The Lady You Want to Kill 9. The Five Maids (9/39)

9. The Five Maids

Late at night, when the sun had long set, Charlie slipped out of his room in secret. The servants had a fixed schedule for their patrols, so he crossed the Count’s estate unnoticed by anyone.

With what little money he had, and the expensive clothes and shoes he had bought, his baggage was a bit too large and heavy. Dragging it along the ground, he reached the back door, where he saw pale blonde hair—it was Rose.

“Charlie.”

The moment Rose saw him, she hurried into his arms.

“I thought you weren’t going to come.”

“As if I’d ever leave you behind.”

Charlie spoke shamelessly, concealing his earlier hesitation, and pulled her soft body close. Out of habit, his hands roamed her waist, but Rose, either unaware or pretending not to notice, simply looked into his eyes.

In truth, Rose was only tolerating his actions because she couldn’t slap him just yet.

Taking his hand, Rose gazed down the distant path.
“The carriage I called for should arrive soon.”

“Rose, thank you so much. I owe you my life.”

“Thank me? I can’t live without you, Charlie. This is the least I could do.”

Even in this tense moment, Charlie felt a surge of satisfaction. To think that Rose liked him this much—he almost felt guilty for not realizing it sooner.

If their escape succeeded, he planned to pour all his love into her. She was a woman who deserved to be loved.

Rose’s face, slightly flushed with excitement, filled Charlie’s gaze. Misinterpreting the expression, he stepped into the arriving carriage without hesitation, completely oblivious to the exchange of glances between Rose and the coachman.

The carriage they boarded was a cheap one used by commoners. It jolted and shook violently as it traveled down the uneven road. The outside was pitch dark, and even pulling back the curtain offered no clues as to where they were or how far they’d gone.

Inside the carriage, the air felt unnaturally cold, making Charlie’s legs tremble again. It’ll be fine.

We’ll make it out of here.

But anxiety gnawed at him. At any moment, the knights might realize his escape and chase the carriage. The thought unsettled him deeply.

Hoping Rose would soothe his unease, Charlie reached out, intending to hold her, but she pushed his hands away.

His face immediately crumpled with displeasure, and Rose barely stifled a laugh at how ridiculous he looked.

“Charlie,” she said sweetly, “of course, I’d love nothing more. But we’re on the run, remember? If they pursue us, we need to be ready to move quickly. All I’m thinking about is your safety.”

Though still sulky, Charlie seemed to accept her explanation and quietly sat on the opposite side. Rose let out a brief sigh and turned her gaze to the pitch-black scenery outside the carriage window. It was almost time.

Clunk.

The moment Rose thought that, the carriage came to a sudden halt. Charlie jolted upright in alarm, his body tense, while Rose had to bite her lower lip hard to stop herself from laughing.

“R-Rose. What? What’s going on?”

“Calm down, Charlie. It’s probably just the dark road at night. I’ll go check it out. Stay here and don’t move,” Rose said soothingly.

Charlie nodded with all his might. Even if Rose had told him to go out and check, he wouldn’t have.

To Charlie, his own safety was the most important thing in the world. If necessary, he was even prepared to abandon Rose and run.

Left alone in the carriage, Charlie found himself engulfed by an oppressive silence. He wished fervently for Rose to return quickly.

Sitting alone in the dark, he felt cold, lonely, and frightened. Yet, more than ten minutes passed, and she did not return. It seemed like far too long for her to simply investigate why the carriage had stopped.

“Rose? Rose, are you out there?”

Charlie called out her name, raising his voice. Just then, the carriage door clicked and opened as if in response. His face lit up for a moment, but it soon turned pale with fear as a stranger stepped inside.

Was it a knight pursuing him? But the man’s filthy clothing didn’t resemble a knight’s attire at all. Charlie, slow to connect the dots, finally realized that the man was the coachman.

“Rose? Rose!”

Charlie’s voice grew louder as he called for her, but the carriage was now parked in a deserted alley. The only one who could hear his cries was the man standing before him.

