Previously
Harper grovels before Vincent and agrees to surrender his daughter Cordelia if her wedding to Jonathan falls through, winning a month of reprieve. The next morning, Cordelia wakes up prepared to visit the Devillers estate with a mixture of dread and longing for Jonathan.
“Your maternal grandfather singled that boy out as your fiancé precisely to preserve this family’s line. Our houses were fated to join all along. Do you have any idea how much it costs to marry off a girl? If they intend to take you, it’s only right that they show some goodwill first.”
The way her aunt spoke, as if marching off to reclaim stolen property, sent a different kind of ache through Cordelia. Oh, heavens… if she were to behave like that in front of Jonathan or his family…. Just imagining it made the room spin. They undoubtedly knew what a wretched family she had, and their impression of them was surely at its absolute worst already, but Cordelia could not bear any more humiliation. She was accustomed to being degraded herself, yet this particular brand of shame felt impossible to ever get used to.
It felt as though the lineage her grandfather had dedicated his life to preserving, along with the manor where her mother had grown up and loved, the proud name of Marguerite itself, were being hurled bodily into the mud.
Ah. To those who still remembered the shining days of old, how pathetic and grotesque their ruin must seem.
Unable to bear the thought, Cordelia squeezed her eyes shut.
“Aunt.”
No. Don't.
“I think… it might be best… um, not to say such things in front of Lord and Lady Devillers.”
Ah.
Once again, she had failed to hold her tongue. Cordelia believed she carried herself servilely enough, yet whenever she failed to endure a critical moment and let slip such reckless words, she wondered if she truly was the stupid, insolent girl her father and aunt accused her of being—one who still did not know her place.
A girl with no one to lean on, and nothing to recommend her.
Whenever she spoke out like this, fury would spark in her aunt’s eyes, and a sharp slap would strike the cheek of this ‘spared commodity.’ Her aunt would screech that she gave herself airs of nobility without an ounce of gratitude for being raised.
Yet for years after her mother’s death, Cordelia could never comprehend those words.
She was a noble. This manor, the surname inherited from her grandfather and mother, and her rightful place on the imperial peerage registry were undeniably aristocratic. Impoverished though she was, the blood flowing through her veins, the pride she had inherited, and the history of her family could never be erased. Why did they seethe with such fury over things she had possessed from birth? Even her father had married her mother precisely because he coveted her nobility.
For a time, she assumed they loathed the musty old heritage she carried because it seemed so conceited and insufferable, just as they claimed. But now she knew better.
They simply despised what they did not possess. Or rather, they hated themselves for not having it.
How hollow she had felt upon realizing that. How utterly wretched.
“What?”
Her aunt flew into a rage, as expected.
“What do you mean by that? Are you telling me not to mention money?”
“That’s not what I meant. Only that… we ought to be a little cautious. Truthfully, it’s remarkably generous of them not to have broken the engagement already. The match is terribly one-sided. If we demand even more under these circumstances…”
Swallowing hard, she poured out the words she had kept bottled up inside. She astonished herself with how articulately she had managed to speak. Yet the moment the corners of her aunt’s eyes twitched and her face mottled with furious color, that surge of courage sputtered out entirely.
“You crazy wench, have you lost your wits just because you’re getting married soon?”
Though she shrank back, Cordelia did not drop her gaze. Not out of concern for her own safety, but to defend the honor and pride of Jonathan, her fiancé, toward whom she felt such profound gratitude and guilt. She wanted to preserve at least that much. She felt so terribly sorry toward his family. Above all, she could not endure sinking even a single inch further into misery.
Fortunately, her aunt refrained from leaving any marks on the face of the niece she had to show off today. Instead, she clipped the back of Cordelia’s head where it wouldn’t show. The blow was so forceful that Cordelia’s head spun, but she swayed without collapsing. She was terrified of soiling her mother’s dress against the dusty floorboards. Spouting a ceaseless string of curses, her aunt practically threw the pale, shaken girl toward Dorea, barking at her to dress her properly. With a spiteful smirk, Dorea dragged her dazed cousin before a vanity with a cracked mirror and began slapping white powder onto her skin from a container of dubious age. When Cordelia coughed and struggled, Dorea snapped at her to stop being a nuisance. A moment later, Cordelia stared into the mirror and recoiled in horror at the creature gazing back—she looked like a drowned rat dredged in flour, with absurdly crimson cheeks and lips. The garish, excessive makeup made her look like a ridiculous, cheap actress in a farce. Dorea offered a sneering, “How pretty,”—a remark that, as usual, meant the exact opposite—before sweeping out of the room. Cordelia examined her face in sheer despair, then frantically dabbed away the powder with a handkerchief and rubbed at her lips, desperate to make herself look at least somewhat presentable.
