Chapter 5
The Count's Secret Maid - Chapter 5
Translation: godsn
"One more word and I'll really kill you right here."
"......"
"Get out. Now."
I'd heard before that royalty and nobles kept guns in their bedrooms for self-defense. But I couldn't fathom where it had come from when it definitely hadn't been there just moments before.
And he meant it. Even though I knew he wouldn't actually do it, when I met those cloudy eyes that somehow felt like they were staring straight through me, I unconsciously swallowed dryly.
"Th-then I'll just check your undergarments."
After straightening my back, I grabbed the pile of laundry I'd gathered in one corner and practically ran out of the room. Of course, the moment I closed the door, my legs gave out.
I slid down against the door, collapsing in a heap. My heart pounded violently. The sensation of the gun barrel pressed against my forehead remained vivid. Had he really been about to shoot?
Why had I overlooked this?
The fact that the master of this Count's estate was genuinely insane.
Lenika made a show of looking surprised as she took the basket of laundry from me. Normally I only brought pillowcases or sheets while looking utterly exhausted with disheveled clothes, so she must have been shocked to see me deliver a complete set of laundry today.
She was one of the few people I saw daily since coming to this mansion. Every morning she personally came to the annex to collect laundry and deliver fresh supplies.
"Looks like today went smoothly."
"Thanks to the master."
Thanks to him, I'm suffering like a dog.
Not that she could see my face behind my bangs anyway, but I forced the visible corners of my mouth to curl up. Complaining about hardship wouldn't help since there was no telling how my words might get twisted, so I had to pretend everything was fine. Lenika gave me an appraising up-and-down look before leaving for the main building with the laundry.
Once she was gone, I sighed and trudged inside.
That laundry was my only accomplishment this morning. Breakfast had ended in its usual disaster. Remembering how he'd pressed the gun to my forehead made me unable to be forceful this time. He hadn't eaten anything last night either, not that he cared.
No wonder he was skin and bones. He never properly ate. Whenever I brought something, his first instinct was to throw it—what did that say about him?
At least I got to eat what he refused. I had a belated breakfast of the cooled thin soup and bread. This was luxury compared to before. Back then, going hungry was normal, and my meals consisted solely of whatever Father and Alicia left uneaten.
Right—compared to life before coming here, what's there to fear from the master's temper?
But Vincent's wretched behavior continued throughout the day. I got chased out at lunchtime before even getting the food inside the room. The moment I entered, he started throwing things, creating chaos. It was like he'd deliberately gathered objects to throw—he started hurling things the instant I opened the door, giving me no time to react. My mistake had been putting back the clock and vase while he was briefly asleep earlier.
Despite him constantly breaking things by throwing them, we had to keep replacing them with new ones. I'd once asked Isabella why we bothered when it was dangerous and unnecessary. She explained that once, when they'd removed all objects from his room, he'd scratched himself until his entire body was covered in wounds.
In short, he'd self-harmed. Even when his nails broke and the scratches tore open and bled, he wouldn't stop. After several such incidents, they decided to keep his room stocked. Apparently, he vented his filthy temper by throwing things. Which only meant more suffering for me.
And dinner was no different. Though I hadn't replenished the items like I had at lunch, leaving him nothing to throw, the meal was overturned as usual. When I brought another, it met the same fate. Now, the moment I approached, he'd lash out with his hands first. And if he so much as thought I might lay a finger on him, he'd immediately shove his gun in my face.
The next morning, I couldn't even change the pillowcase. After throwing every tantrum imaginable, he swore he'd force-feed me and ended up smearing the meal all over my face. Needless to say, dinner that evening ended in predictable failure.
Two days passed like this. When Isabella came to check on me, she wore an odd expression—as if she'd expected this all along. She sighed quietly before leaving, and as I watched her retreating back, a chill ran down my spine. Somehow, I sensed a silent warning: if I heard her sigh one more time, it would be over for me.
That day, my patience finally reached its limit. I wasn't afraid of his gun anymore. What terrified me more now was reality. I remembered the rumor I'd heard before: "The servant who attended the master suddenly disappeared." I didn't need to ask what had become of them.
A bowl floated in the air before landing squarely on my head. The thin rice porridge soaked my hair, trickling down in sticky rivulets. And just like that, dinner was ruined too. By now, it didn't even surprise me.
Wiping the porridge from my face, I retreated to my room, punching my pillow as I made a vow.
