There Is No Exit
That night, the lady of the house called for liquor. She wasn't one to touch alcohol often. At least, not since I'd come to live in this manor. According to the senior maids, she only sought it out on rare occasions when her emotions were deeply shaken.
Perhaps because of that, a strange tension hung in the air among the maids as we prepared the tray with the bottle and glass. I carried it to the lady's room and stood before her door. The silence from inside was profound. Even the faint tremble in my fingertips gripping the tray's edge seemed like it might echo loudly.
I took a short breath and knocked. Tap, tap.
A small voice came from within shortly after. "Come in."
It was her usual voice. Quiet and soft, without a hint of disturbance. But the moment I opened the door, I knew. A faint scent of alcohol already permeated the room.
The lady sat in a chair by the window. Her back was straight as ever, and the hand holding the glass was poised elegantly. Only everything was a little slower. The motion of setting down the glass. The gaze turning toward me. Even the way her eyes lingered on my hair. All of it lagged a beat behind her normal grace.
An empty glass sat on the table.
"Pour for me, won't you?"
I tilted the bottle carefully. Clear liquor flowed into the glass. She stared at it for a long moment before slowly lifting it. One sip. Then another. The room was silent. I stood there holding the tray. Was it time to withdraw? As I cautiously gauged her mood,
"Is there something you want to ask?"
"...Was it obvious?"
"A little."
The lady smiled faintly. I hesitated briefly before speaking.
"Do you resent Lady Elisiya?"
The hand raising the glass froze. Just for a split second, but I saw it. The subtle stiffening of her fingertips.
"Who told you that?"
"The guest who visited today."
"Barden Estella."
She murmured the name lowly. The liquor in her glass rippled ever so slightly. She gazed down at it for a moment, then lifted the corner of her mouth faintly.
"If I said I didn't, that would be a lie."
I couldn't respond. Lie. That word came to mind first. If it were only resentment, she wouldn't have stood so long before that closed door.
A little earlier, before bringing the liquor, I'd seen her at the end of the hall. Before Lady Elisiya's door. The lady had stood there for a long time. Not knocking. Not turning away. Her hand, rising toward the knob, ultimately lost its way in the air. Her lips moved as if to call a name, but no sound escaped. She turned as if nothing had happened, but I saw it. The faint tremble in her fingertips just before she pivoted.
She'd stood there like that for ages before finally leaving. That face wasn't one left only with resentment.
"Why do you look at me like that?"
Her voice snapped me back.
"It's nothing."
"You're no good at hiding it."
Her smile faded a touch more.
"It's all right."
It was the expression of someone who was anything but.
"The human heart isn't just one thing."
I felt like I understood those words, yet not fully. The face that admitted resenting Lady Elisiya looked so much like the sad expressions she sometimes turned on me. A crumbling visage, reaching out yet never quite extending the hand.
Her gaze passed over my face and settled on the ends of my hair. Unthinkingly, I touched the ribbon's edge. She stared there for a long while, then slowly reached out to open the table drawer. A worn silver locket appeared in her hand. Its edges were faintly worn from years of handling.
To open or not. She gazed down at it like someone hesitating, then very slowly lifted the lid. Inside was a small portrait. A little girl, perhaps six years old. Her silver hair was neatly braided, with a small ribbon tied at the end.
I'd had a vague inkling. The strange looks she gave me whenever she saw me. When braiding my hair. When adjusting my ribbon. Even when she undid the style a senior maid had done.
The moment I saw the girl in the locket, it all clicked. The same silver hair. Braided the same way. Ribbon in the same spot. I'd assumed we looked very alike. That's how she always looked at me. It wasn't entirely wrong. The silver hair matched. The facial lines were somewhat similar. Enough that a first glance might fool someone.
But up close, they differed. The eye shape was a bit off, the lips too. Above all, the eye color. The girl's eyes in the portrait were a clear blue. Nothing like mine. An unmistakable difference.
Yet the lady's gaze didn't linger on my eyes. It brushed them briefly, then veered away. Like someone who mustn't see the difference. Like someone forcibly ignoring the truth. Her eyes returned to the hair, the ribbon—the most similar parts.
"You resemble her, don't you?"
Her voice came low, perhaps from the alcohol. A little slower than usual.
"My little daughter."
"I can't see her anymore."
Her fingertip caressed the portrait tenderly. Over the painted silver hair.
"If she'd lived..."
The words cut off. Her gaze shifted to me. Not my eyes this time, but my silver hair.
"...she might be about your size now."
I couldn't speak. My fingers automatically touched the ribbon's end. Then I understood. The lady didn't want to believe we looked alike. She was only seeing the parts that did. Ignoring the rest with ruthless denial.
"That child loved having her hair touched too."
That child too. The words caught oddly in my ear.
Her hand approached slowly. I shrank my neck instinctively. When her fingertips touched my hair, my shoulders tensed. She stroked it gently, as if not noticing.
"Every morning, she'd sit before the mirror, chattering about what style would be prettiest today."
Her gaze dropped to the locket. To the painted hair.
"She'd refuse the nursemaids, untie the maids' pretty work right away."
A faint smile touched her lips.
"In the end, she'd always come toddling back to my lap."
Her voice grew more distant.
"Mother's is the prettiest, she'd say."
Her fingertips stroked my hair once more. She was right there before me, touching my hair. Yet those words, that touch—they strangely didn't feel meant for me.
