You Are Gentle, But You Don’t Love Me - Chapter 35

On the table sat plain bread with little butter or milk, ginger cookies, a mild tea with a slice of lemon, and sugar cubes. That was all.

Cassio, unusually, made no comment on the rather modest selection of refreshments. He merely raised an eyebrow slightly.

Instead, as he took his seat, he offered Juliet a compliment.

“You look beautiful today, Juliet.”

She had grown used to his sudden praise by now. Instead of biting her lip with embarrassment, she returned the compliment just as smoothly.

“So do you, Your Grace.”

“Oh, of course. I am rather lovely.”

“Indeed, a true princess.”

“I should have hit Elijah sooner.”

Cassio shook his clenched fist, vowing to shut Elijah up when they met that evening. Juliet laughed, her cheeks faintly flushed.

Today, Elijah had not been invited to their usual afternoon sitting room. He was free for once from the scrutinizing gaze of his superior, and no doubt he was thoroughly enjoying that freedom.

In his place, another guest had been expected—but there was still no sign of her.

“She said she’d come since she is, after all, a beauty. At least she’d have something nice to look at.”

And so, Juliet and Cassio passed the time with idle chatter, waiting for her arrival.

“Are you truly all right with this? I mean… hearing things like that?”

“Oh, of course. A few words mean nothing to this princess.”

“…Pfft.”

“Go on, Juliet, laugh. Your princess is most generous.”

Cassio, who had vowed to strike Elijah for his nonsense, was now openly embracing his title as the princess of the Aragonian navy, much to Juliet’s amusement. She burst into laughter at least five times.

Yet, even after Cassio dramatically mimicked a tragic princess locked in a tower, even after they discarded their cold tea and had a fresh pot brewed, even after the long summer afternoon stretched past its midpoint—

Rosaline did not appear.

“…Bring fresh tea, and prepare more refreshments.”

At last, Juliet gave up waiting.

Following her orders, the servants replaced the tea and added new treats to the table. Today, the kitchen had prepared cherry pie glazed in syrup and topped with cream, a dessert meant for Cassio. Alongside it were simple cookies and jam, Juliet’s usual preference.

Against the vibrant red of the cherry pie and the bright golden jam, the plain bread and ginger cookies were pushed to the side, forgotten.

The newly brewed tea was especially fragrant. A faint sweetness of violets lingered in the air.

“…Are you sure?”

Juliet, inhaling the deep aroma from her cup, looked up at Cassio’s question.

“You’re really not going to check on the Marchioness?”

She simply nodded in silence.

“Truly?”

But there was something in Cassio’s voice—something almost pleading.

“Rosie—the Marchioness of Arborea—once she locks herself away in her chambers, she won’t budge until she chooses to come out.”

Juliet reached into her oldest memories and began recounting a story.

“She is truly, truly stubborn.”

Rosaline Calliari had always been that way.

She would spend every day outside, living life to the fullest, yet when she decided to shut herself in, she did so completely.

“For a day at the shortest, three or four at the longest.”

No one could coax her out.

Not the nanny who had practically raised the Calliari daughters, not Romeo, her constant companion. Even the Duke of Calliari himself, knocking on her door, received no answer.

For the indecisive Romeo or the timid Juliet, such behavior was unimaginable.

“The first time she did that… I think I was seven.”

Juliet still remembered that summer day.

Her sister, who normally would have burst into her room first thing in the morning, had locked her door and refused to answer.

“Leave her be.”

The Duchess of Calliari had sighed, saying it was just Rosaline’s temper flaring up, that she would come out when she was ready.

It made sense—Rosaline had inherited much of her mother’s temperament.

But young Juliet could not simply let it go.

‘Rosie, are you all right? Why are you upset all of a sudden?’

‘…’

‘Have you eaten? You always say being hungry makes things worse. I brought you some bread and ham. There’s milk, too.’

‘…’

But no matter how much Juliet knocked, Rosaline did not answer.

So, Juliet left the tray of food outside the door and quietly returned to her room.

Whether Rosaline ate the food or not, Juliet never knew. By the time she passed by the room again, the tray had already disappeared.

‘Juliet! Let’s go get some pastries!’

‘Are you feeling better now?’

‘Yes, I’m fine. But I’m hungry. Let’s go eat something sweet.’