Ah, what am I going to do? It looks awful. I look hideous.
Only when she had managed to reduce the mess to something rustic yet plain did she swallow a melancholy sigh and peer forlornly into the mirror at her own shabby reflection. She could only pray that Lord and Lady Devillers, with all their refinement, would look upon her with charity.
“You’re late! Get down here this instant!”
“Coming!”
Cordelia hastily stuffed her belongings into a small pouch—another keepsake from her mother—swallowed her daily dose of medicine, and hesitated briefly over whether to take an extra dose along.
The hereditary affliction of the Marguerite family lay dormant before flaring without warning.
No one knew what triggered it, nor why it manifested in only a handful of family members. However, according to the records compiled by ancestors who had relentlessly studied the disease, the Curse of the Mermaid primarily struck those who suffered profound despair, betrayal, or heartbreak. It could be kept at bay, they had discovered, only if a specific medicine was taken faithfully from early childhood.
Because of this, Cordelia’s mother had administered the medicine to her since infancy. After the old family physician who had served their bloodline for generations passed away, her mother, who had lived a sheltered life without so much as dipping her hands in dishwater, had gathered, ground, and prepared the herbs with her own hands every full moon. Later, when an illness of the mind left her mother unable to care even for herself, Cordelia had been forced to swallow the medicine daily by her own small hands.
From experience, whenever tension and stress grew overwhelming, the earliest symptoms would appear: her hands and feet would turn icy cold, and a burning sensation would grip her heart like a raging fire. Whenever that happened, she had to take another dose, even if she had already taken her daily medicine. She had no idea what would become of her if she skipped it. Timid as she was, Cordelia had always followed her mother’s rules to the letter.
She swallowed hard, agonizing over the diminishing supply in the pouch, but her aunt’s bellow came thundering up from the ground floor. She quickly shoved the extra dose inside and hurried to her feet.
Her aunt hurled curses the entire way down the stairs as if shoving her along, and Cordelia, her head still spinning, collided with her cousin Dorea and nearly tumbled down the flight of stairs. Knocked off balance by Dorea’s hefty frame, she felt a pain so sharp that tears sprang to her eyes. As Cordelia faltered in flustered panic, Dorea glared at her with bared eyes and flared up in anger.
“You clumsy bitch! You ran into me all on your own, and now you’re putting on an act? What, think you’re too precious to touch now that you’re getting married? Going to run and tattle to my mother?”
When Cordelia mumbled an apology, Dorea looked her up and down with open disgust, shoved past her with a hard knock of her shoulder, and stalked off. By the time Cordelia scooped up her pouch from the steps and climbed into the carriage with her aunt, she was already thoroughly exhausted. Her aunt glared at her dazed niece and began to nag with utter displeasure.
“Pasty as a corpse—I can hardly stand to look at you. Smile properly, would you? Just looking at you depresses me.”
Of course it did. There was far more gloom in her daily life than joy. And the extravagantly dressed aunt sitting right in front of her was largely responsible for it. She looked like a massive, aging turkey waddling about with arrogant pretensions. Cordelia cast a somber gaze over her aunt’s outdated, ruffle-heavy gown, peacock-feather hat, scuffed silk shoes, and cheap, glaringly fake brooch, before turning her head to stare out the small carriage window.
How much ridicule would she face this time? The Devillers estate, once filled with fond memories of frequent visits in her childhood, now brought only dread and discomfort.
Just then, she caught sight of Dorea lingering outside the manor. Her aunt thrust open the window and snapped at her not to idle away the time while they were gone and to finish the chores piled up at home. Dorea pouted, shot a sidelong glance at Cordelia, and went back inside without a word. Her aunt let out another loud curse at her insolence.