Chapter 9
The Count's Secret Maid - Chapter 9
Translation: godsn
The pile of laundry had grown so high it blocked my line of sight, forcing me to use the main staircase again. Servants were supposed to use the back staircase of the mansion, and if anyone saw me here, I wouldn't escape punishment—so I quickened my pace.
"Master, I'll read to you again."
"It took you long enough just to go to the study and back."
"I had to choose carefully. So you could enjoy listening this time."
Then I opened the book I'd brought.
"Once upon a time, there lived a happy little pig. The happy little pig was so very happy spending each and every day."
"What are you doing?"
"Pardon? What do you mean?"
When I pretended not to understand and asked, he scowled.
"It's a fairy tale book."
"Yes, it is a fairy tale book."
"You can't possibly mean to read that."
"I thought fairy tales would suit you perfectly right now, Master."
"What?"
"For a master in such a foul mood, I judged that what you need most is to hear a warm story about what consideration means, to regain your peace of mind."
He made an absurd expression. I calmly looked down at the fairy tale book.
"Please let me know if there's a particular story you'd like. We have the tale of the happy little pig, the little girl who went on an errand, the friendship between a boy and an all-granting fairy, the siblings' mysterious adventure, the blue bird's love and peace—any story you want is ready. Since you said you wouldn't listen to the same story twice, I prepared several books. Please choose according to your taste."
Surely you haven't read at least one of these. When I said that, he pressed his lips tightly together. The veins stood out on the backs of his clenched hands as if he might tear the sheets.
"If there's nothing you'd like, I'll continue with the happy little pig story. You wouldn't refuse to listen even to a short story, would you? I don't think you're that impatient, but if it becomes too difficult to bear, please let me know."
I rambled on quickly to prevent him from interrupting me, then promptly began reading the fairy tale. Whether my words had an effect or not, this time he stayed quiet. His face looked as if he'd stopped breathing, and I felt slightly nervous, but fortunately, I managed to read the fairy tale to the end.
Of course, the next fairy tale book ended up being thrown across the room by him.
After that, I continued reading books to him. Fairy tales, of course. He said he hated them, but I read them anyway. I wanted to use this as an excuse to read various books myself.
It had been so long since I'd read a book. The bookstore where I'd worked as a child had no choice but to close when the elderly owner's health deteriorated. Feeling sorry for me, he gave me a few books as gifts. Most of them were fairy tales.
But those fairy tale books ended up in Alicia's hands. Without even reading them, Alicia would covet anything I had—that was her nature—so by the time they returned to me, they were torn to shreds, unrecognizable. The torn books eventually became kindling.
After that, it became difficult to get my hands on books. A few times, I saved up money to buy some, but even that stopped when Father found out. For the daughter of a poor tenant farmer, buying books was a luxury. By the time I realized it was better to use that money to buy a day's worth of food, I had stopped reading altogether.
Perhaps because it had been so long since I'd read, the fact that I could now hold a book in my hands made me incredibly happy. If only the current circumstances were different.
"Is that the best you can do?"
"What exactly is the problem?"
"Everything. Every single thing about you is a problem."
Again, he's like this again. Maybe it's because I'm reading him fairy tales. He keeps getting irritated. Honestly, I wanted to read him other books, but he wouldn't listen properly, and reading to someone turned out to be more difficult than I'd thought. So even though I knew he disliked it, I had no choice but to pick up fairy tale books again.
I let out a sigh, and this time he snapped at me for sighing. It was only after coming here that I realized I sighed this often. And the cause of it was utterly shameless.
"Learn how to breathe properly before you even think of reading to me."
"My apologies."
"Get out. I don't want to hear any more."
In the end, I was chased out before even finishing three pages. Cleaning, serving... and now this. They say you bring suffering upon yourself—and I suppose I did.
Because of it, I collapsed into sleep the moment I returned to my room after finishing my work. The exhaustion of the day dragged me under. But with so many worries weighing on me, I never slept deeply. As a result, my already light sleep grew even lighter. I could hear every sound clearly—even the thud! thud! of someone pounding against the wall from the room next to mine.
It was loud. And it was coming from the master's room.
Startled, I rushed to the adjacent chamber.
I flung the door open and stepped into the dimly lit room. My gaze immediately went to the bed, where a hunched figure was pressed tightly against the wall. Master? As I approached, the figure flinched but gave no other reaction.
"Are you unwell?"
"......"
"Master."
"......"
"Master?"
"......Who's there?"
His voice was thick, devoid of strength.
"It's me. Is something wrong?"
"I had a dream."
"A dream? What kind?"
"A frightening one."
Ah, a nightmare. I have those often too—I know exactly how it feels.
But what about the loud noise I'd heard earlier? I glanced around, but there was nothing that could've made such a sound. I wondered if he'd thrown something, as he sometimes did, but there was no sign of that either.
