19 - Pieces of the Broken Glass Slipper
Shattered Glass Slipper Shards Episode 19
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I handed Marie her hat and said in a gruff tone.
"You're openly showing that you were worried. Are you expecting praise?"
"Ah, no. Young lady, it's not like that."
"Yes, then try to smooth out that sour expression. You should be showing gratitude instead. Since you came through the back gate, you won't realize I went for a walk alone."
"Yes, thank you very much."
Marie, who had offered an awkward smile at my scolding, soon looked at me with palpable anxiety, cautiously speaking.
"Young lady."
"Why?"
"Seril..."
Marie trailed off, hesitating. As if trying to express her fear of me with her whole body, she fidgeted and whined, like a sickly puppy that couldn't open its eyes.
Her slightly bitten lips and tear-filled eyes, as if trying to evoke pity, were enough to stir my sympathy. Was this the effect of my subjugation through violence and threats? A pathetic aura dripped from her every small action. It was a rare purity that would make any man who knew women lick his lips.
The problem was that such qualities held no appeal for me, a woman.
I untied the knot of my robe, adorned with ribbons, and replied with a bored expression. To hear news of Seril the moment I returned put me in a foul mood. Hence, my tone was not pleasant.
"Why are you telling me about her?"
"Seril is calling out for you, young lady, desperately."
Ah. I drew a long arc with my lips and smiled sweetly. I thought the wicked girl would hold out for quite a while, but it seems she couldn't bear it and raised the white flag.
I had been considering locking her in the mansion's secret room in preparation for Madame de Lavalliere's visit, but she couldn't even last two days.
I twisted my lips askew and let out a deep, mocking laugh. I had been contemplating various methods for her wild thrashing like a stung bull, but her crumbling so easily now left me utterly deflated.
It seemed the ferocity I had witnessed was merely a hollow illusion. A sandcastle that would crumble into nothingness if it couldn't stand in Roena's shadow. It was baffling why she had acted so stiff, like starched fabric, when she was going to break like this.
"Um, what should I do?"
Marie looked as if she wanted to rush to Seril and free her immediately. Her shifting feet suggested just that.
Perhaps, if I allowed it, she would take him out of Capsa, warm his entire body with hot compresses, apply herbal poultices, and carefully wrap him in plain cloth.
And she would lament his fate, so easily subdued by a cruel master. Wouldn't she feel a surge of empathy, a shared suffering?
However, I had no intention of forgiving Seril so quickly. A person's true nature doesn't change that easily.
For now, she might lick my feet to avoid punishment, but would she do the same when her mind was at ease and her movements were free?
I couldn't guarantee it. Isn't it better for me to avoid getting hurt by misplaced mercy? What does it matter if I'm not altruistic!
Above all, I don't know how to easily release someone I cannot definitively call 'my person.'
In truth, people like Marie are very weak to violence and persuasion. Therefore, if you offer the right mix of whip and carrot, they won't even think of betrayal.
But Seril is not like that. She needs only the whip, not the carrot. Because Seril's heart is filled with feelings for Roena to her very bones.
She was always extremely loyal to Roena, as if she were a knight. She was so devoted that if Roena blinked even twice slowly, she would tremble as if the heavens and earth were being created anew. It was a ridiculous sight. Even a child born of her own flesh and blood wouldn't be this devoted.
But Seril would do anything for Roena. To the point of acting as Margo's subordinate and devising all sorts of wicked schemes for Roena's sake.
If Margo was the mastermind, Seril was the loyal pawn executing that mastermind's will. Everything was carried out through Margo and Seril's group.
Even after my adoptive father's death, when my mother and I took over the mansion and replaced countless maids, Seril clung to calling out Roena's name and struggled fiercely. It was Seril who eventually sent her to Madame de Lavalier to attend the ball.
And when my mother and I were imprisoned, she stood behind Roena and laughed triumphantly. Hahaha.
I know that obsession, I have seen her profound affection for Roena with my own eyes, so should I accept her surrender so easily? Absolutely not.
Therefore, even if it takes a long time, I intend to put in considerable effort so that fear of me seeps into the very depths of her mind.
"Go wash Seril, and have her drink some soft soup. Apply medicine to her wounds and bandage them. Make sure the inside of Capsa is clean too."
"Are you forgiving Seril?"
"Forgive? Did you just utter the word 'forgive'?"
I lightly tapped Marie's cheek with my finger and smiled nonchalantly. Having had a palate cleanser, wasn't it time to eat the main course?
Marie flinched and took a step back.
"Young lady..."
Her voice, escaping her parted lips, was filled with profound terror.
"I can't kill her, can I? How long have I been in this mansion? Now, move quickly. Hurry as if your tail were on fire. You're the only one who can help me."
