Pingdeuk's Deep Maternal Love
"Here, this is a fork."
"I... I know that much..."
For a week straight, I taught Urtic Mirhane.
"Don't try shoving both arms in at once—take it slow, one at a time."
"Did... did the sleeve go in right...?"
"...It's inside out. Top and bottom swapped."
Table manners. How to dress. How to bathe. And all sorts of other things.
"It stings...!! Shampoo got in my eyes...!!"
"That's what you get for not washing properly... Tsk, hold still. I'll rinse it for you."
Spending our lessons that way, one thing I'd realized was...
"...I'm exhausted."
At this rate, I'll be the one to drop dead first.
"A-Are you alright, miss...?"
"Not... alright at all. Not even a little."
There was a problem. A huge problem.
"That girl absolutely refuses to wake up before sunset..."
Urtic Mirhane's daily rhythm was pure nocturnal. A night owl through and through. She opened her eyes only after the sun went down, and nodded off only when morning light broke.
"Matching her schedule... is pure torture."
"C-Couldn't you just wake her in the morning...?"
"She hates it so much."
I didn't want to force her into something she loathed. Call it soft if you want, but my experience told me that pushing too hard would backfire worse than doing nothing at all.
"Harassing her nonstop... wouldn't make her listen anyway."
More than that, my goal was to get close to Urtic. Provoking her further would likely just sour things.
...Maybe it's already hopeless? I've probably done plenty to make her hate me already.
"Anyway... syncing with a night owl is no easy feat."
If I could match Urtic's rhythm, I wouldn't be this wiped out. But I'm a morning person—used to rising at dawn for workouts to kick off the day. Because of that, once the sun rose, sleep evaded me completely. The clamor of people outside, the cacophony from the windows—it all grated on my nerves.
I've always been hypersensitive to noise, especially at bedtime.
Caught in that hazy limbo between asleep and awake for days on end...
"Ugh..."
It was hell.
"Heading out again today?"
"What choice do I have? I said I'd do it..."
She was progressing, however slowly, so quitting now felt wrong. I could see her improving bit by bit—stopping abruptly would leave a bad taste for both of us. There was even a certain joy in teaching her.
"Could you brew me some coffee? No phlegm this time."
"I-I didn't...!!"
"..."
"Eek! S-Sorry... for yelling..."
Schuett's terrified expression was downright comical, so I covered my mouth and smirked silently. Timid and skittish as she was, this maid always spoke her mind when it counted.
"I'm off."
"Sh-Shouldn't I come with you? What about the coffee...?"
"No need. Just rest. You've barely slept, trailing after me all this time."
Time to give my dedicated maid a break.
"Good night, Schuett."
"G-Good night, miss...!"
Now, it was time to visit the princess slumbering in her library lair.
――
Even after that day, Urtic's obsession with her closet-nook hadn't faded. She still spent most of her time in the library, sleeping in that cramped space more often than not. At least she no longer holed up there around the clock—progress, I suppose? Occasionally, she'd sleep in her actual bedroom, and her range of activity had expanded. She even bathed every other day now, though never alone.
11 a.m. Far too early for Urtic to stir, but I headed to the library anyway. Teaching her had conveniently extended my own library hours. The Mirhane estate's library was vast, stuffed with an immense variety of books—so I'd probably have lingered there plenty even without Urtic.
The reason was simple: I needed to study.
École Verger had an entrance exam. A month before the ceremony, and the top 2% scorers got full scholarships for the first semester.
I wasn't gunning for a full ride, though. All I wanted was to pass and enroll safely. It was called an entrance exam for a reason—fall below the bar, and you're out.
The original Bathory had scraped by with middling grades: not stellar, but not dismal. Her scores declined over time, but I recalled no mention of her ever failing outright.
The issue was whether I could maintain those grades. My knowledge of this world was half-baked, and I had no clue what the exams covered. Not because I was clueless—the novel glossed over test content in vague snippets. No need for detailed setups in that format.
So, study I must. Somehow.
If I couldn't predict the material, I'd cram general knowledge the old-fashioned way.
"Phew..."
I entered the library and made for the nook. Just to check her sleeping face, at least.
She was probably sprawled out, buried in cushions.
"...?"
But as I eased open the nook door, my assumption crumbled.
"...Urtic?"
"Ugh... ugh..."
Urtic, whom I'd expected deep in peaceful slumber, writhed uncomfortably, groaning.
"Are you okay? Urtic, Urtic?"
Her face flushed red, pained moans escaping her lips. Sweat beading on her forehead.
Familiar symptoms. I'd endured them myself, seen my sister suffer them.
"Eclair au Chocolat!!"
I called urgently, but no reply came.
Where was she? Asleep and not hearing? Or—worst case—out at a time like this?
"Eclair! Eclair!!!"
"Guh... cough, hack..."
I shouted over and over, but only Urtic's dry coughs answered.
"...She's burning up."
Her forehead scorched my palm.
Even an idiot could see it now: she couldn't be left like this.
Urtic was sick. Flu or something worse, I couldn't tell—but even a cold could turn deadly if ignored. I'd heard plenty of such tales back home, pre- and post-liberation poverty alike. Especially for the frail; their weakened immunity was a banquet for every germ around.
Eclair might not return soon, but she wouldn't stay gone long. Like most witches, she was a fellow shut-in.
So, until she got back, my task was clear.
"Haa..."
What a high-maintenance girl.
――
A sudden chill swept the Mirhane estate's kitchen.
An uninvited guest had barged in—a place no one expected her to set foot in.
Bathory Mirhane. The Mirhanes' youngest lady, and their worst headache.
"Problem child" was too kind for her atrocities. Her twisted temper sparked issues no simple "immature" label could cover.
The servants' poor opinion of her stemmed from her habit of scorning and belittling underlings in word and deed. Word was, no servant in the estate had escaped her abuse unscathed—her notoriety said it all.
"...M-Miss? What brings you to the kitchen...?"
And now she was here.
The cooks and staff froze in terror—no surprise. Why would this mad villainess, who deigned never to enter their "filthy" domain, show up now?
The head chef swallowed hard, eyeing her warily, trying to guess her intent.
"Keep working. Don't mind me."
The brief silence—eternal to them—broke with words that baffled everyone.
What did she just say? Carry on? Don't mind her?
The chef couldn't process it. Such civility from her? And if not to terrorize, then why was she here?
Her next actions only muddled his thoughts further.
"Miss, what... what are you...?"
"Can't you tell?"
Bathory Mirhane—that Bathory—was tying on an apron. Cinching the strings expertly, gathering her hair.
I don't know. I don't want to know.
His brain rejected the scene outright.
Ignoring him, Bathory neatly bound her hair and picked up a kitchen knife.
What now? Planning to hack off my hand?
"Hoo..."
The chef half-wished she would.
Instead...
"...Could I have some cream over there?"
Her knife first swung toward the onions on the cutting board.