A Child's Ruthless Curiosity
The villainess's young charge had a ruthless streak. Boundless curiosity, matched only by her utter lack of morals. Children who haven't learned right from wrong can't control their strength. They crush ants underfoot, tear wings from butterflies. To a child blind to others' pain, it's just curiosity, play, or a light punishment at worst.
Hia was such a child. Brimming with curiosity, sorely lacking in ethics. To her, this act might have been nothing more than a small retribution against someone who'd spoken out of turn.
But Hia wasn't an ordinary child. Not born of flesh and blood from a womb, but crafted in a flask—an artificial life. A baby thrust into the body of a girl no older than ten, without even time to form a proper sense of self. And even that ten-year-old body was far from normal, as Hia was demonstrating to me right now.
Blood dripped onto the floor. Her round, blood-red eyes—matching those droplets—fixed on me. Staring intently, as if awaiting my response or some command from me.
Only then did I realize what I had to do.
"...Hia, let her down, please. Schuett, catch her below."
"Okay."
"Y-yes, yes!"
With a flick of her fingertip, the maid dangling from the chandelier plummeted. I knew it. If I hadn't ordered Schuett to catch her, that maid would've snapped her neck or cracked her skull on impact—instant death.
"Is she breathing?"
"Sh-she's... breathing...!"
"Then take her to the doctor at once. You can handle it, right?"
"Y-yes, understood!"
Schuett scooped up the maid—limbs twisted at impossible angles—and bolted away.
What remained were bloodstains everywhere, the other maids huddled in terror on the floor, and... Hia.
"...Why did you do this, Hia?"
"She said you'd throw me away. That person did."
"I see."
I recalled now: that maid was the one who'd tormented Schuett before. Probably venting her grudge against me—against Bathory—first on Schuett, who trailed after me, and now on Hia.
"Hey, don't go any further. You'll get hurt."
At Hia's warning, I narrowed my eyes and focused ahead. There—faintly visible—a slender thread. Blood-smeared, turned red along its line. So this is what she used.
"!?"
Spotting Hia's weapon, I seized the thread and pressed it to my throat—inviting it to coil around my neck or slice into my skin.
"What're you doing?"
But no cut came. Hia had slackened the taut thread.
"You knew. How dangerous this thing is."
"..."
"Or does it mean others can get hurt, but not me?"
Hia still didn't grasp the concept of pain well. I'd coddled her, sure, but more than that, her ignorance of the world left her unable to distinguish levels of suffering—the difference between a little hurt and agony.
"You hurt that maid badly, Hia."
"Hurt her bad?"
"Yes. That stinging on your cheek? That's pain."
One side of Hia's cheek was flushed red. Probably from the maid's slap. Maybe Hia's reaction was a defense mechanism against her first taste of pain—a retaliation, like a worm wriggling when stepped on. Overkill self-defense against the maid who'd struck her and spewed unwelcome words.
"Do you hate seeing me hurt? Feeling pain?"
"...Hate it."
Hia couldn't differentiate a slap to the cheek from limbs snapped and suspended. Both were just "pain" to her. Yet she'd released the thread—refusing even that level of hurt for me.
"Then every time you hurt someone with this thread, I'll inflict the same wound on myself."
"...Why?"
"Because I don't want to hurt you."
Beating a child as discipline is child abuse. Sure, it's the norm these days, but I won't do it.
"So instead, I'll hurt."
A parent's failing is the child's failing. If Hia won't take the punishment, I will.
"..."
Hia's face was the same as ever. Serene at a glance. Round eyes. Childlike, yet eerily unsettling.
"...No."
But tears were welling in those eyes. They spilled down her emotionless face, drop by drop.
"...Come here, Hia."
I crouched and opened my arms. She toddled over and hugged me.
"Hurting people is the worst thing you can do."
"Am I... bad?"
"No. It just means you have a lot to learn, Hia."
I stroked her hair, soothing her.
"Fix what's wrong, learn what you don't know. That's all."
I let out a silent sigh of relief where she couldn't see.
"Hia, no more hurting people from now on. Promise?"
"Promise."
Of course, I hate pain too. Nobody likes it. I can't keep staging self-harm every time she acts out—it'd mess with her head. So I have to teach her properly, make sure it never happens again. Well, it's not the first time anyway.
"I dumped her in front of the doctor!"
"Good... dumped her?"
"Uh, figure of speech..."
As I comforted Hia, Schuett returned—whipping up a breeze that tousled her hair. Her physicals are kinda off, huh? Was there a maid like this in the original story? Don't think so.
"...Anyway, good work. Take Hia back to my room first?"
"What about you, miss?"
"Me...?"
I handed Hia to Schuett and stood.
Then I locked eyes with the maids still frozen, watching me.
"...I'll handle the cleanup."
Hia's actions weren't something an clueless child could be held accountable for. Turning someone into a critical patient like that—how could she bear the responsibility?
"You lot."
"Y-yes, miss!"
But with Frederica—the lady of the house—looming large in this situation, I couldn't just silence them and call it done. Someone had to take the fall.
"Confess. Say I did it—that it's my responsibility."
No one else in this mansion could shoulder it for Hia. Eclair finds her creepy; Urtic has no interest. Schuett's just a maid with little seniority—hard for her to speak up. What about Frederica? Would she tolerate a ticking time bomb with infant-level maturity but enough power to kill, lurking in her home?
No way. Whether she knows Eclair or not, the moment this reaches her ears, she'll boot Hia out.
Frederica is cool-headed, rational, deeply responsible. The ideal leader with every quality. That's exactly why she won't abide Hia. No guarantee Hia won't harm the staff, herself, or—above all—her beloved Urtic.
But I'm different. Skin-deep, this is Bathory's body. Blood ties aside, she's officially the viscount's third daughter. In the original story, even as Bathory caused endless trouble, Frederica scolded and punished her but never cast her out. Family blood runs thick for her— a sister is a sister, no matter how despised.
So I have to take this blame. She might curse me, whip me, lock me away—but she won't disown her little sister.
Frederica Mirhane.
Of course, my image—Bathory's image—will plummet further. The original Bathory never beat a servant half to death, no matter how angry. People just called her a bitch. But rumors of crippling a maid? That shifts from anger to fear. From spoiled noble lady to raving lunatic out for blood.
"Say Bathory Mirhane lost her mind, couldn't control her rage, and lashed out at a maid."
But... so what if rumors spread?
"You love gossiping, don't you?"
Fear me? Despise me? Whatever.
"So get out of my sight. Now."
That's the villainess's role, after all.
"And spread it far. Like you always do."
Bathory Mirhane is a villain. Petty, hot-tempered, status-obsessed authoritarian. Weak against the strong, bullying the weak.
"Especially to Frederica's ears."
A poisonous flower jealous of fragrant blooms. Add a dash of spin.
"...Can't you hear me?"
"...Y-yes, miss..."
I am Bathory. The villainess everyone hates.
"...Good."
I'd slacked off too long. Abandoned the role, half-assed the performance.
So... let's start over.
The proper villainess act.