Chapter 48
Chapter 48
Serge walked at a relaxed pace, gently guiding a visibly nervous Josée at his side.
“You made it sound like some shady underworld affair, but… this isn’t all that different from high society,” he said, glancing around. “Just with a few more courtesans.”
The swelling sound of orchestral music drifted toward them, growing louder with each step.
“Josée, are you nervous?”
She gave a small, honest nod. Serge tilted his head, puzzled.
“Why?”
“W-Well, that’s because...!”
“I see. You’re just bad at dancing, right?”
That wasn’t the reason—but it seemed like the easiest answer. So Josée nodded again.
“It’s fine. I’ll support you.”
If she told him it was his presence that made her nervous, what kind of face would he make?
(*If it were anyone else, I wouldn’t feel this flustered just dancing with them... right?*)
As Josée repeated the thought in her head, trying to calm her racing heart—
“Excuse me.”
A chamberlain approached, as if he’d finally tracked them down.
“Madame Josée. His Majesty requests your presence. An audience has been arranged in the throne room—before the dance.”
Startled, Josée jumped slightly. Serge, ever composed, stepped forward.
“I’ll accompany her.”
Just then, the grand doors to the adjacent audience chamber swung open. The unexpected summons drew attention; courtesans and noblemen alike paused mid-step, curious eyes turning toward the throne room. A hush fell over the crowd, their murmurs buzzing with speculation.
“...Eek.”
“Head up. That’s not like you, Josée.”
The chamberlain returned, this time pressing a bouquet into Josée’s hands with little ceremony. She frowned at the gesture—but Serge, standing beside her, offered a dry observation.
“They’re treating you like a debutante. Maybe His Majesty’s just having a bit of fun, since this is the underworld.”
Rumor had it that Josée always wore black. Perhaps the king had decided to mock tradition with this improvised debutante act. Traditionally, such ceremonies were done in white.
(*Tch… how insulting.*)
Still, in the underworld, playing along with the whims of the powerful was part of the job—especially for someone in her position. It was only because Serge was beside her that she could keep her pride intact.
“Let’s go, Serge.”
“Ah, there’s the Josée I know.”
Amid the rising murmurs and curious stares of the crowd, Josée stepped forward with confident grace, bouquet in hand. Serge walked a step behind, his presence like a quiet shield.
Beyond the grand doors, standing tall beneath the vaulted ceiling, was King Alban II—handsome, poised, and every bit the ruler.
But Josée’s eyes went wide the moment she saw the woman beside him.
A mysterious figure with black hair, clad in a robe-like dress—
It was Nol.
The queen was absent, as was customary in underworld affairs. Instead, the king had brought his royal mistress. That was how things worked in this world.
Nol, ten years her senior, had once served as a court lady. She had cared for Josée in her daily life, watched over her like an older sister. They had been torn apart the day traffickers sold Josée at the market. Josée had believed she’d never see her again.
Yet here she was, standing beside the king.
(*No matter what she’s wearing. No matter how she’s done up. I’d know her anywhere.*)
Josée’s throat tightened, words catching before they could rise. Her heart screamed.
(*Nol!*)
She wanted to call out to her. To run to her, throw her arms around her, cry into her shoulder. She wanted to tell her everything—about their homeland’s fall, about the life she’d been forced to live since that day.
Nol, too, was staring at her.
But her gaze was steadier than Josée’s. Focused. Intent.
She didn’t waver.
Josée took a breath, steeling herself—and curtsied.
Not to the king, but to his mistress.
Alban II spoke.
“Forgive the sudden summons, Josée. And this gentleman is...?”
Serge answered smoothly.
“Serge de Baradur. Representative of the Radical Party.”
The king’s eyes swept over him from head to toe.
“Oh? No rumors about you crossing over. I assumed you were on the other side.”
He chuckled, a little too amused. Josée stiffened.
(*What a tasteless joke…*)
They were political enemies, but even so, she could tolerate insults to herself better than jabs at Serge.
Serge, however, remained unfazed. Perhaps he’d grown used to such mockery.
“I read about you in the papers,” Alban continued, ignoring the tension.
“They say you’ve solved quite a few cases. You must be sharp.”
“…I’m honored.”
“In the underworld, it’s common belief that the police are useless. So you’ve been solving crimes to keep the peace, is that it?”
The question caught her off guard.
She’d started the detective work to pay for Marlène’s medical care. But lately… maybe it had become more than that. Maybe she wanted to carve out a place for herself. To prove she belonged.
“I didn’t have some grand plan. Things just happened that way.”
“Don’t be so modest.”
The king’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Well, the reason I brought you here today is… we’ve had a bit of trouble at the palace. I was hoping you might lend a hand.”
Josée blinked, surprised by the abrupt request. But Alban continued, unbothered.
“Recently, our poison tasters have been dying. One after another. It seems someone is regularly bringing poison into the palace.”
Ah.
Josée’s mouth went dry. Her heart dropped.
“Someone”… “regularly”…?
She turned, searching Nol’s expression.
But Nol stared straight ahead, unmoving. Her eyes met no one’s.