Chapter 32: Rehabilitation
"Thank you for placing your trust in Maison Laurent, My Lady, Young Lord."
Laurent offered one final courteous bow as an attendant carefully gathered the order forms and measurement records.
"The garments will require a little time to complete, but I assure you they will be worthy of House Belozersky. If it pleases you, please return in two days, and everything will be prepared for the final fitting."
Mariya inclined her head with her usual graceful smile.
"We’ll do exactly that. I look forward to seeing your work once again, Monsieur Laurent."
"Then I shall not disappoint you."
Laurent maintained the same impeccable composure until the very end, personally escorting the two of them to the entrance while the attendants respectfully held the doors open ahead of them.
After exchanging one final round of farewells, Mariya and Ilya stepped into the waiting carriage, and, before long, the coachman urged the horses forward.
"Perhaps, did Monsieur Laurent happen to say anything... unusual while he was taking your measurements?"
"Ah..."
Ilya lowered his gaze in thought, recalling the conversation they had shared inside the atelier.
After a few moments, he shook his head.
"Which part?" he asked with genuine confusion. "To be honest, Mother, I think Monsieur Laurent spent the entire afternoon saying strange things."
A laugh escaped Mariya’s lips, elegant as ever, as though his answer had amused her.
As she spoke, her eyes settled on Ilya, scrutinizing him with the same gentle smile she had throughout the afternoon.
"But... if Monsieur Laurent ever says anything strange to you, be sure to tell me. Will you?"
"Of course, Mother."
Satisfied with his answer, she leaned back against the upholstered seat and let out a contented hum, as though the matter had never been of any importance in the first place.
"Well then, where shall we go next?"
* * *
"Just a little more. You’re doing wonderfully, Elise."
The therapist’s encouraging voice echoed through the rehabilitation room as Elise gripped the parallel bars before her.
Her legs trembled with every careful step she forced herself to take. Each movement required a degree of concentration.
"One more step... that’s it."
A sheen of sweat formed across her forehead as she slowly adjusted her weight forward.
Although the physicians had assured her that the bones in her legs had healed without lasting damage, the crushing impact had left several of her peripheral nerves severely traumatized, and even now they continued to recover at an agonizingly slow pace.
"Excellent."
The therapist gave her an approving smile while remaining close enough to catch her should she lose her footing.
"The sensation in your left leg is improving compared to last week, and your gait has become noticeably steadier. At this rate, I believe we’ll be able to reduce your reliance on the bars before long, though there’s still no need to rush your recovery."
Elise drew a breath before nodding.
"I understand."
Another careful step followed, then another.
Despite the frustration burning within her chest, she stubbornly urged her body forward one step at a time.
A gentle smile appeared on the therapist’s face.
"You made it."
"...I did."
After thanking the therapist, Elise returned to her private room shortly afterward, easing herself back onto the bed.
Beside her, one of the Beaumont attendants peeled an apple. Apart from the sound of the knife gliding across the fruit, the room remained silent.
Elise turned her gaze upon the window for a long while before speaking.
"...Mother and Father still haven’t come."
"His Grace and Her Grace are already in the Imperial Capital, Lady Elise. However, preparations for His Imperial Highness’s funeral have occupied nearly every great house in attendance. House de Beaumont is no exception, and Their Graces have scarcely had a moment to themselves since their arrival."
The attendant finished peeling the apple before slicing it into smaller pieces and placing them onto a plate.
"They asked that I convey their apologies to you, my lady. They intend to visit as soon as their obligations permit."
Elise lowered her eyes to the blanket covering her legs.
"...I know."
She understood the responsibilities that came with being the Duke and Duchess of Beaumont better than most.
Even so, understanding the reason did little to lessen the loneliness that plagued her chest.
"Please don’t worry too much, Lady Elise. Once the busiest preparations are over, I’m certain His Grace and Her Grace will come to see you immediately."
Elise accepted the plate with both hands before giving a small nod.
"I’ll... look forward to it."
The attendant noticed the change in her expression and offered the plate with a gentle smile.
"Your rehabilitation appears to be progressing remarkably well, Lady Elise. The physicians were saying earlier that, if your recovery continues at this pace, you should be discharged in time to attend His Imperial Highness’s funeral. I’m certain Their Graces will be delighted to hear such wonderful news."
"...."
The moment those words reached her ears, the color slowly drained from Elise’s face.
Her lips quivered before she lowered her head and shook it.
"I... I think... I’ll have to decline. I don’t believe I can attend the ceremony..."
The attendant’s smile gradually faded, though she chose not to interrupt.
The events of that day continued to haunt Elise without respite, replaying themselves within her mind over and over again.
Every time she closed her eyes, she found herself before the Distortion, the screams, and the overwhelming helplessness threatening to drag her back into that nightmare.
"...."
The Crown Prince’s death.
No one had ever accused her. No one had pointed a finger or spoken a single word of blame.
Yet somewhere deep within her heart, Elise had already condemned herself.
She couldn’t rid herself of the conviction that she had somehow been responsible for everything that followed, for the Crown Prince’s death, for the loss of her teammates, and for whatever had become of Ilya after they had been separated.
