Chapter 34
“Who dispatched you here as a spy?”
“A—a spy? No! I swear on my life, I’m not! I only…”
Is he seriously about to run her through?
The blade’s keen edge hovered right at the girl’s throat.
Why the sudden ferocity?
Norton had never been the gentlest of knights, but this level of ferocity was new to me. His gaze locked solely on safeguarding the castle, he appeared poised to end her without a second thought. I intervened swiftly, grasping his arm.
“Stand down, Sir Norton. Sheathe your blade.”
He complied at once with my order, though his fingers stayed curled around the hilt, primed for another swing if needed.
Spotting her sole savior, the girl darted to my side and clutched at my gown.
“Your Highness! I—I only thought the paper seemed fancy! I figured it was discarded! I never intended to pilfer anything!”
“Er… very well. Get to your feet first.”
Catching the uncertainty in my tone, she begged all the more desperately, while Norton’s knuckles whitened on his sword.
“I’m no spy! Mercy, Your Highness, I beg you!”
If she’s merely a petty thief, it’s hardly a crisis…
Yet should she prove a true infiltrator and I released her, the fallout could be dire down the line. Better to defer to the Grand Duke on this.
I was on the verge of inquiring whether Norton knew a secure spot to hold her in the interim when—
“Your Highness!”
A figure raced toward us from afar.
…Leta?
My attendant Leta, her typical composure shattered, wore a mask of alarm.
“Huff… Your Highness!”
Gasping for air, she dropped to her knees before me.
“I… I handed her that stationery! It was me who gave it to her!”
Ah… that explains it.
Suddenly, the girl’s face rang a bell.
She bore an uncanny resemblance to Leta.
I escorted Leta and the girl into the sitting room of my private quarters, away from prying servant eyes.
Whitley, ever perceptive, materialized with a tray of steaming tea. I savored a mouthful to ease my parched throat.
“Right, then. Tell me everything.”
“Very well…”
Leta twisted the edge of her apron in her fists, lips parting to explain, when—
Knock knock.
A resolute rap cut her short.
“Your Highness, may I enter?”
Without awaiting permission, the door swung wide, admitting a stranger—a middle-aged woman trailed by several maids.
And who might this be?
“I am Marzella, head maid. It is my privilege to meet Your Highness.”
She advanced with a stiff curtsy.
“My deepest regrets for this shameful affair.”
Her words dripped courtesy, but her face betrayed not a shred of remorse.
“The head maid?”
I feigned ignorance of the role, despite prior knowledge.
Whitley had once detailed the “unique protocols” governing the Grand Duke’s castle.
Just days earlier, I’d watched a cohort of maids depart at dusk. Curious, I’d pressed Whitley, who clarified:
—"Women servants must vacate the main keep after their shifts.”
They arrived each dawn under the head maid’s watchful eye and exited en masse come evening.
Historically, overnight duties fell to the men.
My presence had prompted the Grand Duke to permit female night staff, though they were barred from the central stairs he often trod.
That leader I’d glimpsed at twilight? Undoubtedly this Marzella.
Truth be told, her name had cropped up elsewhere before.
“It pains me that formal introductions come so late. Pray forgive the delay.”
Marzella straightened, then fixed Leta with an icy stare.
“I’ve grasped the matter. My oversight as head maid allowed a thief to infiltrate. Rest assured, she’ll face stern discipline to prevent recurrence.”
She’d sidestepped my prerogative entirely, presuming command.
Her presumptuousness drew an unwitting scowl from me.
Not even the chief lady-in-waiting—just a lead servant—yet she carries on like this? Have I internalized this world’s pecking order too readily? Why does it rile me so?
My silence apparently signaled assent; she dipped her head, and the pair of attendants behind her advanced to seize Leta.
“Hold on—what’s this?”
The maids faltered at my sharp command.
I stifled a weary breath, careful not to vent my ire amiss.
“I’ll rule on this girl’s fate once I’ve heard her out.”
“No need to burden Your Grace with such a petty issue. Entrust it to me…”
“I’ll judge its pettiness for myself.”
“But, Your Grace—”
My voice hardened; the head maid tilted her chin defiantly.
“Overseeing the maids falls to me. I beseech Your Grace to honor my station, that I might discharge my castle duties.”
Well, now.
Did she peg me for such a soft touch?
The Grand Duke regarded me as mistress of the manor, yet he’d withheld complete sway over domestic reins. With my year-long tenure, I’d intended no deep meddling in operations.
Honor her station?
A lowly head maid lecturing the Grand Duchess on respect?
She knew nothing of my pact with the Grand Duke. Did she take me for an idiot?
The Grand Duchess title wielded vast clout—common knowledge.
Her gall stemmed from one of two sources, then:
Ignorance of my mettle, dismissing me as a green noble chit ripe for puppeteering.
Or overfamiliarity—aware I wasn’t the fabled marquess’s scion with the Grand Duke’s ear, per the whispers.
Whichever, she deemed me dismissible.
I scoffed inwardly.
Reborn into a mighty aristocrat’s form, only to endure this?
My prior existence brimmed with such aggravations.
I’d weathered them all.
Not from benevolence or forbearance—no. Mere powerlessness, absent allies, voiceless in authenticity.
This life promised alteration.
Yet reincarnation brought no shift; still the doormat.
Why the stasis? My failing? Too timid, too overlookable?
Fury surged, throbbing at my temples.
“Respect?”
My pitch climbed.
“Do you presume to equate yourself with me, this household’s mistress?”
Marzella’s features twitched in shock, unanticipating my fire. She dropped her eyes hastily.
“Never, Your Grace. I merely plead you not dismiss the life’s labor I’ve poured into this.”
Hah. Life’s labor?
Besides Whitley, she seemed downright youthful.
In my old world, she’d scarcely merit “ma’am.”
I flicked a look at Whitley, catching her scrutinizing Marzella with an odd glint.
“Your phrasing intrigues. Should I disregard your purported life’s devotion?”
Arrogance demanded no toil, I knew well.
My former life overflowed with pompous, boorish patrons; their patronizing lilt now flowed from me effortlessly.
“Whitley, who holds sway over the maids?”
“Indubitably you, Your Grace, as castle lady.”
Whitley’s reply rang steady and sure. Marzella’s fingers dug into her skirts.
No divination needed to sense their mutual antipathy.
“And so a simple head maid presumes to caution me against trespass? When it’s no domain of yours?”
Marzella gnawed her lip, blindsided by Whitley’s enlistment.
“Th-that’s not my intent, Your Grace. Simply, before your arrival, I always—”
“But I’ve arrived, so bygones are irrelevant.”
I sliced her words with chill precision.
