Even If I Title It "The Shadow-Scarred Lineage Sinks into a Thorny Mire—Cut!", What Can You Do But Read It Anyway? Lol
From that day on, the Lady of the house had changed noticeably. To be precise, the distance she kept with me had shifted.
She started calling for me far more often over the pettiest things. Things like arranging the letters on her desk, turning a vase just a bit, or wiping down teacups that were already spotless. Trivial tasks that hardly warranted summoning me specifically.
"All done."
When I reported back, the Lady would simply gaze at me in silence. And every so often, her hand would reach out slowly. The first time, I had no idea what she intended and froze, shoulders hunched. Only when her cool fingertips brushed my crown did I realize it—she was stroking my hair lightly.
"Well done."
It wasn't anything remarkable enough to deserve praise. One day, she even gave me candy. She pulled a small piece from her drawer and peeled off the thin wrapper. Assuming she'd hand it over, I reflexively extended my palm. But the candy paused right at my lips instead.
"Open up."
I froze for a moment. Couldn't she just give it to me? That was my first thought. But her demeanor was so utterly natural. In the end, I awkwardly parted my lips. The candy touched my tongue tip. A small, round sweetness rolled around in my mouth.
If she'd just handed it over, I would've unwrapped and eaten it like normal, end of story. But instead...
"Such a good girl."
Her hand grazed briefly over my head, and that sweetness flooded my mouth—both lingered far longer than they should have, strangely enough.
A few days later, even mealtimes turned peculiar. It happened when I went in to set the table for her dinner. Midway through placing a plate, I paused. There were more place settings than usual. An extra soup bowl, two additional small plates. Stewed fruit sweetened to perfection, soft bread slathered in honey, pudding topped with tangy berry sauce.
Is someone coming? I wondered as I set down the last plate and stepped back.
"Dinner is served."
I bowed and turned to leave when—
"Where are you going?"
I halted at the doorway. The Lady was resting her chin on her hand, watching me.
"Sit."
"...Me?"
"Yes."
"But I'm working."
Did a maid belong at her employer's table? No matter how I thought about it, it didn't seem right. As I hesitated, glancing uncertainly, the Lady smiled faintly.
"It's lonely eating alone."
Even then, I couldn't bring myself to pull out a chair. But her gaze pinned me relentlessly—quiet, gentle, impossible to refuse. In the end, I perched tentatively on the edge of a seat.
The soup wasn't hot. It was cooled just right, perfect for eating straight away. The bread was sliced into neat bite-sized pieces, the fruit so sweet it made my tongue tingle. Everything was soft, sweet, tangy. Less like an adult's dinner and more like a child's snack.
"Is it good?"
Her calm voice asked, but her eyes on me urged the answer first.
I paused, spoon in hand.
"...Yes. It's delicious."
At that, the tension in her face melted away like a lie. She looked truly delighted, at a loss for what to do.
"Eat plenty."
I picked up my spoon again. It was good. Really. My plate emptied bit by bit. Hers, meanwhile, remained mostly untouched. She lifted her spoon a few times, but her eyes kept drifting back to me. Every time I took a bite of bread, a faint smile curved her lips. As if watching me eat filled her up.
Around then, similar whispers began circulating through the manor. Passing a corridor corner, I overheard the maids chatting.
"Doesn't the Lady seem so much softer lately?"
"Yeah. Standing before her office used to choke the air right out of you."
"She looks more alive now."
I paused mid-step. The Lady, softer? Even to me, her harsh edge had dulled. She used to be like a block of ice—cold and rigid. Now she kept trying to feed me, dress my hair. Honestly, it was a bit much. But if the manor's atmosphere had improved, that was good for me too. Probably.
"What is this?"
The Lady's brows furrowed one day as I brought tea to her office. I looked up from setting down the tray.
"Pardon?"
Her gaze fixed on the ends of my hair. Ah. Had my lazy morning brush-and-tie job been the issue? Strands hung messily over my shoulders, a few dangling loose.
I tucked them behind my ear.
"Is it that bad?"
"A girl shouldn't let her hair get this messy."
No kidding—I wasn't originally a girl. She nodded toward the chair before her desk.
"Sit."
"Pardon?"
"Stay still."
A silver comb was suddenly in her hand. I'd missed my chance to refuse and sat awkwardly. She stepped behind me. The cool tines slipped slowly through my hair.
My shoulders tensed at first. But her touch was gentler than expected. She didn't yank at tangles. When the comb caught, her fingers came first, patiently teasing knots free. As she brushed, my nape prickled coolly with each pass, hair falling back.
I straightened rigidly, tense for a scolding over my sloppiness. But she wasn't angry. If anything, she seemed... pleased?
"Keep still, or it'll tangle more."
"Ah, yes."
I held my breath obediently. She parted my silver hair into three neat sections, braided it slowly, smoothly. The room was so quiet even breaths felt loud. The soft swish of the comb. Hair rasping between her fingertips. Then, suddenly, a low hum from behind me.
I thought I'd misheard. A glimpse in the mirror showed her elegant as ever. But her fingers moved with less hesitation now, practiced. Like repeating a ritual etched into muscle memory, long familiar.
Finally done, she positioned me before the mirror. The reflection was unfamiliar. Messy strands now neatly braided, tied at the end with an elegant ribbon.
"...Oh."
Not bad at all. She smoothed the ends over my shoulders one last time.
"This suits you much better."
"Thank you."
A bit embarrassed, but I bowed politely. I thought that was it. Nope.
After that, whenever she remembered, she'd insist on braiding my hair herself. At first, just occasionally. Then more frequently. Soon, if my hair wasn't braided by morning, she'd summon me to her office as if it were routine.