The dim light made it hard to discern finer details. Vincent had the sheets pulled over his face, making it impossible to gauge his condition. Only the faint trembling of his clenched fingers gave anything away.
"What did you dream about?"
"I don't know. I can't remember."
His tone was calm, but beneath it lay a thick undercurrent of fear. I already knew from Isabella that he rarely slept properly. And that the groans I sometimes heard in the dead of night were his. But he had never shown such vulnerability in front of me before.
What kind of nightmares haunted him? I didn't need to think hard to guess. They must have been horrific. Terrifying.
"It was just a dream. Go back to sleep."
"I can't. I'm afraid I'll dream again."
"Should I hold your hand?"
"Don't be ridiculous."
He recoiled as if I'd said something horrifying. I grimaced slightly before letting out a quiet sigh. Well, he seems fine enough to be like this.
"Should I stay with you until you calm down?"
"......"
No clear answer. After a moment's hesitation, I sat on the floor right beside the bed. The sound of me settling made the hunched figure flinch again, but he didn't tell me to leave.
Now that I was here, I had nothing to say. I bent my knees, hugging them to my chest, and idly fidgeted with my fingers. He remained silent too. Instead, I could hear his ragged breathing, gradually steadying—a sign I used to gauge his state.
As I kept fidgeting, a thin sliver of light suddenly fell over my hands. I looked up—through a slight gap in the curtains, moonlight spilled onto the floor. My gaze followed the light, landing on the pale yellow moon just visible outside the window.
The only light piercing the darkness was mesmerizingly beautiful. Pretty. If I reached out, could I touch it? But no matter how far I stretched, grasping the moon was impossible. I knew that, yet I still reached toward the light.
It was quiet.
Peaceful.
Had I ever felt such tranquility in my life?
"When I was little," I murmured, "my younger sister often had nightmares too."
So I found myself mumbling without realizing it. Maybe the silence had become too heavy.
At my sudden words, his ragged breathing abruptly stopped. But he didn't try to stop me.
"She was my second sister. Whenever she had nightmares, she'd wake me up crying, calling, 'Sister, Sister.'"
Second Sister was a gentle child. Unlike me, she had a pretty face and always wore a lovely smile, following me around while calling me 'Sister'.
I found that little sister unbearably precious, and at the same time, pitiful. No matter how good a child she was, poverty was poison. Father would often get that look in his eyes—calculating how to make use of that young, lovely second daughter.
And perhaps because she somehow understood her circumstances despite her young age, my sister was especially restless in her sleep. She'd often toss and turn from nightmares before waking me up in tears. Half-asleep, I'd pull her into my arms, pat her back, and hold her hand.
Just like now.
I placed my hand over his—the only part of him peeking out from the sheets. I could feel him flinch at the sudden contact. The warmth within my palm was cold. I squeezed it tightly.
"Whenever that happened, I'd hold my sister's hand like this. Then she'd calm down and fall back asleep."
My sister would grip my hand tightly and close her eyes. With round tears rolling down, she'd drift off to sleep, relying entirely on my warmth. I'd pat her little hand comfortingly, sharing in her fear.
"And I'd tell her this: 'It's just a dream, you don't have to be scared, I'm right here. This moment with me is real.'"
But looking back now, even that wasn't a good thing to say. Because reality was more hellish than any nightmare. Still, my kind sister would nod and burrow deeper into my embrace.
Right up until the day before she was sold to the brothel.
"People say you should leave what happens in dreams behind in dreams, right? Whether it's something that already happened or something you're afraid might happen—just dismiss it as a meaningless dream. If you can't do that, then overcome what's already happened, and work hard to prevent what you fear from coming true."
Then I pressed my lips together tightly. That sounded even more like a fairy tale.
Reality wasn't a children's story. It wasn't endlessly beautiful, and there were no magical adventures to be had. At least, not in my life.
I couldn't make brave choices like the protagonists in stories. So right up until the moment Second Sister was sold to the brothel, I couldn't help her. I couldn't perform the miracle of grabbing her trembling hand and running away with her.
Even though I knew that kind, lovely sister of mine would be sold to a brothel... I turned away from her forced smile. 'Sister, it's okay. I'm okay.' That kind, lovely sister comforted her wretched older sister instead. All I could do was miss her after she was gone and desperately wish for her happiness.
The following year, Second Sister left this world. They said it was an epidemic. But the truth was, she'd been beaten to death. When I saw her again, her condition was horrific. Her entire body was swollen, especially between her legs—just looking at it was unbearable. Her face was unrecognizable.
I held a funeral for Second Sister in secret, away from Father. 'Funeral'was too grand a word—I buried her beside where our youngest sibling lay and placed pretty, delicate flowers over her grave. And not long after, as I recall, our fourth sibling joined them there too.
I survived by turning away from my sisters' deaths too.
I was that kind of wretched girl.
"How could you."
The sudden voice snapped me back to awareness. The hand I held still trembled, but this time, it was different.