In the end, Rosaline emerged before two days had passed, acting as if nothing had happened. She smiled and took Juliet’s hand—

Her eyes swollen and red, as if she had cried for hours.

“The next time… I think I was ten.”

By then, Juliet had long forgotten about the first time.

And then Rosaline locked herself away again.

Ten-year-old Juliet no longer stood outside the door with bread and milk.

Instead, she had a vague idea of what had upset her stubborn sister this time.

‘You should apologize to Rosie.’

And so, she dragged Romeo to Rosaline’s door.

‘But…’

‘Roro.’

‘…’

‘It was your fault, wasn’t it? That’s why she’s upset, right?’

Looking back, Juliet realized that she had been rather petty as a child. Whenever Romeo hesitated and fumbled over his words, she would deliberately call him Roro, knowing full well how much he detested that teasing nickname.

“Roro, apologize. Rosie hasn’t even had her milk today. If she gets sick, it’s all your fault.”

And then, she would abandon him—just a twelve-year-old boy, barely stepping into adolescence—right in front of the room of the girl he liked, turning away without a second thought.

Perhaps that had been her own way of lashing out. Maybe it had irritated her that the sister who was always so kind to her was now ignoring her, and she had taken it out on Romeo instead.

That day, Romeo had stood there for hours, utterly lost.

Juliet had left him there and gone off to the library, so she never knew what was said between them. But in the end, Rosaline did not emerge from her room that day either.

Yet, the next morning, she came to find Juliet—her eyes swollen once again—while Juliet was picking flowers in a quiet corner of the garden.

“If you were ten, then that would mean the Marchioness of Arborea was…”

“Thirteen. It was in the spring.”

It happened a few more times after that. When Juliet was twelve, then fifteen, then sixteen.

By then, Juliet no longer went to knock on Rosaline’s door.

She simply waited.

Waited for Rosaline to come out on her own, to smile as if nothing had happened, to take her hand once more.

The Duchess of Calliari left her daughter alone just as she had the first time, and the Duke, half-exasperated by his eldest child’s extraordinary stubbornness, followed his wife’s lead without protest.

“Rosa, Rosa.”

“…”

“Please, don’t do this. Everyone’s worried. Rosa, I was wrong about everything, so please…”

But Romeo never followed their example.

Every time Rosaline locked herself away, he stood at her door for hours—sometimes for days—waiting.

He stood there until she opened the door, his face full of helpless uncertainty.

“…I sent a messenger to the House of Arborea early this morning. He should be on his way by now.”

Romeo Arborea.

The moment he heard news of his wife, he would have left Arborea at once, heedless of the blazing sun or the unbearable midday heat.

He would come rushing to her, knocking on her door again and again.

And if she did not answer, he would wait—helpless, uncertain, for hours.

Yes. That was why—

“Rosaline had no choice but to choose Romeo.”

Juliet swallowed the thought along with a sip of tea.

The tea was as strong in taste as it was in fragrance. Even after swallowing, a lingering bitterness clung to her tongue.

“Hm.”

Cassio, who had listened to Juliet’s story in silence, seemed deep in thought.

Unlike the night before, he now held a blue teacup that fit perfectly in his hands.

By the time his cup was half-empty and the silver pattern at the bottom began to show, he finally spoke.

“…But Juliet.”

“Yes?”

“That’s not really it, is it?”

Juliet’s hand froze in midair.

She was holding a teacup identical to Cassio’s, though slightly smaller.

“You know this isn’t the same as before.”

Her cup was still more than half full, the deep red liquid reflecting the silver pattern inside.

A pattern of crimson roses.

To Juliet, roses always brought to mind Rosaline.

Radiant as the sun, as beautiful as a rose in full bloom—her one and only sister, Rosaline Calliari.

“The Marchioness isn’t locked in her room out of anger this time, is she?”

She had arrived late at night, quietly seated in a carriage driven by a coachman. Despite being perfectly capable of riding a horse herself or even driving the carriage on her own.

She had refused all the food the kitchen had undoubtedly prepared to suit her tastes, despite her habit of eating even when feverish.

It wasn’t certain, but perhaps—just perhaps—Rosaline Arborea…

“She’s pregnant, isn’t she?”

She might be carrying a child.