Chapter 6: Blood on the Snow

"Nathaniel, I have two requests."

Nathaniel’s face showed no emotion, as if he had expected this, only slowly sipping coffee.

He used to respect my father. But people change.

My father ignored his attitude and kept talking.

"Samuel Boone cared for Marlowe and offended you. Please forgive him. And my daughter is too stubborn; it’s my fault as a father. Please allow me to see her and persuade her."

My father’s requests were not excessive. I looked at Nathaniel.

He had already put down his mug, and after a barely noticeable flash in his eyes, he nodded in agreement.

He said: "It’s best for the family and the town that you think this way, Colonel."

He really was a cunning fox. I couldn’t help grinding my teeth.

But I was dead, and he still didn’t know. I waited to see how he’d let my father see me.

On the fifth day after my death, it snowed. The whole world was white.

The little white flower brought carefully stewed chicken soup to visit Nathaniel.

The two of them drank the soup affectionately. When she left, she gently reminded him: "It’s so cold, what about Marlowe…"

Nathaniel, unlike his usual coldness, pretended to be concerned: "Look at my memory, yesterday Colonel Marlowe asked to see her. In that case, darling, come with me to the old servants’ quarters."

I was bored. Sat on the stone lion outside the study, watching the snow.

When I heard this, I was dazed for a moment.

Then, belatedly, I realized—someone was finally going to collect my body?

The master and mistress went together, a grand group heading to the old servants’ quarters.

I floated after them, in a good mood, guessing what their reactions would be.

Would they be disappointed? Happy? Who knew.

The group walked quickly; before I could figure it out, the head butler’s loud announcement interrupted my thoughts.

"Mr. and Mrs. Holloway have arrived, Marlowe, come out and greet them!"

The booming voice echoed through the broken servants’ wing, bouncing off the walls.

Except for a few snowflakes falling from the bent branches under the heavy snow,

There was no other response.

Nathaniel’s face was terrible, the little white flower’s eyes flickered, and the maids and guards behind all held their breath.

Then, the little white flower gently reminded: "Sister, Nathaniel and I have come to see you, come out and greet us."

Still nothing.

"Is your sister still mad? She won’t talk to me." The little white flower’s eyes were red.

Nathaniel coldly waved his hand: "Somebody, kick open the door!"

My heart skipped.

With a bang, the door was kicked open, and the crowd rushed in.

I counted: one, two, three.

Screams rang out one after another. I dug at my ear and leaned in to take a look.

The old servants’ quarters were truly cold.

Inside, just one bed. Nothing else.

And even that bed was a broken, uneven thing.

I was curled up on such a dilapidated bed.

My right arm tightly hugged my body, my left hand covered my eyes, blocking my sight.

Oh. I remembered.

At the last moment before dying, I wiped away my tears with all my strength.

Because I didn’t want people to find my corpse and think that Marlowe was just a little girl who cried when she was in pain!

Under me was a large patch of blood, dried to the extreme, just like my shriveled, purple corpse.

A ray of sunlight shone through the window, illuminating this small space, but was cut off an inch from my ankle.

No wonder I still liked to hug myself, even after death.

Turns out, it was too cold and painful when I died!

A wave of sorrow hit me.

Suddenly, a cold wind blew outside, and a faint smell of death spread.

"Marlowe?"

A soft murmur drifted to me on the wind.

I instinctively turned to the tall figure in yellow in the crowd.

His expression was too calm.

So calm I almost thought, after so many years as husband and wife, it wasn’t me but someone else.

Everyone else knelt in fear, only Nathaniel stood alone.

His tall frame seemed stooped, body trembling, fists clenched. He looked terrifying.

I was truly surprised.

I died—was he sad?

I shook my head in denial.

How could he be sad?

At most, he’d think it was a pity. A pity to lose a chess piece.

Between him and me, everything ended the moment I died.

Now, I just wanted him to notify my father quickly to collect my body.

I had already decided, as the elders say, to let my soul return home.

I’d be buried out West, among wild grass and endless sky. That would be my resting place.