Two days later, Hilsbeth found Hylan and said she hadn't made up her mind. Although Hylan replied that there wasn't an exact deadline for this matter, Hilsbeth noticed a hint of disappointment on his face. Another week passed; she felt she had no choice. Visiting someone who admired her too much might not be a good thing, especially since he was dying.
At the same time, she received no news from Panthonia. There were ten days left until the council meeting, and if his words were true, he would come to see her soon. Regardless of what might happen, Hilsbeth hoped to relieve herself of one burden before then.
On the very day she made up her mind, Hylan didn't appear in the audience. Hilsbeth asked some clerics but got no useful answers. She went to the little garden where they had met before, but found nothing, so she sat there idly for a while. If it came to tomorrow, she might not change her mind, but her positive mood would certainly dissipate, and she would be even more afraid to see Phipin.
There was still rehearsal in the afternoon. She put away her frustration and left the garden.
At the corner of the street near the church entrance, a voice called her from behind. She turned around.
In front of her was an unfamiliar woman.
"Are you calling me?" Hilsbeth asked.
"You're Hilsbeth, right?" the woman replied.
"Yes."
Hilsbeth saw the woman's hands twisted together, her eyes wandering, like someone waiting for bad news outside a hospital room.
"Do you need something?" the woman asked.
A strange question. Hilsbeth shook her head.
The woman's gaze made her uneasy.
"Well, if you don't have anything for me..."
"You're Shawl's woman."
Hilsbeth frowned. It had been a long time since anyone had bothered her about this. And judging by her clothes, the woman didn't seem to work for the council. She said nothing, turned around, and began to walk away quickly.
The woman calling her stood still, her hands twisting tighter, her nails almost cutting into her skin. There were other pedestrians nearby, but she ignored them, her eyes fixed only on Hilsbeth's back. She picked up a stone from the ground, ran up, and struck Hilsbeth on the back of the head with it.
Hilsbeth's legs gave way, and she fell. Her head was bleeding, but she didn't feel it yet. Instinctively, she turned around and raised her hands to protect her face. The next blow struck her wrist, tearing a large piece of skin. She screamed, her hand reflexively withdrawing. The woman raised the stone a third time and struck Hilsbeth's temple.
Seeing Hilsbeth close her eyes and slump down, the woman heard only her own rapid heartbeat, her mind dizzy. She didn't know when she had dropped the stone. She let out a weak, dry howl, like someone who had cried to exhaustion. Passersby looked at her with fear and confusion. These gazes pierced her, suddenly reminding her that she had unfinished business. She knelt beside Hilsbeth, grabbed the injured woman's hair with her left hand, pulling her head back. Hilsbeth's face turned up, her trembling lips slightly open, leaving bloodstains on the ground. The woman took out a small glass bottle with her right hand, thumbed open the stopper, and poured the liquid into Hilsbeth's mouth.
Perhaps the sudden increase in head pain brought Hilsbeth back from a brief lapse of consciousness. She felt the cold glass against her lips and the liquid flowing from her tongue down her throat. Though the liquid hadn't yet caused noticeable discomfort, a surge of intense fear overcame her, enough to momentarily forget she was being attacked. Something unknown was entering her. She had to protect herself. She couldn't let anything potentially harmful enter her body... she had to refuse. She must refuse for the sake of the unborn child inside her.
Hilsbeth reached out and pushed hard, nearly falling forward herself. The half-empty glass bottle in the woman's hand tipped over, spilling some on her clothes. She stood up quickly, about to wipe it off with her hand, but then remembered not to. She looked down at Hilbes—her hair disheveled, stained with blood, breathing with difficulty—and an overwhelming fear suddenly crushed the woman's heart. She wasn't afraid of her actions or the injured Hilsbeth, but of everything before her, all that had led her to this point. She turned and hurried away in a direction she didn't know.
A couple passing by stopped. They looked at Hilsbeth, lying on the ground, clutching her neck, trying to cough up the liquid.
"Who is that? She looks familiar," the woman said.
"Probably... someone from the church choir."
"What is she doing?"
"I don't know."
"Scary. So much blood."
