The Reason for Discomfort (2)
The Bourdin baronial family was fairly well-known in the royal capital. The head of the house, Emil Bourdin, held a position in the royal palace’s secretariat—one of the most important posts available. His wife was a renowned beauty from a prominent noble family, and his two sons had begun their careers under the kingdom’s chief justice and treasurer, following in their father’s footsteps. Their refined manners, striking appearances, and elegant wit made them frequent topics of light conversation in high society. And behind them all loomed the name of Benning. Though they were merely a branch family, the Bourdins and the Bennings maintained a close relationship. The oppressive weight carried by the name of one of the kingdom’s foremost martial houses, combined with the possibility of future favors trickling down from above, had secured the Bourdin barony a position of considerable influence in aristocratic circles.
Yet when it came to the youngest child of the Bourdin family—Marion—there was almost no information to be found, even among the gossip-filled salons of high society. Her existence was known, but she had never once appeared at any formal social gathering or official event.
“Perhaps she’s ill?”
“She simply isn’t ready yet. Or maybe the baron is reluctant to show her because she’s too beautiful.”
“They won’t let her out until her manners are flawless, I suppose.”
The young ladies and noblewomen would speculate among themselves. With no real information to go on, their guesses grew increasingly wild with each passing day.
“She must be a witch with a wicked temperament.”
“Perhaps she’s the baron’s illegitimate child.”
The Bourdin family simply allowed such baseless rumors to circulate without comment. High society found their silence even stranger.
“The rumors have spread so far—has the Bourdin house really said nothing?”
“I met the baroness yesterday, and she didn’t utter a single word about it.”
“She ought to make at least one appearance in society before coming of age.”
Eventually, the topic devolved into nothing more than a running joke. People had grown tired of the Bourdins’ indifference and the complete lack of further news.
“Maybe the Bourdin barony doesn’t actually have a daughter at all?”
“What if she’s not too beautiful, but so hideous that they’re ashamed to let her be seen?”
“Then the rumor about her being a bastard would make perfect sense.”
The young ladies and noblewomen would burst into laughter, chatting over their teacups. Though such talk could easily be taken as an insult to the family, neither Baron Bourdin nor his wife ever offered any response. The rumor, now reduced to a joke, gradually faded like smoke. And with so many other topics flooding the salons—some count’s daughter breaking off an engagement, some baron’s son being exceptionally tall and handsome, a gold mine discovered in another count’s territory—talk of Marion was pushed aside. The rumors surrounding the baron’s daughter, who had played the tragic heroine and comic supporting character in equal measure, seemed to vanish entirely.
Emil Bourdin stared coldly at the smoke rising from his pipe. His appearance still drew the occasional admiring glance from noblewomen whenever he attended social functions. He frowned, carefully weighing the opportunity that had just presented itself.
The curse had been firmly planted in that thorn-in-his-side. It was too valuable a piece to simply discard. Removing it wouldn’t be easy in any case, and he also had to consider Theodora’s reaction. Most of all, he needed to fasten a more reliable leash around that mutant from the Apparte family so he wouldn’t become an even greater obstacle. The solution was a political marriage.
To think he could create a leash by using a worthless child. A chuckle slipped from Baron Bourdin’s lips.
He had already finished speaking with Baron Apparte. The man, completely unaware that his own child had been cursed, had laughed heartily and agreed to the engagement. Emil Bourdin had struggled to suppress his sneer during their meeting. His son could radiate killing intent strong enough to make a man faint despite suffering under a terrible curse and severe injuries, yet the father was no different from any other easily manipulated rural noble. How pathetic.
Emil Bourdin called for the servant waiting outside the door.
“Jean, bring Marion to my study.”
“Yes, my lord.”
How delightful. He wouldn’t have to tie his family to that vulgar house that could only tarnish their reputation, and at the same time he could bind both that thorn in his side, Maxim, and his youngest daughter together. What a pleasant day.
The corners of Emil Bourdin’s serpentine mouth curved upward.
My life has been nothing but tragedy. There was never an upward curve—only endless descent. An extreme story with no hope of redemption.
Marion Bourdin’s life was a tragedy. A story with no upward trajectory, only relentless decline—an extreme tale of despair.
Before that incident, Marion Bourdin had been a truly beautiful girl. She possessed clear, sapphire-like blue eyes and long, lustrous hair the color of a dark night. Her smile could captivate anyone who saw it, and her voice was lovely. The future of a child not yet ten years old already shone brilliantly.
In truth, the Bourdin family had no intention of sending her into high society or noble gatherings too early. They planned to wait until she had fully prepared herself, until her maidenly beauty bloomed in its brightest splendor. Countless noble heirs would have marked her as their future bride.
But the girl who was meant to become the flower of the Bourdin family was swallowed by flames.
The cause of the fire had been nothing remarkable. It was a winter when a record-breaking cold wave had struck the entire royal capital. A maid cleaning the house had hung a rag near the fireplace. The weather had been dry. A spark landed on the cloth, and it caught fire instantly. The flames spread rapidly throughout the residence.
By cruel coincidence, the only member of the Bourdin family inside the house at the time was seven-year-old Marion Bourdin.
The mansion did not burn to the ground. Not a single servant was harmed—not even the maid who had mistakenly left the rag by the fireplace. But the fire had reached the room where Marion was.
She had been unable to escape quickly. Only when a servant came to rescue her was she finally able to leave the house. But the Marion cradled in the servant’s arms was no longer unharmed.