The carriage rocked a few times as Charlie struggled desperately, and then it grew still. The rickety, cheap carriage stood silently, abandoned in the dark.

After some time, the man stepped out of the carriage, his clothes slightly disheveled. Rose, waiting nearby, asked him, “Is he dead?”

“Not yet,” the man replied.

“Oh dear, our Charlie just doesn’t get to die peacefully, does he?” Rose said with an air of mock concern, her expression calm and composed.

The man, watching her, took out a cigarette and lit it with a match. Just as the cigarette caught fire, Rose’s slender hand snatched it away. The man stared at her incredulously before shaking his head and pulling out another cigarette.

Even though the cigarette was the cheapest kind smoked by commoners—so harsh it scratched at the throat—neither of them coughed.

“How are you planning to kill him?” Rose asked.

“There’s so much I’d like to do, but that wretched body of his won’t last through it all,” the man replied, frowning in thought.

“Pity I won’t get to see it,” Rose remarked.

“Who’d regret it more than me?” he shot back.

“You must really hate that you didn’t get to see the Count die,” Rose said with a knowing smirk.

The man didn’t reply but nodded, his eyes betraying his bitterness. This man, summoned by Samantha, was another victim of the Count’s atrocities, having lost his family to him.

He worked as a butcher in the market, selling meat. It was an old family business that had been passed down since his grandfather’s time. After his parents were killed by a noble’s carriage, he had run the shop with his younger brother. The two siblings bore no resemblance to each other, which had been the root of much trouble.

“How’s life these days?” Rose asked.

“Passable. I’ll be better once that bastard’s dead.”

“What did Samantha tell you?”

The man ran a hand through his hair, clearly irritated. He inhaled deeply from his cigarette before exhaling the smoke slowly.

“Just that the Count was dead and you lot weren’t the ones who did it. Rose, if you’re going to talk, give me the full story. It’s driving me mad that I didn’t get to kill him with my own hands.”

Rose burst into laughter, the cigarette in her mouth wobbling. She began coughing mid-laugh, the sounds echoing irregularly and adding to the eerie atmosphere of the dark alley.

“Menter, don’t kid yourself. As if you could’ve killed him. Even if you were born again, you’d never have managed it. Still, I understand your frustration at not witnessing his death. The Count’s end was truly agonizing.”

“Agonizing, you say?”

“More than you could ever imagine. Even if he were still alive, he wouldn’t be able to see, speak, or walk ever again. Menter, you wouldn’t have had the skill or the will to do that. So don’t feel bad. ‘That person’ delivered the perfect revenge for us.”

The man called Menter scowled deeply. Samantha, when she had come to him, had also mentioned ‘that person’. The one who had killed the Count in such a gruesome manner, not for personal gain but solely to help them.

And now, Samantha had asked Menter to assist with disposing of Charlie as a way to aid ‘that person’.

Menter had no objections to dealing with Charlie, a parasite who had lived off the Count like a leech, but he couldn’t shake his doubts about this mysterious benefactor.

A noble, killed without demanding anything in return? It didn’t make sense. He had voiced his suspicions to Samantha, only to be met with a chilling glare.

“Who is this ‘person’ you all keep talking about?” Menter pressed.

“I can’t tell you that,” Rose replied.

“I have a debt to repay, just like you all seem to,” he argued.

Rose smirked, amused by Menter’s assumption that the mysterious avenger must be a man. Of course, most people would think that. She had no intention of correcting him.

“If ‘that person’ needs more help in the future, we’ll make sure you get your chance to repay your debt.”

“Arrogant, aren’t you?”

“We’ll stay arrogant until the day we die. Take care, Menter. We’ll be in touch.”

With that, Rose left the alley, leaving the carriage behind. Menter watched her retreating figure for a moment before disappearing into the opposite darkness with the carriage.

The next day, Rose returned to the Count’s estate by mid-afternoon, having spent the night at a nearby inn. The estate was in chaos.

Amelie had taken the shoes Rose had left behind to Guildbett, who noticed that the footprints left at the scene matched the size of the half-burned shoes.