Honestly, it started feeling burdensome. I had backlog work, and it took time. So one morning, I asked a passing senior maid.
"Senior, could you braid my hair for me?"
"Me?"
"Yes. Feels awkward asking the Lady every time."
The senior maid's eyes widened.
"...The Lady did it herself?"
"Uh, well..."
"No, no. Come here. I'll make it pretty."
She seemed like she had more to say but smiled warmly and stepped behind me. Pros were different—quick, precise. My hair was neatly braided in seconds. I nodded at the mirror, satisfied.
Oh. This should pass muster with the Lady.
Less than ten minutes later, I ran straight into her in the hall. She paused upon seeing me, eyes sliding from my face to my braided hair.
Her serene expression iced over.
"Who did this?"
I blinked, startled.
"Ah, Senior did. I was busy and asked her."
A suffocating silence crushed the corridor. She stepped closer without a word and undid the ribbon.
"L-Lady?"
Silver strands spilled limply over my shoulders.
"It's a mess."
A mess? Not at all—to me, it looked pretty good. Before I could protest, she'd already drawn a comb from her sleeve. Rough untying aside, her brushing was impossibly gentle. Parted the same way as yesterday. Braided the same. Ribbon tied in the exact same spot. As if any deviation spelled disaster.
Only when it was perfect did her hand settle on my shoulder.
"Come to me next time."
Her voice was achingly tender. Cloyingly so. I glanced at the hall mirror. Rigidly neat silver braid. Familiar yet alien ribbon. And behind me, the Lady's smiling face.
"...Yes."
I answered aloud, but my fingers fidgeted anxiously at the ribbon's end. I wanted to yank it off. But doing so here felt like crossing an irreversible line.
When Uncle Barden entered the room, Elisiya Estella sat propped against the bed. The soup on the table had long gone cold and congealed; the utensils hadn't shifted an inch from their initial setup.
Her cheeks were noticeably hollowed, lips cracked dry. Unkempt silver hair spilled messily over her shoulders.
Yet her staring eyes burned sharp.
She didn't look up at his approach. Only after a long moment did her gaze drift over slowly.
"Elisiya."
No immediate reply. Her parched lips stirred belatedly.
"Uncle."
Her voice cracked low.
Uncle's eyes swept the room impassively. Untouched meal. Cooled soup. Drying bread crumbs. And the bandage wrapped around the back of Elisiya's right hand. Freshly changed, yet fresh red blood already seeped through from within.
He noted it, then cut straight to it.
"I just came from seeing your mother."
Fingers hidden under the covers stiffened faintly. No response.
"She seemed... happy."
Only then did Elisiya's vacant gaze fix on him. He continued quietly.
"Different from before."
The room grew eerily still. Elisiya's lips curved ever so slowly into an arc.
"What does that have to do with me?"
Her tone cut sharp. Her eyes meeting his held steady.
But beneath the covers, her right hand trembled ever so slightly.
Elisiya clenched it to still the shake. Dark red blood bloomed swiftly across the white cloth.
"Elisiya. You know as well as I—this house won't hold much longer like this."
"Leave."
Blunt, curt dismissal. Uncle's eyes darkened faintly.
"While you hide in this tiny room, who do you think is holding the family together?"
"..."
"Even covering for the matriarch's eccentricities has its limits. The elders are starting to move."
"I said leave."
Heavy silence descended. Uncle gazed down at her quietly for a time. Lips parting as if to say more, he left only a final word.
"I can't buy more time."
"Soon someone will force a decision. Who, I don't know."
The door shut.
The room sank back into silence. Elisiya stared blankly at the closed door.
Her mother seemed happy. Different from before.
That one phrase echoed in her ears like tinnitus. It shouldn't matter. Really.
Whether her mother laughed, cried, or kept someone at her side—it should mean nothing to her now. Elisiya had been cast out as a daughter long ago.
Serdia saw that day six years past every time she looked at Elisiya. Muddy ground soaked with rain. Screams tearing the air. Bloodied hands. And the child who never returned.
Elisiya hadn't spoken of it once since. No—she couldn't.
Because she'd let go. She'd led her out. She'd released her hand. She'd returned alone, and the child was gone.
Of course her mother blamed her. It was only natural.
Yet sometimes, absurdly, she longed for her mother to call her name tenderly, just once.
Elisiya.
That alone might have sufficed. No need for comfort, forgiveness.
Just confirmation, once, that she was still her daughter.
Then maybe she could muster the courage to speak. Mother, I'm sorry. I let go.
Some pathetic apology.
But she never voiced it. Always the same—words she needed came too late.
Her right hand stung. Elisiya bowed her head slowly. Red blood soaked damply through the fresh bandage.
The right hand. The one she hadn't gripped till the end that day.
The horrific feel of a tiny pinky slipping from her grasp, still etched into her bones. She shouldn't have let go. But she had.
The pain lingered raw on her hand.
And suddenly, Ria's hand overlaid it in her mind. The small palm slashed long by shattered bowl shards, bleeding.
Even then, Elisiya said nothing.
Sorry. Sorry for hurting you. Sorry for ignoring the wound. Sorry for not bringing her back fully.
Words always came too late.
To her mother. To Ria.
Elisiya clenched her bloodied right hand slowly, tightly.
Sharp pain flared.
Still, this much hurt was better. Better than feeling nothing and going mad.
No sounds came from beyond the door anymore.
Uncle had gone. Her mother wouldn't come. Elisiya knew that all too well.
Yet her nerves kept drifting toward the shut door.
Absurdly.
Utterly absurd.