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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 2
Chapter Title: Prophetic Dream (The Snow White Prince, the Old Woman, and Apple Wine)
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When I opened my eyes, it was morning.
I pushed myself up, taking in the square ceiling and the crisp feel of the sheets.
My head… hurt.
“Damn it.”
I cursed, clutching the blanket tightly.
The familiar scenery of the mansion spread out before me. A lavish mansion unbefitting of someone like me, Imeline Wedgwood.
“I had… such a strange… dream.”
I’d had a truly bizarre dream last night.
To be honest, it felt too real to be a dream; the goosebumps on my skin still hadn’t subsided.
I did something I would never normally do: head straight for the vanity the morning after drinking.
As I sat there and looked at my face, the afterimage of that terrible dream swam before my eyes.
“……!”
I bit my lip. So hard that a sharp pain was followed by a groan and a trickle of blood.
*Thump!*
A sharp pain pierced my heart, and I gasped for breath, gripping the vanity tightly.
“*Gasp… gasp…*”
It was such a strange dream. A dream where my family and I were shot in the heart. And the culprit was someone I knew all too well.
Just then, I heard someone burst through my bedroom door. A familiar voice followed—
“Imeline Wedgwood. Tell me I didn’t do anything stupid while I was drunk yesterday, will you?”
It was my mother, Helena Wedgwood.
I quickly turned my head.
My mother, her long, reddish-brown hair flowing down her back, was already sprawled out on my bed like a starfish, a hand pressed to her forehead as if nursing a headache.
My mother was so beautiful and youthful that anyone meeting us for the first time would mistake her for my older sister. In my dream, however, her face had been pale with terror, her beauty lost.
What on earth was that dream?
I muttered to myself, looking at the smooth skin around her eyes, unmarred even by a hangover.
“It was just a stupid dream, after all…”
At my muttering, my mother spoke.
“What was that? Speak up. My head is ringing.”
“I said you didn’t cause any trouble. To be honest, I drank a ton of apple wine myself, so I don’t remember the latter half of the party either.”
At my words, my mother shot up and glared at me.
“What? You were drinking?! You turn into a monster when you drink!”
“I wonder who I take after?”
Well, look who’s talking.
“I drank because I’m the Duke of Orleans’s fiancée, but you’re different. You should have just sat there like a flower, smiling sweetly, and if you saw a decent prospect, you should have reeled him in!”
I shook my head at her words.
A flower.
My mother always told me that a woman just had to be still, like a flower, but she herself was never like that. My mother was the type to hunt men like a predator.
“On this godforsaken continent, that’s the only way for a woman to survive. Bringing a rich man to heel.”
And so, my mother had decided to bring the wealthy Duke Orleans to heel.
I asked cautiously.
“...Do you like the Duke of Orleans? Even a little?”
The Duke of Orleans.
He was the head of the wealthiest and most prestigious ducal family on the continent.
The Duke, who had lost his wife early on, had fallen for my mother at first sight a month ago and proposed. Of course, my mother had maneuvered him into proposing.
My mother snorted at my question before answering.
“Like him? I love him.”
I felt a small sense of relief at her words.
Oh, for once…
“He’s rich.”
…Or not.
I spoke with a serious expression.
“You know, Mom. I had a weird dream, and I think it’s because that Duke Orleans fellow left a bad impression on me. That subconscious judgment must have invaded my dream and made me have a strange dream about him…”
Just then, a maid made her presence known outside the door.
The lives of nobles were truly inconvenient. Maids were always wandering the house, watching my every move.
But I supposed I had to get used to such inconveniences. Better to be inconvenienced than poor.
“Young Lord Eric Orleans has arrived, Lady Helena.”
The maid announced.
Eric Orleans?
I looked at my mother.
She gestured at me as if she had been expecting it.
“Ah, he said he’d stop by today about some issue with the wedding gifts. I didn’t expect that arrogant young lord to come himself, though. How surprising. You go meet him instead. If I go, I might just puke my guts out into a teacup.”
I shot my mother a glare before answering the maid.
“Tell him I’ll be out in his stead, and to wait for ten minutes. Say I’m not fully dressed.”
“Yes, Lady Imeline.”
I heard the maid’s footsteps receding down the hall.
Eric Orleans.
The son of Baldeck Orleans, my mother’s fiancé.
I sighed, recalling Eric Orleans’s infuriating face from last night’s party.
✵ ✵ ✵
The party last night was to celebrate the 60th birthday of Lady Margaret Beaufort, known as the godmother of the capital's high society.
That was the official reason, but in reality, it was more of a promotional event for a new shoe brand being launched by Margaret Beaufort, who was not only high society’s godmother but also a big shot in the fashion industry.
And the Duke of Orleans had invested a large sum of money into that leather shoe brand. So it was only natural for the Duke of Orleans to attend last night’s party with the woman who would be his wife, Helena Wedgwood.
My mother brought me and my older brother, her children from a previous husband, with her.