Guildbett immediately searched the servants’ quarters, discovering that Charlie, who had caused a commotion over his missing shoes, had vanished overnight. His room, stripped of valuables, suggested a hasty escape.

Though Guildbett began a search for him, Rose was confident he would never succeed.

With light, carefree steps, Rose walked through the estate. Her heels clicked rhythmically against the floor—tap, tap. Her movements were almost like a dance, lively and unbothered.

* * *

Currently, the murder of the Count in the capital is the talk of the town. So, without actively seeking out information, news of the case naturally reached everyone’s ears. It was said that a servant from the Count’s estate, a man named Charlie, had been identified as the prime suspect and was now wanted.

A pair of blood-stained shoes believed to be his were found at the incineration site, and he fled with his belongings two days after the incident. Naturally, everyone assumed he was the culprit.

Beatrice was sitting in the garden, basking in the sunlight on a chair that had been placed there for her. The priest had warned her that traces of dark magic were on her and that the perpetrator might come after her, so she was forbidden from leaving the estate.

However, Beatrice was someone who would normally stay cooped up in her room all day if left undisturbed. Recently, she hadn’t even been stepping out of bed, let alone her room. As a result, Laura had taken drastic measures and forced her into the garden.

The weather, now past early May, was almost too perfect. Occasionally, the sunlight was so dazzling that looking directly at the sky was impossible. Sitting there with her eyes closed, Beatrice could feel the warmth of the sun on her dark hair.

Laura, who had set up the table and chairs in the sunniest spot for Beatrice, brought out some cold tea. There were two glasses—one for Beatrice and the other for:

“Please have some tea.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sit down when you’re told to sit.”

“…Understood.”

The second glass was for Francis, who had been guarding Beatrice diligently. Though there were knights from the ducal house present, Francis had not left Beatrice’s side except to sleep.

Even as Beatrice sat in the garden doing absolutely nothing for two hours, his posture remained upright and unwavering.

Laura frequently encouraged him to take a break, but her efforts were met with polite refusals. Even when Beatrice herself urged him, his initial answer was a refusal. However, her second insistence, firm and unyielding, left him with no choice but to comply.

Though not related by blood, Laura thought, there were undeniable similarities between Beatrice and the Duchess.

Once Francis sat across from Beatrice, Laura poured tea into the cups.

“There’s no word from the priest,” Beatrice remarked.

“It seems it’s taking time due to the lack of evidence,” Francis replied.

Beatrice said nothing more, sipping her cold tea in silence. Francis, however, didn’t even touch his glass. He had only sat down because she had insisted; drinking the tea was clearly not on his agenda.

As he glanced briefly at Beatrice drinking her tea, Francis averted his gaze again. He had decided to stay by her side because he couldn’t predict the dangers that might befall her.

Beatrice was beautiful, but she had an uncanny lack of presence. Sometimes, when looking out the window, Francis forgot she was in the same room, so little did she command attention.

“A suspect from the Count’s estate has escaped,” he said. “We can’t let our guard down until he’s caught.”

“The Duchess also heard about this and has increased the security around the estate,” Beatrice replied.

Francis had been on high alert since learning about the suspect’s escape. At present, the most likely danger to Beatrice was this murderer. If nothing happened within two weeks, she would be considered safe.

As long as he remained vigilant, nothing would happen. That’s what Francis kept telling himself.

“Are you comfortable here?” he asked.

“Everything is fine,” she replied simply.

“You met my second brother, I hear.”

The mention brought this morning to mind. Francis had been assigned a room on the same floor as Beatrice to guard her more effectively. Accustomed to functioning on just four hours of sleep a day, he had stood guard outside her room until dawn before heading to his room for a brief rest.

It was then that he encountered Felix Ember, the second son of the Ember family, standing outside Beatrice’s door as if waiting for him.

“I’ll speak to my brother. Don’t let it bother you,” Beatrice said now.

“It didn’t bother me.”