My voice, coming out like a song, was incredibly cheerful. I felt like I could hum a tune if I were able. So, I lightly urged Marie on with a joyful voice and shrugged off my dress.
For the remaining time, I planned to take a hot bath, receive a light oil massage, and reflect on Madame de Lavalliere, who was arriving tomorrow.
The day promised to be quite busy, filling me with a strange excitement. It felt as though the pleasure I felt with Perinnil had reached its peak through Seril.
Today seems like it will be a fun day. At my words, Marie shook her head with a look of disgust and bit her lip. I found her expression both amusing and pathetic, and burst into laughter.
I knew that despite her shuddering, she would soon resign herself and diligently follow my orders as usual.
And exactly six hours later, Seril's body, clean, was placed back into Capsa and moved to the Bishvarts Family's secret room.
The next day, everyone in the mansion began to bustle from early dawn. Although the mansion had been thoroughly cleaned the day before and the banquet food prepared, an unexpected commotion arose due to my mother's dissatisfaction.
Indeed, it was understandable, as it was the first external guest she would be hosting since becoming the mistress of the Bishvarts Family, and even if they were relatives, it had been a long time since their last visit.
Moreover, given the nature of the guest, meticulous attention was unavoidable. Therefore, my mother's nerves, as she directed the maids, were extremely frayed.
However, I thought my mother's demeanor appeared very lively. Although the factions centered around Margo showed her disrespect, her personally taking charge and bossing the maids around today made her look like a true noblewoman.
Of course, she was becoming somewhat hysterical and irritable with the slow-moving maids, but it was much better than her previous listless state.
It seemed Margo's temporary silence due to me had been of great help to my mother.
This is why she could single out a maid and reprimand her severely for the slightest trace of dust on a window frame. In many ways, she was the very picture of a noblewoman.
The problem was how long this facade would last. The dignified yet graceful noblewoman my mother was displaying was bound to crumble helplessly before Madame de Lavalliere.
Ever since meeting Madame de Lavalliere and her followers before marrying my adoptive father, my mother's feelings towards her had been close to disgust and fear. Like a mouse before a cat.
It was a stark contrast to me, who had not only mocked her but even driven her away—though it's more accurate to say Lavalliere stormed out of the house.
My relationship with Madame de Lavalliere had been very poor in the past. She disdained me for my poor bloodline, and I felt offended by her gaze, which treated me as insignificantly as meat hanging in a butcher shop, judging me arbitrarily.
Most of all, I couldn't harbor good feelings towards her behavior, as she always scowled and hurled scathing insults whenever we met. I disliked her almost as much as Roena and Margo, so what more is there to say?
Her constant refrain was always 'No,' 'Can't you even do that?', 'Blood will tell,' so it was natural for me to feel rebellious.
Furthermore, Madame de Lavalliere was the witch who had brought shame upon my mother. Therefore, it was nearly impossible to treat her with respectful courtesy, let alone insult her.
Consequently, she and I quarreled frequently, almost daily.
The fights always began with her finding fault with my actions.
At that time, captivated by beautiful jewels and new dresses, I hadn't reflected on which family I had become a part of, and I found her refusal to tolerate my vulgar jokes and tantrums extremely irritating.
So, like a venomous snake, I became sensitive to every word that came out of her mouth. It's no wonder Madame de Lavalliere exclaimed, calling me 'You rough fighting cock!'
In fact, such fights were a sport I excelled at more than she did. I was less rational, less elegant, and didn't know the limits of hurting people.
My street-smart, ruffian tendencies also played a part. As Lavalliere put it, I was a fighting cock from the cockfighting arena. A wicked girl who needed to draw blood from her opponent with sharply honed claws to be satisfied.
Unfortunately, Madame was a very intimidating woman, capable of instilling fear, but she was extremely vulnerable to insults that contained sexual undertones, which made up half of her tirades.
Even a master of high society was like an inexperienced child in fights where the rules—not directly attacking the opponent—weren't established. How could the noble art of indirect mockery compare to the crude insults heard in back alleys?
As a result, I always won. Even if she ended up in tears, unable to control her temper.
The most potent insult I hurled at Madame de Lavalliere was the nickname 'Stone Doll.' This was one of my metaphors for her, a term created to mock her for valuing etiquette like a stone devoid of emotion, like a doll. It was also a jab at her situation, having been married for a long time but unable to conceive a child.
In fact, when Madame de Lavalliere heard this from me, she foamed at the mouth and collapsed, so how can one describe the shame and rage she felt?
It was also because of this nickname that I cut ties with my adoptive father—I didn't even send a letter after his death.
Yet, now that I've returned, I'm meticulously adorning myself from the morning to impress the very person I fought so fiercely with, as if to start a war. What greater irony could there be? Even a well-written comedy wouldn't be this amusing.
