My lady was injured and lost her memory. She forgot everyone, yet she remembered my husband.
My husband was once a beggar.
During a heavy winter snowfall, he lay by the roadside, covered in blood and filth.
Passersby all steered clear of him, but my lady alone ordered her carriage to stop and took him in.
From then on, he stayed in the manor to tend the horses for her.
My lady often visited him under the pretext of checking on the horses.
I saw the deep, lingering affection in their eyes with my own.
But how could a young lady of her status ever marry a horse slave?
Heartbroken, she told him:
“I cannot marry you.
“But I will find someone to take care of you in my stead.”
My lady personally betrothed me to him.
Later, the lowly horse slave found his way back to the imperial capital and reclaimed his identity as a prince.
I, in turn, became his legitimate consort.
On the day of the investiture, I was waiting.
I knew.
Sooner or later, my lady would come back to reclaim what was originally hers.
