Though their hearts differed,
in the swaying carriage, the Count and Countess of Emmental spoke little.
Soon after receiving the good news, they had completed the necessary arrangements for departure and, through transfer magic, moved to the town serving as the gateway to the Kingdom of Barleth. From there, they had purchased a carriage from a noble family within the territory, loaded it with provisions and daily necessities, and left the country eight days prior.
At first, they had spoken to one another.
What kind of girl might she have become? What did she eat? What fortune had she known? What did she love? What suited her? They voiced such thoughts aloud, and as they did, their spirits gradually sank.
While the true daughter had struggled to live, what had they been doing? To think that, unaware of her suffering, they had raised an adopted daughter with affection and found happiness—this alone was enough to bring sorrow upon them.
Every time phrases like “Spica only liked that one…” or “Spica did something like this…” slipped into conversation, the number of words spoken between the two dwindled, until now, when heavy silence ruled.
Moreover, Lord Emmental has abandoned nearly all his duties, marching here with forced urgency. Of course, this is due to special favor from His Imperial Majesty, but as a noble of somewhat cautious disposition, the count is deeply distressed over having left a personal matter to disrupt his official responsibilities.
Perhaps he was attempting to reframe his guilt over his daughter as resentment toward subordinates who had burdened him with work.
The Countess of Emmental seemed to be burdened by self-reproach. In her memory, her daughter existed only in the fleeting moments of pregnancy, the agony of childbirth, and the brief touch of a newborn’s cry—nothing more. How should she face her now…? She felt sorrow for the daughter who had endured such hardship, while she herself had lived in quiet ease… worse still, she had nearly given up on her daughter altogether. The guilt of having neglected her own child, while raising another’s as if her own, pressed down upon her all the more heavily in silence.
There was no longer the exhilaration of the journey’s beginning. The carriage moved in quiet stillness toward a church at the far edge of a neighboring realm.
They had ample time to sort through their hearts and minds.
On the ninth day, having been jostled by carriage, they arrived at a branch church of the Church of Saint Palais, situated in the westernmost edge of a neighboring realm. The Church of Saint Palais is the state religion within the Empire, yet in the Kingdom of Barlibas, religious freedom is permitted, and thus the Church holds no particular influence. The designated church, while relatively large, does not reach the scale of an Imperial church. It stands atop a hill, removed from the town, housing a great cathedral capable of accommodating fifty people, along with quarters for clergy, an orphanage, a convent, and a hospital.
From behind the church’s sanctuary, the bright voices of children could be heard. Yet the couple’s expressions were the exact opposite—clouded with anxiety.
“Welcome, Lord Count Emmental. We are deeply grateful for your long journey. I shall bring the lady you requested. Please, follow me.”
The greeting came from a young acolyte. So it was said, the head of this church. Sending forth the young for missionary tours was commonplace; thus, though the response was slightly lacking in formality, the couple did not frown.
They were led to a room within the clergy’s residence. Compact yet well-appointed, the space lacked grandeur but carried warmth. A chamber meant for the transfer of orphans and those seeking sanctuary.
Though invited to sit, the couple remained standing, waiting for the girl in question to arrive.
After a brief silence, the creak of wooden hallways approached.
Each groan of the floorboards struck their hearts like a hurried bell.
A knock, then the door opened. There stood the priest from earlier, and beside him, a small girl no taller than the priest’s chest.
She could not be clearly distinguished as either girl or woman—somewhere between fourteen and eighteen, her slender frame bore hollow cheeks so sharp that her cheekbones stood out, her thin, lifeless brown hair cut evenly at shoulder length, resembling that of a nun. Her eyes, fixed upon them, held a violet light far brighter than that of the lady’s.
The couple found no words to speak.
“She is the woman you were informed of. She was raised, they say, at fifteen or sixteen—exact age uncertain. Her condition has not yet improved. Her hair was sold to sustain herself. While selling hair is not uncommon among common women, it is unlikely you have seen such a sight among noble ladies. Please do not be troubled by it.”
With that, the priest gently urged her forward to bow in greeting.
She bowed, voice trembling slightly, yet resolute: “Pleased to meet you.”
She does not wish to speak her name. Surely she has never been called properly before.
“Pleased to meet you. I am Mascy von Emmental. This is my wife, Biore. Could you show your face a little more clearly?”
The eyes that met hers were lighter in color than her wife’s. Her features were refined. She bore no clear resemblance to any known member of the Emmental family, yet her face was one that would convince any who claimed she was of noble blood.
The more the woman spoke of her life, the more the listener could not help but feel sorrow for her.
As expected, the earliest memory she recalled was from the orphanage. She had been raised there under the teachings of a faith different from the Palaces' doctrine, until she was old enough to understand the world. At around five years old, she was taken in by foster parents and lived a modest life, helping her foster mother with her needlework and managing household chores. For five years, she had managed to survive with dignity. But five years ago, a plague swept through the small kingdom, followed by famine. Her foster mother passed away, and shortly after, her foster father and she were left alone. Their lives quickly descended into hardship. The foster father grew addicted to drink and refused to tend the fields, forcing her to live on barely enough to survive. She continued to rely on the needlework her foster mother had taught her, eking out a meager existence. Then, in the harsh winter, a frost destroyed the crops, and just as the situation worsened, her foster father fell ill in spring. At that point, she believed she had no choice but to sell herself in order to care for him. When she went to consult the village’s elder, she met a young monk affiliated with this church, who said, “A young woman should not sell herself. Come with your father to the refuge. If you serve there, your food, clothing, and shelter will be guaranteed.” It was then that she was taken in by this church, she said.
“You’ve endured so much hardship… How is your foster father now?” The lady asked, her pity unhidden.
“He moved here not long ago… He departed on the day of the summer storm. I have only gratitude for the church. He now rests in the cemetery beyond the hill.”
“Yes… it must have been so painful…” The lady spoke, her hand gently resting on the woman’s head, stroking her hair slowly. The woman stiffened for an instant at the sudden touch, but as the lady’s gesture remained tender, her tension eased, and she broke into quiet, trembling sobs.
The woman stepped away to compose herself, leaving the couple alone in the room.
“That child is too pitiful to bear. I cannot simply let her return like this…”
“I felt the same. Let us take her home. Let us reclaim a warm family for her now…”
After some time, the woman and the priest returned, having regained their composure.
The first voice to speak was that of Count Emmental.
“This child shall return home as our daughter. Kindly attend to the formalities.”
The priest bowed, as though he had already known the answer.
“Understood. May I then ask that you bestow a name upon her? Let her know her true name, the one she was born with. Only then will she surely be able to sever ties with her past.”
The words brought a quiet, tender confusion to both. They had long thought of her name, yet never dared to speak it aloud since that day. “Is it truly all right?” one hesitated. “Please!” was the firm reply from the woman. Her gaze held firm, and in it, sincerity burned clear.
The couple nodded to one another.
“Stella… we have long decided that your name shall be Stella. May I call you Stella from this day forward?”
The woman named Stella smiled like a star and said, “Yes… thank you, a most beautiful name,” her voice breaking as tears fell.
Thus did Stella take her first step as the daughter of the Earl of Emmental.