"Lady."
I called softly.
"You should rest now."
No answer. The old locket remained open, the girl in the portrait smiling brightly. I stepped back. Then my wrist was caught.
It wasn't a strong grip. But each time I tried to pull away, her fingers tightened just a fraction more.
"Just a little longer."
It was a pleading voice.
"Stay like this just a bit more."
I closed my mouth. She held my hand, eyes shut. As if I mustn't disappear.
"Lady, your hand..."
My words trailed off. Moisture gathered at her eye corners. Moments later, a tiny voice leaked out.
"...Lucia."
The little lady's name. I froze in place, hand still trying to withdraw. Her fingers gripped a touch harder.
"Never again..."
Her voice was nearly a breath.
"I'll never let go again."
My captured hand didn't hurt. Yet strangely, it felt impossible to escape. A teardrop fell from her eye onto the back of my hand with a plip. I stared at it for a long while. I knew I should pull away. I knew I couldn't stay like this. But I couldn't shake her off. I just couldn't. Her hand was so very cold.
"...I'm not Lucia."
I raised my free hand awkwardly to pat her back. Once. Again. She didn't respond. She seemed asleep. Yet she wouldn't release my hand.
The next day, I was peeling apples for the lady's room. It wasn't difficult. Thin peels, cut to bite-sized pieces, arranged on a plate. But my knife hand was a bit slow. The sensation from last night lingered on my inner wrist. The spot she wouldn't release.
The thought made the blade slip.
"Ah!"
My palm stung. At first, I dismissed it. But when I opened my hand, a red line spread between the creases. A drop of blood fell with a plip onto the white plate. A vivid red spot bloomed beside the fresh apple slices.
Then, a faint breath from the doorway. I looked up. The lady stood there, face pale.
Her gaze wasn't on my face. Not the apples or the knife. Only the blood droplet on the plate and my reddened palm, staring obsessively.
"Ria."
Her voice was low as always. But cracked faintly at the end.
I hurriedly hid my hand behind my back.
"It's fine. I just got distracted for a second."
She didn't reply. She approached slowly and grasped my hand. Her fingertips were cold. Unfazed by the blood staining hers, she gently unfolded my palm.
"Really, it's okay. It's not deep..."
Her eyes stayed fixed on the wound. After a long moment, she softly took the knife from my hand. The clink against the plate sounded unusually small and distant.
"Never again."
Her fingertips enveloped my palm as she paused.
"I'll make sure nothing like this happens again."
Her voice was endlessly gentle. The earnest tone of someone truly worried for my safety.
After that day, my duties gradually lessened. Anything involving knives, hot teacups, reaching high shelves. Whenever I moved to do something, her gaze preceded me. To my fingertips. The object in my hand. And sometimes, to my empty hands.
She remained kind. Calling me kindly, urging me to rest kindly, removing every danger from my hands kindly.
"Ria."
A few steps away down the hall, and she'd call my name.
"Where are you going?"
A soft question. Like casual daily chatter. But only after I answered did her fingertips loosen a fraction.
At first, I thought it was consideration. But soon, my day was slipping into the scope of her gaze.
That night, summoned to the study, the room was empty. About to wait by the door, I spotted a scrap of black paper in the fireplace. My name remained on it.
Ria.
I froze. Thinking I'd misread, I stepped closer. A faint guild seal on the charred edge.
My fingertips hesitated. A letter to me. One I'd never received. I carefully picked up the fragment.
[Burned Fragment]
To Ria.
Temporary
employment period.
Return.
The remaining text was scant. To Ria. Temporary employment period. Return. The rest was burned black, unreadable.
Then the door opened. I startled, clutching the paper tightly.
"Ria."
It was the lady. I whirled around.
"Lady, I..."
No excuse came.
Her gaze swept my flustered face, then to the fist I'd hidden behind my back. A brief silence. Then she said quietly,
"Your hand."
Her voice was soft as ever.
"May I see it open?"
I couldn't move right away. She didn't urge, just waited. Finally, I slowly unfurled my hand. The charred scrap lay crumpled in my palm.
She showed no surprise. As if she'd known. Facing that calm, my throat clogged.
"This... is a letter for me?"
She looked down at the fragment.
"Yes."
She admitted it so easily. As if it were nothing.
I couldn't speak for a while. A small ember still flickered in the fireplace.
"Why..."
"Why did you burn it?"
She carefully lifted the paper from my palm. Black ash smudged her white fingertips, but she ignored it and turned toward the fireplace.
"Lady."
The scrap fell back onto the embers. The remaining edge curled slowly.
To Ria.
Even those letters blackened and burned away.
"Not yet."
Her voice came low. I couldn't tear my eyes from the flames.
"What?"
She turned back to me slowly. Still that gentle, kind face.
"The outside is dangerous, Ria."
"..."
"It's all right. This time, I'll protect you."
She drew close and enveloped my hand. Touching my cut palm gingerly, with tender care.
"Don't worry."
Kind reassurance. As if truly concerned for my well-being.
I couldn't speak. The letter was nearly gone. With faint crackles, black ash crumbled.
Still holding my hand, she whispered,
"You'll be safe here."
I stared blankly into the embers. The last letters vanished.
To Ria.
My name burned away. Instead, in the open locket on the desk, another name shone clearly.
Lucia Estella.