OB C3

Here is a clean, professional English translation of Chapter 3, keeping all character names and tone consistent with previous chapters:

Chapter 3

“Oh, no wonder—you spoke so skillfully with the Antaka ambassador earlier. I happen to have some ties to Antaka myself. May I ask your mother’s maiden name?”

Someone asked with apparent enthusiasm.

“Dutois.”

Rose responded with a polite smile and a practiced, conventional reply to the man’s show of familiarity.

Her mother was from Antaka, but calling her a noble would be a stretch.

Her maternal grandfather had been the third son of a minor noble—receiving neither title nor wealth, and leaving none behind for his children. What he did pass on, however, was an equally ambiguous sense of pride.

And her mother, who resembled him—

No.

Rose cut off her wandering thoughts sharply.

She didn’t want to think about her mother. Not here—especially not in a place where everyone seemed to be watching, waiting for her to make a mistake.

“Then how did your mother end up living in a place like Bolton?”

Even questions that sounded harmless carried the implication that living in Bolton was equivalent to choosing the very bottom of life.

At this point, it no longer surprised her.

When she first arrived, she had been shocked by just how excessive Ortuaran disdain for Bolton was. But after hearing the same remarks day after day, she had begun to grow used to them.

“I heard there’s been another large-scale strike in Bolton. And even women participated in such anti-social behavior! I’d heard Bolton women were… unusual, but still—something like that is unimaginable in Ortuaran society. I simply can’t picture it.”

“Oh, don’t feel too disappointed.”

Rose smiled effortlessly.

“People of Ortuaran already have plenty to be proud of. There’s no need to possess imagination like Bolton.”

What she wanted to say was something much simpler—‘That’s because your imagination is lacking’—but instead she had to dress it up in this long-winded phrasing. The inefficiency of it all was maddening.

For a country so advanced in machinery, its way of speaking was remarkably inefficient.

Ray Crawford was now staring directly at her. Perhaps it was a silent signal to stop talking.

Rose smiled faintly at her husband and continued as if nothing were wrong.

“Especially His Majesty King Catherine. I heard you had an audience with him recently? I’d love to hear about it. Since I rarely have the chance to meet him, I’m always curious.”

When she wanted to change the subject, bringing up Ortuaran royalty worked every time.

The people of Ortuaran were endlessly eager to talk about their king—interpreting her curiosity as admiration, even envy. Their arrogance in doing so was almost impressive.

“His Majesty is remarkably robust for his age. Though all rulers of this country have been so, he is truly exceptional…”

As she listened to what might have been the most tedious story in existence, Rose’s gaze drifted toward the pianist playing in a corner of the hall.

The nocturne was nearing its end, the pianist’s hands slowing gradually.

It was a famous piece. As expected, it was excellent. The performance was flawless.

The aftertaste of the wine she had swallowed earlier lingered bitterly on her tongue.

<We found no compelling reason to publish Miss Davis’s compositions.>

The short, bleak letter she had received before her marriage resurfaced in her mind.

Her wrist throbbed faintly, and she clenched and unclenched her fist without thinking.

Suddenly, everything felt meaningless.

A life without distinction, a marriage that felt unreal, a country that looked down on her—did any of it truly matter?

As the publishers had said, there was nothing particularly special about her. And if that were the case, then there was even less reason to cling to pride or preserve herself.

In this vast world, she was nothing.

No one.

Her mother had tried so desperately to make her understand that truth before she died.

And the moment Rose realized it again, her smile deepened.

* * *

Ortuaran was a country where the sun rose late.

After preparing to go out, Ray Crawford descended to the main hall on the first floor and gazed at the still bluish morning sky beyond the window, returning the butler’s greeting.

It looked like any other morning—familiar scenery, familiar servants.

He wanted to believe it was the same as always.

But…

“Where is Mrs. Crawford?”

He managed to say the words, though they felt as unpleasant as sand in his mouth.

The butler looked visibly surprised that Ray was asking for his wife so early in the morning.

Understandably so.

Ray rarely mentioned her, let alone sought her out, unless absolutely necessary.

The two lived with a remarkable lack of interaction.

“She is taking a walk in the garden.”

“At this hour?”

Ray repeated the words quietly.

It was seven in the morning.

“She has been out there for quite some time.”

What a troublesome woman.

Ray wasn’t the type to openly criticize his wife in front of servants, but that didn’t stop the thoughts from forming in his mind.

“She must be troubled.”

The butler spoke in a lowered voice.

Ray didn’t agree in the slightest, but merely nodded.

The previous day’s newspaper had reported that her father was meeting with various city officials under the pretense of business ventures.

The butler must have assumed that was the reason for her early walk.

Troubled…?

Her?

Hardly convincing.

In Ray’s opinion, Rose Davis was rather shameless—very much like her father.

The memory of her expression in the embassy gallery room the other day remained vivid.

People had been gossiping about his “lowly” marriage.

Petty people with too much time.

He had ignored them—it wasn’t worth reacting.

But she—

She should have reacted.

She had seen the situation caused by her very existence, yet she had said nothing—only watched him silently.

That was the problem.

She was… far too composed.

There was no proper sense of guilt.

No embarrassment.

Just that doll-like, expressionless face.

“I’ll go myself.”

Reluctantly, Ray stepped out into the garden.

There was something he needed to confirm.

Trying to suppress the unfamiliar sense of humiliation—this unpleasant feeling that resurfaced whenever he thought of his wife—he walked forward.

“People of Ortuaran already have plenty to be proud of…”

Her voice echoed in his mind—soft, almost melodic, disguising the sharpness of her mockery.

Despite his efforts, irritation surged again.

He had thought she might at least stay quiet after witnessing what people said because of her.

Clearly, that had been too much to expect.

She would remain silent most of the time, then suddenly say something inappropriate.

Was she even sane?

Turning a conversation from a Bolton strike to the king of Ortuaran—that wasn’t just bold, it was dangerous.

In that brief exchange, she had placed the king on the same level as a labor strike.

She spoke of the king as if he were a casual topic of conversation.

A woman born and raised in a country without a monarch…

“Do you think we’ll prosper just because we won the war? Do you think we’ll last?”

His father’s voice, muttered long ago from his sickbed, surfaced unexpectedly.

Back then, he hadn’t understood why his father feared the collapse of the monarchy.

Now, it no longer seemed like an overreaction.

The king of Planto had won his war—and still ended up on the execution block.

That woman kept reminding him of things he would rather forget.

Annoyingly so.

With irritation rising to his throat, Ray stopped walking.

She was sitting on a bench, head bowed.

There was nothing on the ground, yet her gaze was fixed downward.

She looked as though she might collapse.

Was she crying?

Lighting a cigarette, Ray watched her indifferently.

Even if she didn’t care about what people said about him because of her, it was possible she might feel upset about her own reputation—or her father’s.

And judging by her appearance, she certainly looked like someone who might cry.

If not that, then at least it would have been understandable.

He knew well how Ortuarans treated her—like an exhibit in a zoo, or a performer in a circus.

If they behaved that way even in front of him or his mother, it must be worse when they weren’t around.

Still…

Her empty, expressionless face was irritating—but seeing her cry would be even worse.

Comforting her would be a nuisance.

He considered turning away.

Just then, Rose lifted her head.

And yawned.

Wide.

Long.