Chapter 333: My Lady Is Fading

He was far too drunk to even think about bathing. Isolde had no choice but to send everyone out and use warm water to wipe his face and body.

The chamber had built-in heating walls. Isolde opened the small vent in the firewall, allowing the warmth from the charcoal-burning stove in the corridor to flow inside. With the doors and windows shut, the room quickly grew cozy. These heating walls and channels had originally been constructed under Margaret’s orders, meant for William’s wedding. The craftsmanship was impeccable—so long as the fire burned strong, the warmth would never cease.

As the room filled with heat, Isolde undressed him. His clothes reeked of alcohol, undoubtedly drenched from spilled drinks during the feast. Even the usual scent of sunken wood incense was completely overpowered.

She wiped his upper body clean and sat on the edge of the bed, covering his abdomen with the quilt. Her gaze drifted to his iron arm. The design was intricate, an astonishing feat of engineering in Isolde’s eyes. She had once worried most about where the prosthetic met his severed limb, but seeing how effortlessly he moved it, she had gradually set those fears aside. Now, up close, she still didn’t fully understand how it worked. The connection point had strange, claw-like extensions—reminiscent of an octopus—that clung to his shoulder, keeping the arm perfectly in place. It didn’t budge an inch. Looking even closer, it almost seemed like veins had grown around the interface. Of course, that wasn’t the case. But she had no idea what material it was made of. It even seemed to change color at times.

She reached out and gently traced his thick, dark brows, sighing softly. “Tonight is our wedding night…and you’re passed out drunk.”

Tucking him in, she stood up and glanced at the untouched wedding feast on the table. She was hungry, but she had no appetite anymore.

A knock came from the door.

“Lady Isolde, Esme sent some cake. Has Oliver woken up?” Hattie’s voice was low.

“He hasn’t. Maybe we should skip it.”

“No, Esme insisted he must eat.”

Isolde opened the door, expecting Esme but finding one of the old house matrons instead. She carried a tray with a bowl of cake, craning her neck to peer inside. “Oh my, the General’s fast asleep? Well, this cake is meant for him to feed you.”

She reached out to take the tray. The old matron nodded. “Alright, then. You should rest soon as well.”

Carrying the cake inside, she found Hattie waiting.

“I’ve sent everyone to bed. Hazel and I will take turns keeping watch tonight. I’ll cover the first half, and she’ll take the second. Come, let’s get you out of these clothes and into a bath. Noelle already prepared the water.”

Isolde had considered skipping the bath—too cold, too tired, and still hungry.

“Eat first or bathe first?” Hattie asked.

Isolde glanced at the cake. “That’s not for eating.”

“I know,” Hattie smirked. “Miniro said that before the General got drunk, he ordered some food to be kept warm for you. He planned to eat with you when he returned. Since he’s out cold, you might as well eat it alone.”

“Did you eat?” Isolde asked.

“I had a little.”

“Then eat with me.”

Hattie hesitated. “That wouldn’t be proper.”

“What’s improper is a bride eating alone on her wedding night.” Isolde wasn’t blaming Oliver—she knew he’d be forced to drink tonight. Still, after looking forward to this day for so long, she couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed.

Hattie relented. “Alright, I’ll join you.”

The cold food was cleared away and replaced with steaming hot dishes. Hattie even brought some warmed wine.

As Isolde watched the dragon-and-phoenix candles flicker, the moment felt dreamlike. She still couldn’t quite believe it—she had really married Oliver.

Hattie glanced at her. “Why the sigh?”

“Did I sigh?” Isolde blinked.

“You did.” Hattie was busy devouring her food, clearly starving.

Isolde smiled. “It’s a happy sigh. Ever since we started preparing for this wedding, I’ve been waiting for this day.”

“Everything will be good from now on.” Hattie raised her cup.

“Yes, it will be.” Isolde clinked her cup against hers.

After hurriedly finishing their meal, they went to bathe. Once they returned, Isolde turned to Hattie. “No need to keep watch. Go get some sleep.”

“No can do. Tonight may not be peaceful.”

“I doubt anything will happen.”

“Who knows? It won’t hurt to be cautious. Besides, I’m not sleepy. It’s just a couple of hours—Hazel will relieve me later.”

Seeing her insist, Isolde relented. “Fine, then sleep on the couch outside. The heating wall reaches there, so it won’t be cold.”

“Got it. Now get to bed. You’ve been up for too long.” Hattie shooed her off before stepping outside.

Isolde shut the door and turned to look at Oliver. Scattered across the bed were wedding night treats—candied fruits and nuts, half-crushed under his weight. Carefully, she shifted him to clear them away, brushing broken pieces of dried fruit from the sheets. He was dead to the world, not even stirring as she moved him.

Once everything was tidy, she climbed into bed, curling up beside him. His breathing was steady, his eyes closed, his long lashes casting delicate shadows—like tiny, elegant fans. She rested her head on his shoulder and wrapped her arms around him. Her forehead pressed against his cheek, his breath warm against her skin, carrying the scent of alcohol. It was intoxicating in its own way, making her feel as if she, too, were slightly drunk.

Happiness welled up inside her. Isolde closed her eyes, a sweet smile curling on her lips. She had prepared so many things to say to him tonight, but now, just holding him like this, words felt unnecessary.

The red wedding candles burned steadily. Their wax dripped silently, unshaken by any wind, their flames unwavering—like two hearts frozen in time. Isolde yawned, sleepiness creeping in, and slowly drifted off.

Then came the knocking. Loud. Urgent. Isolde’s eyes snapped open. She heard Hattie’s footsteps, then the door creaking open. She didn’t get up. If it was important, Hattie would let her know. If it wasn’t, she wanted no part of it tonight.

Muffled voices. Urgent tones. Hattie’s voice, sharp, dismissing someone. Then, a woman’s voice, desperate. “Oliver, please! Come quickly! Lady Cristina—she’s dying!”

“Shut up! I already told you—he’s asleep! Now leave!” Hattie snapped.

Isolde recognized the voice—it was Renee, Cristina’s maid. She frowned, hesitated, then threw off the covers and stood up. Pulling aside the curtain, she stepped out, calling through the door, “Hattie.”