It would be a grave mistake to think my mother lacks maternal instinct just because she loves money. She doted on me and my brother.
Whether you believe that sentence or not is up to you.
In any case, my mother had insisted on bringing us along to find us a wealthy groom and bride who could set us up for life.
But I had no interest in finding a husband and was just depressed at the thought of being looked down on as a country bumpkin from the south by the nobles.
‘I heard you were born a commoner. Aren’t you ashamed, clinging to your new stepfather with your mother and brother, pretending to be nobles?’
It was something I’d experienced often.
But strangely, unlike the other nobles who usually ignored us for being poor, lower-class nobles from the countryside, Margaret Beaufort was quite kind to me, my brother, and my mother.
Of course, I wasn’t foolish enough to think it was due to Lady Margaret’s good nature. Seeing her gentle tone and her eagerness to introduce us to others, I figured the Duke of Orleans must have invested more money in her shoe brand than I’d expected.
I didn’t believe in the kindness of others without a price.
“These shoes are so beautiful, my lady. The grain of the leather is as fine as your elegant hair.”
My way of thinking had been heavily influenced by my brother, Philip, who spouted shameless flattery every time he opened his mouth.
Philip kissed the back of Lady Margaret’s hand several times, practically drooling over the high-end, handmade leather shoes.
“Shut up. You’re going to drool.”
I whispered in his ear, and Philip flashed his signature charming smile as he whispered back to me.
“Why don’t you go see if there are any unmarried, rich marquesses around? My sweet little sister.”
Philip believed that once he became the Duke of Orleans’s stepson through our mother’s marriage, he could use his connections in the capital’s high society to start his own business.
In short, a pipe dream.
Philip was horribly bad at business—he had the Midas touch in reverse.
I was about to remind him of all the hardships we’d endured because of the money he’d lost, but I held my tongue.
The memory of my mother’s sad eyes stopped me.
‘We’re finally going to be happy, Imeline. Aren’t you sick and tired of it? Of being poor.’
That’s what my mother had said to me the night her engagement to the Duke of Orleans was finalized.
But in truth, it wasn't poverty that I was sick of.
I turned my gaze to my mother, who was forcing a smile while enduring the cold stares of the noblewomen.
I sighed softly and pinched Philip’s arm.
I just couldn’t bring myself to start a fight with my scoundrel of a brother here and ruin our mother’s engagement.
“Do whatever you want, Philip. I’ll go and try to seduce some rich nobleman like you said. But if you make a mistake with Lady Margaret and ruin this, I won’t let you off the hook.”
I glared at Philip, grinding my teeth. He just laughed and wrapped an arm around my waist like the rogue he was.
“Of course, Imeline.”
I clicked my tongue.
Then, after bidding a polite farewell to Margaret, I left to find a lounge where I could rest.
Like all noble estates, Margaret’s mansion was annoyingly vast.
What’s more, whenever I approached a sofa to sit and have some tea, the young noble ladies nearby would tell me with displeased looks that the seats were already taken.
Not a single place for me to rest in this enormous mansion.
“This damn mansion.”
I muttered to myself and pulled back one last curtain, thinking this would be my final attempt.
“……?”
A man was sitting in a small, hidden room revealed behind the curtain.
Black hair and red eyes.
I recognized him at once. I’d seen him a few times before, but the main reason I knew who he was, was because—
Eric Orleans.
He was the spitting image of his father.
I wondered why he was here.
Nobles who hid away in secret rooms during social gatherings instead of actively networking usually had ulterior motives. A scheme to broaden a different kind of ‘connection,’ so to speak.
Did Eric Orleans have such a scheme?
Did this man, who had sat with a sullen face all evening, rebuffing every woman who approached him, have a lover? Was this inscrutable man anxiously tapping his foot, waiting for his beloved to join him on the balcony?
But curiosity was just curiosity. I quickly composed myself and greeted Eric politely.
“Pardon the intrusion, Young Lord.”
At my words, Eric, leaning against the railing, eyed me crookedly.
Looking at his arrogant posture, I thought I could almost understand the feelings of the young ladies who had been scouring the entire party for him.
The young noblemen of the capital all looked like pale city mice. After all, most of them spent their days sitting in their studies, reading books.
But Eric Orleans was a man accustomed to physical exertion, so much so that he was the commander of the Royal Knights.
His natural physique was already significantly larger than that of an average adult male, and that frame was layered with solid muscle.
Despite his large build, he didn’t look heavy or clumsy, but agile. Like a jaguar waiting to hunt.
Even his sharp, irritable-looking red eyes.
A jaguar among city mice—no wonder he was all the young ladies could see.
While I was lost in such thoughts, Eric Orleans spoke in a voice as crooked as his posture.
“Do you intend to go around opening every balcony curtain, knowing full well you're intruding? Imeline Wedgwood. It seems you never received a proper education in etiquette in the south.”
My face hardened at his words.