It had certainly been awkward, but not offensive. Felix’s behavior was exactly what one might expect from a brother uncomfortable with a stranger, an outsider, staying on the same floor as his sister.

When Francis had stepped out, Felix had stared at him silently for a few seconds. Meeting the gaze evenly, Francis decided to break the silence, thinking of his duty to return to Beatrice.

“The Lady is alone. If you have nothing further to say, I’ll take my leave,” he had said.

“You,” Felix interrupted. “Do you have a lover?”

Felix abruptly asked Francis if he had a lover. Caught slightly off guard, Francis answered dutifully.

“I do not.”

“A fiancée, then?”

“None.”

“At your age?”

Francis realized that this flamboyant young man was worried he might be making advances toward his younger sister.

“Paladins cannot marry.”

“What? Really? I thought only priests couldn’t marry.”

“Not all paladins are barred from marriage, but I am. If you don’t need further explanation, I’ll take my leave.”

“I see. Go on, then.”

Felix walked away with light steps, apparently satisfied to learn that Francis was unable to marry. He didn’t seem like someone who had the patience to listen to long-winded explanations.

Watching Felix’s retreating figure, Francis found him peculiar. He shifted his attention back to Beatrice.

There hadn’t been any loud noises or disturbances, so he doubted Beatrice was even aware of the encounter. He’d thought of her as a quiet and unassuming lady, but perhaps being part of the ducal family lent her a certain gravity.

A gentle breeze passed, causing ripples in the untouched tea in Francis’s cup. The clear, cold liquid reflected his face like a mirror. It seemed the day was warm indeed—the wind wasn’t even slightly chilly. The rustling of blue leaves and blooming flowers filled the air.

Since becoming a paladin, Francis had lived a life of ceaseless activity. Even his partnership with his childhood friend Vicellophe had been squeezed into his packed schedule. It had been a long time since he had moments as leisurely as these.

“The weather will only get warmer. Soon enough, you’ll be able to go out on an excursion…”

Francis, gazing into his tea, suddenly looked up and froze mid-sentence.

“Sir?”

Beatrice, puzzled by Francis’s abrupt silence, met his gaze and called out to him.

Her black and red hair fluttered in the warm breeze. Her pale face was smeared with blood, her slender fingers drenched as if soaked in it, looking almost as if they had always been red. Her dress, torn and soaked in crimson, was unrecognizable.

Blood dripped down her forehead, staining her sclera crimson to match, and her golden eyes, now clouded, looked like tarnished coins dropped on the ground.

Francis was struck by a hallucination, one far more vivid than any he had ever experienced before. This close, this detailed—it was a first.

When he first met Beatrice, he had seen a vision of her drenched in blood, but it had never been this vivid. Every strand of blood-soaked hair, every cluster of coagulated blood on her eyelashes—it was horrifyingly clear.

He hadn’t voluntarily stopped breathing; he simply couldn’t. It was as if he had forgotten how. Like someone who had forgotten how to exhale, he remained frozen, wide-eyed.

After what felt like an eternity, Francis blinked several times, and the hallucination vanished.

The moment his vision returned to reality, he sprang to his feet in alarm. The chair behind him toppled over with a loud crash, but Francis didn’t even glance at it. He reached out and grabbed Beatrice’s wrist roughly.

“You need to go back to your room. Right now.”

The second vision struck him like a storm, filled with fear and urgency. His voice was stiff and unyielding.

Never—not once—had Francis ever experienced multiple hallucinations about the same person. And now, here, such a vivid hallucination had manifested before him, as if it were real.

He felt as though something terrible was imminent. Perhaps it was fear—fear that was unlike him. Gripping Beatrice’s wrist tightly, he pulled her away with such force that the table tilted, spilling the tea. Clear and crimson liquid pooled across the white tablecloth.

“Sir? Sir! What are you doing?”

Laura, alarmed by his sudden actions, rushed over and grabbed his arm. But she wasn’t strong enough to stop him and was dragged along instead.

Amid the commotion, Beatrice walked as Francis led her, her gaze fixed on his face.

‘Why is he acting like this?’