Just you wait.
"You little bastard!"
Biting back my fury, I waited for dawn. Once morning broke, I dressed, prepared breakfast, and rushed to Vincent's room. The moment I stepped inside, I yanked open the curtains, flooding the dim room with light, then picked up the scattered items one by one. After that, I stripped the filthy sheets.
Of course, the barrel of his gun pressed against my forehead in response.
"You have a death wish?"
"Just shoot me."
"What?"
"If I leave you like this, I'll die anyway. Sooner or later, I'll vanish without a trace. If I'm going to die one way or another, I'd rather have the honor of being shot by you. Go on, pull the trigger and get it over with."
"......"
"Are you insane?"
"Not shooting? Then I'll change the sheets."
I yanked the sheet, and he startled, clutching at it. For a moment, we wrestled—his feeble resistance against my full strength. But he was a half-starved invalid. Snorting, I pulled with all my might and tore the sheet free.
"You're actually deranged!"
Ignoring his shouting, I fetched a fresh sheet.
"Get out right now!"
"Yes, I'll leave once I'm done. If you'd just get up, I could finish faster."
Shoving past him as he tried to yell again, I tugged hard at the bedsheet—dragging him along with it until he collapsed limply onto the floor. Pretending not to notice, I finished stripping the bed and remade it, then swiftly changed the pillowcase.
For a moment, he just stared blankly into space before snapping back to reality with a furious scowl. He opened his mouth—"You—!"—but cut himself off.
"I'll bring breakfast."
The floor was still cluttered, and given his vile temper, there was no telling what he might do. So I set the meal down as far from him as possible—right by the door. Making deliberate, loud footsteps, I walked away, then returned with the same exaggerated noise to pick it up again.
Vincent groped along the floor and climbed back onto the bed to sit. Just as he tried to wrap himself in the bedsheet again, I snatched it away and instead pressed a spoon into his hand.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"I've prepared your meal."
"I'm not eating."
He flung the spoon he was holding onto the floor. After watching it clatter and bounce away, I fetched a new one. I'd anticipated this and brought several extras.
"How old are you to still throw tantrums like a child?"
"Do you really want to die by my hand? Is that why you're acting so insolent?"
He still had the gun in his hand. Glancing at him fiddling with it, I fixed my gaze back on Vincent's face.
"You can't even see in front of you—do you really think you can hit me?"
"My fingers work just fine."
"So you're confident you'll hit your mark, then."
"Marksmanship was my specialty."
Wow, is that so? Letting out a brief sound of admiration, I knelt before him and placed the bowl of rice porridge on my lap. Then, scooping up a spoonful, I brought it to his lips.
"Open your mouth. I'll feed you."
"Get that away!"
Vincent swung his hand violently, but I was quicker, pulling the bowl back out of reach. He fumbled around, searching for something to throw, but I'd cleared away all objects after his last tantrum the previous night.
Realizing there was nothing suitable, Vincent tightened his grip on the gun. The veins on the back of his hand bulged. And yet, he still didn't seem intent on firing.
I pressed the spoon against his lips again.
"Come on, say'ah—'."
"Get that away right now!"
"Just one bite, and I'll put it away."
"I said I'm not eating. Take it away."
"Just one bite. Or would you rather eat by yourself?"
"I said take it away! Get lost!"
"Can you not even chew properly?"
"Or perhaps, as an adult, you can't even manage to move food around in your mouth?" I added sweetly. Vincent let out a sharp, exasperated breath. Not stopping there, I kindly offered to teach him how to use his jaw—if he so desired.
In an instant, he kicked the bowl resting on my lap. It clattered loudly as it rolled across the floor, rice porridge spilling in its wake. Watching it wobble and tip over mid-roll, I squeezed my eyes shut.
This time, I couldn't hold back my anger.
"Are you afraid of me?"
"What?"
"I asked if I frighten you so much that you can't even take a single bite. What, do you think I'll devour you, Master? Are you that magnificent? Ah, but you are magnificent, aren't you? The master of this grand household, after all."
"......"
"What the hell are you trying to pull now?"
"I'm scolding you."
The reason I'd endured his tantrums until now was because his heart was sick.
They said he hadn't always been holed up in this room after losing his sight. Shortly after going blind, he'd carried on with daily life as if nothing had changed. Unable to see, he relied on the butler's voice to manage his affairs, striving to live no differently than when he could see. But then, more incidents kept happening.