Juliet moved closer still. Now they stood near enough that either could have reached out and touched the other.
"You haven't heard my conditions yet."
"I doubt they'll change anything."
"Yesterday," she said quietly, "you told me to stop using mana. But I don't know what that means."
Her left hand came to rest on the back of the sofa — close, *so close* to where his shoulder met the cushion.
"Will you teach me?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
---
## — Five Days Later —
Juliet sat alone in the corner of the imperial banquet hall.
"Oh, *my dear* Miss Montagu!"
In the capital, nothing traveled faster than rumor.
The "sympathetic" members of high society, having learned of the tragedy, had descended upon her like carrion birds in silk gowns — eager to offer their condolences to the unfortunate daughter of the late Earl of Montagu.
"Such a profound loss for us all. You have my deepest sympathies!"
"You must be absolutely *heartbroken*..."
It began, as these things always did, with performances of sincere concern and gentle curiosity. But inevitably, the tide turned — and what had been sympathy curdled into something far less kind.
Pity. Judgment. Speculation.
A few days earlier, Fatima had sent a letter to the Montagu mansion:
> *Everyone is worried about you. Will you attend the final night of the ball?*
The letter had contained the expected platitudes — words of comfort that rang hollow even on the page. But Juliet had come anyway.
Now, standing in this glittering hall, she wondered who exactly Fatima had meant by "everyone."
Because the moment her well-wishers finished their obligatory condolences and stepped away, they began to whisper.
*"I think it's rather unseemly, don't you? Her parents died so suddenly, and instead of observing proper mourning, she attends a banquet."*
Tonight was the final evening of the Bells Ball.
In the end, Juliet had attended only two of the seven nights — the first and the last. Under normal circumstances, the guests would have been consumed with speculation about who would receive the coveted wreath of bluebells. But tonight, the wreath was an afterthought.
The main attraction was Juliet Montagu herself — sitting alone in the corner, accepting condolences instead of dancing, her black mourning dress a stark contrast to the jewel-toned gowns swirling around her.
*Six days ago, this same ball had begun.*
Yet it felt like a lifetime had passed since she had left this place with her parents. The same chandeliers blazed overhead. The same perfumed bodies filled the room. The same laughter echoed off marble walls.
Everything was the same.
And nothing was.
She had told Lennox what had happened. She had also reported it to the head of the capital guard. But his response had been maddeningly predictable:
*"We cannot arrest Baron Gaspard based on your testimony alone."*
Her uncle, naturally, had denied everything — his outrage at the "unfair accusations" convincing enough to satisfy those who wanted to be convinced. His alibi, whatever it was, had held.
In the end, no connection could be proven between the murder of her parents and the man who had ordered it.
*"I heard it was the Count's old enemies who did this."*
*"Must be. The bodies were too disfigured to look at without shuddering."*
*"But how did the daughter survive?"*
*"Perhaps something happened that we don't know about..."*
The gossips didn't even bother to lower their voices.
*"Absolutely dreadful. What kind of monsters could do such a thing?"*
*"I heard the guards found her in one of those backwater brothels..."*
According to the official account, Juliet had been discovered outside her family home. The Duke's knights had escorted her directly to the Montagu mansion.
But rumors, as always, had twisted the truth into something far more salacious.
*"How else could she have survived?"*
*"I can't believe it! To go that far just to save herself? Unthinkable!"*
*"Miss Glenfield — you agree, don't you?"*
The gossips turned their attention to Fatima, who had been standing nearby in conspicuous silence.
"Oh — well, you see, it's..." Fatima's voice wavered. She had been the one to write the letter, to extend the invitation. Now she seemed desperate to distance herself from the decision.
"Don't be shy — tell us about her. I heard you were *close* with the Montagu girl."
"Well, I wouldn't say we were *very* close!"
Her voice rang out — too loud, too sharp — and Juliet's gaze drifted toward her.
Their eyes met.
Fatima ducked behind a column.
*Ah.*
Juliet felt... nothing.
It was as though the part of her soul responsible for feeling had shattered somewhere along the way. These people could whisper their venom directly into her ear, and it would not matter. She could not even summon anger.
Her eyes found the great clock on the far wall.