The woman's pace quickened, her ankles feeling like they might break, yet she couldn't truly run. She had no idea which street she was on, as everything before her was not only unfamiliar but also disconnected. Whenever she saw something, whether living or non-living, it detached from its surroundings and lost its meaning. Everything in her eyes turned into simple geometric shapes and colors. Unconsciously, she reached into her pocket and found nothing, realizing she had used it—the bottle of poison bought with her compensation money. The black market dealer had assured her it was high-grade and very expensive. She didn't know how to deal with such people, so she gave her entire compensation amount, asking if it was enough. The dealer said it was. She bought it. Even if the bottle had contained only water, she wouldn't know today. She pulled her hand from her pocket, suddenly feeling a sharp pain in her palm. The sharp stone seemed still to be there. She had spotted that stone, which made her call out to Hilsbeth. It was her only chance; missing it would mean losing her courage. Her palm had abrasions, gray-yellow grit embedded in the torn flesh. Her hand was bloody, unsure whose blood it was.
When she first started dating Dennisen, she never thought she'd accept his proposal. She usually preferred men with a certain aggressiveness, which Dennisen lacked. He was too insecure, too dependent on her. But being with him meant escaping the life in Queens—a dream for most locals. It wasn't difficult; a little care maintained Dennisen's infatuation, and occasional warmth drove him crazy for her.
Shortly after accepting Dennisen's proposal, she met Panthonia for the first time. She'd heard rumors about him, and their brief meeting piqued her interest. Panthonia was someone even Queens couldn't tame. Her eyes couldn't leave him. At that moment, she wished Dennisen would say, "You're my woman; don't look at him like that," but he did nothing, despite his expression revealing discomfort. From that day, she frequently asked Dennisen about his work; the more he spoke, the more he revealed conflicts with his partner, the more she fantasized uncontrollably about Panthonia. She didn't plan to break the engagement, but often, Dennisen was more a means to know another man than a fiancé. When she asked Dennisen to find out about the woman by Panthonia's side, she wasn't very jealous. She just wanted to know what kind of woman could captivate Panthonia and how she could become her.
However, her pursuit of danger and mystery had limits. She needed thrills but not real peril. From Dennisen's stories, she felt a change in his relationship with his partner. Dennisen was unwilling to explain details but once said, "If there's danger, he probably wouldn't save me first." Then quickly added, "Completing the mission is his top priority."
This conversation decisively changed her mood. She always wanted Dennisen to be safe with her, and the challenge to this desire was nearing its end. Realizing Panthonia might genuinely endanger the man who had long provided her safety and care, she abandoned her thrilling fantasies. The night she learned Dennisen was to capture Salvaney, ominous premonitions terrified her; seeing his body the next day devastated her. She transformed all her long-held feelings for Tennyson—hesitation, contempt, worry, dependence—into unyielding love; even the five delayed weddings, which had been ridiculed, became proof of devotion. In her memory, she experienced more happiness than in reality.
The Ministry of Internal Affairs investigators approached her with vague questions, such as whether Dennisen had acted strangely before that day and his view of his partner. Though they drew no conclusions, they validated her suspicions. Panthonia had to be responsible for Dennisen's death, for depriving her of her reason for living, even if he hadn't directly done it. Her former infatuation turned into hatred a hundredfold, coexisting with fear.
At the funeral, she couldn't look at his face. After the funeral, they had a brief, silent meeting, exhausting her courage. Looking into his eyes, she masked her extreme unease with the numbness of losing a loved one—even if she held a gun to his head, she might not have the strength to pull the trigger. Direct revenge was impossible. She had to target his woman. She wanted Panthonia to feel a fraction of her pain.
She hadn't thought about what came next. The deed was done, witnessed. She realized she might never know if the man she hated would truly be shaken by this. She pressed her face with her hands, fingers digging into her eye sockets. No satisfaction or comfort could be squeezed from her drained heart. This made her realize she had never truly loved Dennisen, and this revenge was meaningless. She wanted to blame Panthonia for her own guilt, by harming a stranger.
No... not a stranger.
She remembered seeing Hilsbeth elsewhere.
In Queens.
She was a singer in a tavern.
The songs she sang were...
The woman continued walking, unable to see or feel her body. The noise around her felt overwhelming, disturbing her memories, so she shook her head and knelt, hoping to escape the crushing noise. She didn't know she had stopped in the middle of the road. A carriage approached, the driver noticing too late. The horse's hoofs struck the woman. The passengers in the rear, jolted by the sudden bump, clung to their seats in shock, unmoving.