The Swordswoman’s Revenge Story after Rebirth

Chapter 338: Tomorrow Will Be Different

Oliver and Isolde returned, while Hattie gritted her teeth and hissed, “Lady Isolde, you should have dealt with Agnes tonight!”

“Absolutely! She was utterly insufferable. Stirring up trouble on purpose,” Hazel added indignantly.

Isolde waved a hand dismissively. “I have no interest in making a fuss tonight. Besides, I won’t need to lift a finger—someone else will take care of her.”

“Who?” Hattie asked curiously.

Isolde smiled and glanced at Oliver.

Oliver, always perceptive, replied, “Margaret, of course.”

“Margaret? But isn’t she on the same side as Agnes?” Hattie frowned.

Esme, trailing behind, scoffed. “Margaret would never stoop so low. This kind of petty, childish ploy? Hardly her style.”

Isolde chuckled. “Esme is right. Besides, no one knows Allan better than Margaret. He may be eccentric, but he is also a reasonable man. Tonight’s incident was baseless—just a few logical counterpoints, and their argument collapses entirely. There’s no way Allan would side with them.”

“Then why did Allan call you all over tonight?” Hazel questioned.

“To Allan, as long as I agreed, it would have been a harmless matter—one that would keep Cristina from making a scene and spare him further trouble. And given that Cristina’s father is one of his protégés, he had to consider the political implications. If everything could be resolved smoothly, that would be ideal. But since I refused, Allan naturally wouldn’t press the issue.”

Understanding dawned on Hattie and Hazel. Hattie sighed, “Good thing Allan is a reasonable man, or else you could have forgotten about your wedding night.”

Oliver’s brows arched slightly, his gaze darkening.

Back at Ningser Pavilion, he ushered Isolde inside before pulling Hattie and Hazel aside. His tone was serious. “You two will stand guard tonight. No one is to disturb us. No one.”

Hattie smirked. “Understood.”

Hazel covered her mouth, snickering. “And if Cristina attempts another ‘suicide’?”

Oliver’s eyes flashed coldly. “If she’s still alive, finish the job for her.”

“Got it. That’s all we needed to hear.” Hattie and Hazel patted their chests in assurance.

Oliver gave a short nod before turning and stepping into the room, shutting the door behind him.

Isolde, sipping her coffee, looked up as he entered. “What did you tell them?”

“No one will.” Oliver’s gaze darkened, and without another word, he swept her into his arms. “Enough is enough.”

Crossing the room in swift strides, he reached the bed and laid her down. Isolde looked up at him, knowing exactly what he intended. Nervous, yet expectant.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Oliver traced a hand along her cheek. “Isolde, after everything that happened tonight, I think we can both agree—there’s no need for unnecessary words. Don’t you think?”

“Agreed.” Isolde’s face turned crimson, her eyes gleaming with emotion.

Oliver lowered his head, capturing her lips.

That kiss sparked a wildfire, his weight pressing down on her, his lips tracing from her mouth to her neck, behind her ear. Like a gust of wind, his sleeve flicked, his foot nudged, and the bed canopy slowly descended.

Breaths grew heavier, mingling with the soft rustle of disrobing fabrics. The wedding candle burned low, wax encasing the wick, crackling softly as it neared its end.

At the final flickers, just before the flame died, Isolde gasped and shot up. “The wedding candle mustn’t go out! It has to burn till dawn!”

“Forget it. The dark is better for mischief.”

“No! It’s tradition! If it goes out, we won’t grow old together!”

She hurriedly grabbed two fresh candles and relit them before diving back onto the bed.

The massive bed, carved from century-old elmwood, was wide and sturdy, its four posts as thick as a person’s thigh. Yet, as the canopy swayed, the bed wobbled slightly.

Oliver let out a sharp yelp. “My waist!”

“What’s wrong?” Isolde asked in alarm.

“I lunged, and your knee…hit my waist.”

“Oh no! Are you alright?” Isolde winced in regret. “I was in a rush—I didn’t see—how bad is it?”

“I’ll live…just give me a moment.” Oliver slowly stretched out, groaning.

Isolde, concerned, reached out to massage his waist. “Does this help?”

Oliver exhaled, then suddenly flipped her beneath him, tugging her down. “I’m afraid my waist is out of commission, my dear wife.”

Isolde’s cheeks burned red. She leaned in and whispered something in his ear.

Oliver’s eyes flashed with excitement. “Really?”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

Outside, the wind howled. Hattie and Hazel crouched by the window, watching the snow-covered courtyard bathed in bright lantern light, the reflection making the night as bright as day.

Hattie mused, “Cristina is terrified of death. The last time she ‘slit her wrists,’ she barely shed a drop of blood. And now she supposedly poisoned herself? Where would she even get poison? If the dose was too high, she’d be dead for real.”

“Exactly! If she had poison and was willing to use it, why not earlier instead of pretending to cut her wrists?”

The door to the inner chamber creaked open. Isolde stepped out, wrapped in a cloak, her face flushed, the blush spreading all the way down her neck. She smiled faintly. “You’re both right. Cristina has always been arrogant—this isn’t her style. Someone must have put her up to it. That someone is Agnes. But now that she knows my decision, she wouldn’t risk another attempt. This final act? Cristina probably had no idea what was happening.”

“You mean…someone drugged her?” Hazel’s eyes widened.

“It’s possible. But there’s no poison in this household, and Agnes wouldn’t be foolish enough to bring some from her family estate. You don’t need to keep watch here anymore—go investigate. See if any apothecaries nearby have sold arsenic recently.”

“Understood.” The two prepared to leave immediately.

Isolde stopped them, smiling. “Wait. Come here, I have something else to tell you.”

They leaned in as she whispered instructions. When she finished, they nodded. “Got it. Just sit back and enjoy the show tomorrow, Your Grace.”

Isolde’s gaze turned cold, her smile sharpening. “Agnes, oh Agnes. Your mother may not have the heart to punish you, and I have no time tonight to deal with you. But tomorrow…tomorrow will be a different story.”

“We’re off!” Hattie and Hazel chorused.

Just as Hazel turned to go, Isolde grabbed her sleeve. “Do you have any medicinal wine? The kind for bruises and sprains?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Well…I may have twisted my waist just now.”

“Twisted your waist? How bad is it?” Hazel immediately supported her. “You shouldn’t move around! Lie down—I’ll have Miniro bring some right away.”

“Yes, yes. Just have Miniro bring it over,” Isolde said, sighing.