*Eleven-thirty.*
The ball would end at midnight.
*Will he send someone?*
Five days had passed since she had returned to her family's empty mansion, and there had been no word from the Duke of Carlisle. Not a letter. Not a messenger. Nothing.
*"If you agree to my proposal,"* she had told him as they parted, *"send your man to me on the final night of the Bells Ball."*
*Perhaps it's better if he doesn't come.*
If Lennox refused her, no one would appear. And if that happened—
*I'll run. I'll find another way. I've survived this long. I can—*
But even as the thought formed, it crumbled.
*What am I supposed to do?*
What was she supposed to do if she could not escape the miserable existence of her previous life, no matter how desperately she fought?
Lost in her spiraling thoughts, she did not notice the sudden hush that fell over the ballroom.
*Tap. Tap. Tap.*
Firm, unhurried footsteps echoed through the silence — cutting through the crowd like a blade through silk. The guests parted before him, their conversations dying mid-sentence, their faces turning toward the source of the disturbance.
He stopped directly in front of her.
Juliet did not immediately register that the throbbing headache which had plagued her all evening had vanished the moment he drew near.
"Excuse me, Miss Montagu."
The voice was quiet. Measured. Utterly incongruous with the chaos his presence had just caused.
Juliet raised her head — and stared.
"...Your Grace?"
Lennox Carlisle knelt before her.
Not a half-bow. Not a perfunctory nod. He *knelt* — one knee pressed to the polished floor, his crimson eyes level with hers.
"May I ask the gracious lady to wish me luck?"
For a moment, Juliet could not breathe.
It was absurd. The Grand Duke of Carlisle — the most feared man in the empire — delivering the traditional greeting of the Bells Ball like a lovesick youth seeking a lady's favor.
But her lips moved before her mind could catch up.
"...May the splendor of the forest shine only for you."
Something shifted in his expression. The cold mask cracked — just slightly — and a smile spread across his face.
Not mockery this time.
Something else entirely.
"Well then," he said softly. "Hello, Juliet."
The man had an uncanny ability to seize control of any room simply by entering it. Without looking, Juliet knew that every eye in the hall was fixed upon her — she could feel their gazes like the prick of a thousand needles against her skin.
"Why—"
The word emerged strangled, uncertain. She did not know where to begin.
But before she could form another syllable, Lennox took her wrist.
His lips brushed the back of her hand — a gesture so swift and deliberate that it was over before she could react. When he pulled away, a collective gasp rippled through the crowd.
Juliet looked down.
A wreath of bright blue bellflowers encircled her wrist, tied like a bracelet — the delicate blooms vivid against her pale skin.
*The wreath.*
"That's how it's done, isn't it?" Lennox murmured, so quietly that only she could hear.
Every step of the ritual had been flawless. Upon entering the hall, he must have claimed the wreath from a servant immediately. Most guests did not even know the traditional words of greeting, let alone perform the full ceremony.
But he had.
*For her.*
Juliet traced her fingers over the fragile petals.
"I thought you would refuse," she whispered.
"Why?"
"You don't like being troubled."
Lennox's eyes narrowed — but Juliet sat with her head bowed, and did not see.
He extended his hand toward her.
"I think we've provided enough entertainment for one evening. Let's go."
But Juliet shook her head.
"I can't walk. My ankle."
"Then how did you get here?"
"That servant over there—"
She gestured toward a man standing along the far wall.
Lennox's expression darkened. He muttered something under his breath — it might have been a curse — and before Juliet could protest, he swept her into his arms.
"I didn't mean for you to—"
But it was too late.
He was already striding toward the exit, and Juliet, held against his chest, had a clear view of the faces they left behind.
*Shock. Outrage. Envy.*
She glimpsed Fatima among them — her former friend's mouth hanging open, her eyes wide with something that looked almost like despair.
Then Juliet blinked, slowly, and felt something shift inside her.
A door closing.
A thread severing.
*This is it,* she realized, with a clarity that chilled her to the bone.
*I am saying goodbye.*
To her childhood. To the girl she had been. To the life she might have lived, had everything been different.
In that moment — cradled in the arms of the man who had once been her destruction — Juliet Montagu understood that there was no going back.
Only forward.
Into whatever darkness awaited.