Whether that belief was rational no longer mattered, because guilt had already taken root so deeply within her that it had begun to feel indistinguishable from the truth itself.
Unlike everyone else, Elise had frozen.
While others fought, ran, shouted, or struggled to survive, she had remained trapped in shock, unable to move, unable to think, and unable to do anything except watch the horror.
In her own eyes, she had been nothing more than a burden, someone whose helplessness had forced others to risk themselves for her sake.
If she stood before the Crown Prince’s coffin...
If she attended the funeral and saw the casket carried through the cathedral...
"...."
Elise wasn’t certain she would be able to remain standing.
"It’s not your fault, Lady Elise... No one could have foreseen what happened that day, and no one expects you to shoulder a burden that was never yours to bear..."
Elise lowered her head, staring at the untouched slices of apple as her lips trembled once more.
"...Yes... It wasn’t my fault. After all, I didn’t do anything."
Her pupils shook.
"I had done... nothing..."
Her hands gripped the plate until it began to press painfully into her palms.
"If I had just moved..." she whispered. "If I had listened to him, or helped even once, then perhaps someone else would still be alive..."
Unable to bear the sight any longer, the attendant set the fruit knife aside before moving to Elise’s bedside and pulling her into an embrace.
"My Lady..."
"I’m sorry... I’m so sorry..."
* * *
"My, have they changed the recipe for the strawberry shortcake? It’s even better than I remember."
Mariya set her fork down with visible satisfaction before taking another small bite, her eyes brightening.
"I daresay the North ought to take notes!"
Ilya sipped his tea before glancing at the slice of cake on his own plate.
"I think it’s just this café, Mother," he replied. "From what I’ve heard, they’re rather well known for their desserts. I wouldn’t use them as the standard for the rest of the capital."
"Is that so?"
Mariya looked thoughtfully at the remaining slice before another idea seemed to occur to her.
"Then perhaps I should sponsor one of their branches to open in the North. If such wonderful cakes became available in the Grand Duchy, I’m certain they would be warmly received!"
"Mother... Surely that’s a rather expensive undertaking, all for the sake of strawberry shortcake..."
"But isn’t that exactly the sort of thing money exists for?" Mariya asked with complete sincerity, tilting her head. "If something brings people joy, then I see no reason not to share it."
She took another bite before smiling to herself.
"Besides, I’m certain your father would find it in himself to smile again if he ever tasted this."
"...Yes."
Ilya eyed Mariya silently, the concern in his eyes visible.
"Mother..." he began. "Is it still the same in the North?"
Mariya understood the question immediately.
She lowered her teacup onto its saucer before offering him the same calm smile she always had.
"Well... I’ve grown accustomed to it."
Ilya remained unconvinced.
"Then you don’t have to pretend anymore," he said. "You don’t have to keep writing that everything between you and Father is fine. Every letter you send says you’re both doing well, that the estate is peaceful, and that nothing has changed. You don’t have to tell me those things anymore."
Mariya let out a quiet laugh.
"My dear," she said, "those letters are not always read only by the person they’re addressed to."
She lightly traced the rim of her teacup with a fingertip before continuing.
"A letter travels through many hands before it reaches its destination. All it takes is one curious eye. If those letters were ever opened, and someone discovered discord within House Belozersky, rumors would spread through the capital before the ink had even dried."
She raised her eyes to meet his once more.
"A Grand Duchy cannot afford to advertise its cracks, especially not at a time like this. Stability is every bit as valuable as soldiers, and appearances often protect a house just as effectively as armies do."
Ilya fell silent.
When she explained it that way, he found himself unable to argue.
"...I suppose you’re right."
Mariya’s smile softened.
"So long as you understand, that’s enough for me. There are burdens a mother may choose to share with her son, and there are others she would rather carry herself."
As the words left her lips, she reached across the table and slipped her hand over Ilya’s, slowly interlocking their fingers together.
"So long as you remain by my side, I can weather any storm."
"...Yes."
"So... don’t ever say you’ll end your life again. No... don’t even allow yourself to entertain such thoughts. Promise me, Ilya."
"...."
"Your sister told me everything," Mariya continued. "She told me how you threatened to throw your own life away in front of us."
"...."
"If you ever find yourself thinking that way again, come to me first. No matter the reason, no matter the hour, come to me."
"What are you—"
"And if... even after speaking with me... you still decide that you wish to die..."
She smiled.
"Then I’ll go with you."
"...."
A chill crept down Ilya’s spine.
His mother still looked exactly the same as she always had. Graceful, beautiful, and gentle, but behind those tranquil eyes was something he could no longer describe as simple devotion.
The thought of Mariya dying...
"...."
He imagined her smile disappearing forever, imagined never hearing her gentle voice again, and imagined those warm hands that had always reached for him becoming cold and motionless.
The mere image was enough to make his chest tighten as guilt welled up from somewhere deep within him.
"...."
That was one future he could never allow to come to pass.
"No... I promise... I’ll never think such thoughts again..."
Mariya’s smile softened. She gave their interlocked fingers the gentlest squeeze before lowering her gaze to their hands.
"I’ll believe you."
She looked back up at him with the same gentle smile.
"So... let me keep believing you."
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