When she regained consciousness, she was in a private physician’s clinic. Through a hazy veil of pain, she faintly overheard the conversation between the doctor and her father.
“We managed to save her life, but the young lady’s right side…”
Marion didn’t understand what that meant. All she knew was the unbearable pain—the searing agony in her right shoulder, hand, and face that had been devoured by fire. Tears streamed down her cheeks without end.
In her blurred vision, she saw her father, Emil Bourdin.
“Father…”
A child’s cry slipped from Marion’s lips.
Emil Bourdin glanced briefly at the bed where his daughter lay.
“Father…?”
Their eyes met.
“It’s over.”
Emil Bourdin spoke with eyes as cold as ice. The words it’s over flew like a dagger and lodged in Marion’s ears. Even as pain continued to stab through her body, her father let out a scornful laugh and turned away.
“My lord, the young lady…”
“Enough. Just treat her roughly.”
“It’s late, but would you like to use a potion?”
Emil Bourdin furrowed his brow.
“I already said it’s too late. Why waste a potion?”
“For faster recovery…”
“Say no more.”
Marion watched in stunned silence as her father opened the door to the hospital room and left. When had the tragedy truly begun? She stared blankly at the ceiling of the sickroom. Even at her young age, she realized that everything was only just beginning.
In the newly rebuilt baronial mansion, there was no longer a place for Marion. Her older brothers paid her no attention. They were simply delighted that one competitor had been eliminated.
“This is your room now.”
She was driven like an outcast to the smallest, most remote room in the house. The beloved little girl who had once been cherished no longer existed.
Her mother, suppressed by Emil’s presence, could not openly show Marion the best of her affection. She only helped her daughter in secret, where her husband’s eyes could not reach.
“Don’t you think your appearance is hideous?”
“Always wear gloves and a mask. Whether you’re inside the house or walking outside.”
Her father had never been particularly kind, but after she suffered the burns, he completely abandoned any semblance of parental affection.
It was a horrible life. The maids and servants who had once supported her left. The new servants treated her like a machine. And the occasional glimmers of pity that leaked from those mechanical eyes filled Marion with unbearable disgust.
She lived as if she were dead. She rarely left the house. During meals, she barely spoke. The only person she could hold anything resembling a real conversation with was the tutor the family had assigned her—an elderly woman. Aside from her, Marion was completely alone. Utterly alone.
“I’ll be sold off someday.”
Whenever she was alone with her tutor, Marion would say this. The expression on her face as she spoke held not resignation or bitterness, but pure terror. The tutor would listen quietly. She was always so anxious.
“Father thinks I’m useless.”
“You must strengthen your heart, my lady.”
The tutor would comfort her with those words. Marion knew very well that there were nobles with twisted tastes. The frightening stories she had once been told still lingered in her mind. She pretended not to wish for salvation, yet she longed for it more than anyone.
That day as well, Marion was staring out the window. She had grown used to wearing the mask even when alone. She touched the right side of her face. Only the hard texture of the mask met her fingers.
On days without lessons, she would secretly tend to flowers in the rear garden or take books from the archive to read. The very concept of salvation had grown vague. She had accepted everything.
Then came a knock at the door.
“My lady, it is Jean.”
It was the servant who attended directly to her father. Marion gave permission to enter.
“What brings you here?”
Her voice was so soft it was barely audible. But Jean, an excellent servant, understood her immediately.
“The master summons you.”
The left eyebrow not hidden by the mask furrowed ever so slightly. Filled with unease, Marion followed Jean down the corridor. Had her father ever called for her directly like this before?
She stood quietly behind the door Jean opened for her. The head of the house’s study. Her father greeted her with the same indifferent, icy gaze as always.
“Sit there.”
Obeying her father’s command, Marion sat on the sofa. The sound of Emil Bourdin’s pen scratching across paper filled the room. One minute for her felt like an hour. Finally, the sound of writing stopped, and Emil Bourdin walked over to sit across from her.
“Your fiancé has been decided.”
Marion’s face turned deathly pale.
“He is the son of Baron Apparte. It seems he has just graduated from the Knight Academy and will soon be appointed as a knight.”
“Father… I…”
Emil Bourdin looked at her with freezing eyes.
“Marion, how long do you intend to remain a child?”
She closed her mouth.
“Prepare yourself to meet your fiancé tomorrow.”
“…Yes.”
Having said only what was necessary, Emil Bourdin dismissed her. Ah. Marion thought this was the end. It might be the beginning of an even greater tragedy, or perhaps it would be her liberation from the current situation. She returned to her room, removed her mask, and cried. She simply didn’t know what expression she was supposed to wear.
Marion greeted the next day without having slept properly. Perhaps because the occasion was the meeting of her fiancé, the maids did their utmost to dress her up. For the first time in her life, Marion received a proper, full dressing. And it was all for the sake of meeting a fiancé who might turn out to be the worst possible person.
She looked into the mirror. There she was, wearing the mask. Half of her face hidden, long black hair combed down, dressed in a white gown. Her expression was frozen, almost nonexistent. Her eyes were those of someone who had given up—lifeless.
She raised her right hand and touched the mirror. A white glove covered that hand as well. She hated mirrors. She hated how they exposed her so mercilessly.
A knock sounded at the door.
“My lady, I’m coming in.”
She gave brief permission. The door opened. And the person who appeared beyond it was a man with hazel hair and golden eyes, whose gaze resembled her own in a way that was almost startling.