Obituary: Sonata for Two Lovers - Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Translator: Yonnee

—

Still holding his glass, Ray gazed at her in a cold, expressionless silence.

And even then, Rose could not easily bring herself to speak.

If she opened her mouth, she felt the people behind the curtain would hear her. Besides, she did not know what to say to a man who was listening to such vicious insults.

One thing, however, was certain.

Even when he smiled listening to criticisms about himself, when he looked at her, he wore only complete blankness.

Why had Ray Crawford married her?

It was clear that he found it all to be so unbearable.

This, more than anything, was what Rose was beginning to wonder.

Whatever price he had received from her father for this marriage, it must not have been high enough to make her presence welcome.

After a brief silence, Ray placed his glass down on the side table and quietly rose from the sofa.

The series of actions of straightening his attire and walking toward her were simply neat.

Even though he did not seem to be making any particular effort to move quietly, he passed by her without making a sound.

Rose silently followed her husband, who felt like a stranger.

Walking just slowly enough so she would not fall behind, Ray stopped when they reached the stairs and extended his arm.

Though it was clear he despised her, his manners were impeccable.

When Rose quietly placed her hand on his arm, he whispered,

“Smile.”

Then he began descending the stairs slowly.

Rose barely managed to pull the corners of her mouth into something resembling a smile, feeling as if her face might start twitching.

Smiling at an unspecified crowd of strangers was a more arduous task than she had expected.

In Bolton, where she had lived, no one smiled unless there was a reason to.

Boltonians often said, Anyone who smiles for no reason is either a clergyman or a madman.

By the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, a natural smile had already appeared again on Ray’s face.

“Don’t say anything unnecessary.”

He whispered once more, leading her forward.

The hall was filled with Orthurans, all greeting them with bright smiles.

* * *

Exhausted from conversations with strangers, Rose absentmindedly tapped her fingers on the table, following the faint sound of a nocturne’s piano melody beneath the noise.

The party had now dragged on for over four hours, and the headache caused by the more than ten hairpins her maid Joanne had pinned into her hair was severe.

A cold hand lightly pressed down on her tapping fingers for a moment, as if telling her to stop, then withdrew.

When she looked up, there was Ray, her husband, looking down at her.

The perfectly measured, formal smile on his lips looked more like a warning than a smile.

The smiles he occasionally showed her usually carried that meaning, either a warning or a display of disdain.

Instead of fidgeting with her fingers again, Rose obediently accepted the wine glass Ray handed her and took a sip.

Her throat was parched.

Just as difficult as quitting smoking was the task of fixing all of her habits—those tiny habits she hadn’t even been aware of.

Because they were such small things, sometimes it felt less like correcting habits and more like gradually erasing herself piece by piece.

One thing was clear. Everything that made up Rose was seen as something in need of ‘correction’.

“Still, to be honest… From Madam Crawford’s appearance alone, you wouldn’t guess she’s from Bolton.”

A woman, likely the wife of some merchant, said in a curious tone.

How many times had she heard that now?

Since coming to Orthuran, it must have been over a hundred times.

These people seemed to believe Boltonians had three eyes or two noses.

“Ah, right. I think her mother was said to be of Antacan noble blood, wasn’t she? I heard Elder Madam Crawford mention it once.”

Her mother-in-law, Agatha Crawford, had spent the entire month packaging her this way, carefully erasing her father and instead highlighting her deceased mother whenever possible.

Even though Orthuran and Antaca had spent over a thousand years fighting over land and power, the Orthurans, while they might dislike the Antacans, at least did not look down on them.

That dislike, too, was more playful, the kind reserved for an opponent seen as an equal, rather than serious hatred.

After all, even this party was a private gathering hosted by the Antacan ambassador dispatched to Orthuran, and many Orthuran nobles had gladly attended.

The only ones the Orthurans truly scorned were the Boltonians caught between their leagues.

Even during wars, the Orthurans had often been more displeased with Bolton, which failed to side with them, than with their actual Antacan enemies.

Agatha Crawford had never been pleased that her daughter-in-law was a mix of Antacan and Bolton blood, but it seemed she judged it better to emphasize the Antacan side. She always began with that point.