The Lady I Want to Kill 11: The Correlation Between Sandwiches and Murder 2 (11/39)

11. The Correlation Between Sandwiches and Murder 2

Beatrice boarded the carriage with Lily, heading to their next destination. This time, she wasn’t going to the duchy’s estate or a tailor’s shop.

She was on her way to a simple commoner’s home.

When Lily had sought information, she also obtained the address of Briolette, the owner of Walbaret Café. Though the details were trivial and inexpensive, the information was more valuable to Beatrice than anything else.

The neighborhood, home to well-off commoners, was tidy but narrow and dim compared to the roads frequented by nobles. As the grand carriage of the Ember Ducal Family entered the alley, passersby cast curious glances, whispering among themselves.

Lily stepped out first, extending her hand to assist Beatrice from the carriage. The young lady, dressed in a white dress that contrasted her dark hair, descended gracefully, drawing the attention of everyone nearby.

Beatrice’s black hair and flowing white dress created an enchanting image, stark against the pristine carriage. She ignored the onlookers, her gaze fixed on the modest house in front of her.

The house had a small yard with a tea table and a tiny fence. Scattered grass, small trees barely reaching waist height, and a pebble path leading to the front door added to the scene’s quaint charm. A little swing, clearly meant for a child, hung in the yard.

The picturesque setting might evoke a pang of sorrow, knowing the homeowner had recently lost her child. But Beatrice felt no such emotion.

As she approached the door, Lily stepped ahead and knocked lightly on the wooden door.

“Mrs. Briolette?”

No response. Lily knocked again, then a third time. Finally, slow footsteps approached, and the sound of a latch being undone was heard.

“Who’s there…?”

The door opened to reveal Briolette, the owner of Walbaret Café. Her once-soft brown hair was unkempt, and her face resembled parched earth.

Though her hair was tied back, it was a tangled mess. Dark shadows under her eyes and chapped lips painted a picture of a woman worn down by grief. Her hollow eyes looked at her unexpected visitors with a blank stare.

Lily suppressed her pity, forgoing any smile, and spoke politely.

“We’ve come to see you, Mrs. Briolette. This is Lady Beatrice of the Ember Ducal Family.”

Briolette blinked slowly, as if struggling to comprehend the situation. Her eyes widened as recognition dawned. She dropped the ill-fitting shawl draped over her shoulders and stood frozen, unsure of what to say.

Beatrice waited patiently, unaffected by the woman’s hesitation. After several long seconds, Briolette finally spoke.

“Pardon the mess, but please, come in.”

The interior of the house reflected Briolette’s shattered state. A thin layer of dust covered the surfaces, unwashed dishes cluttered the kitchen, and shards of a broken cup lay dangerously under the table.

Clothes were haphazardly pulled from a drawer and strewn about, while flowerpots on the windowsill were all broken. The disorder hinted at the chaos within Briolette’s heart.

In contrast, a small pile of children’s toys near the sofa was neatly arranged, as though they were precious. Dust had settled on them, but it was clear they were cherished.

Perhaps unwilling to lead her guests to the cluttered table, Briolette guided them toward the sofa. It appeared she had been sleeping there, as a crumpled blanket lay in one corner. She hastily moved it aside and gestured for Beatrice to sit.

Lily dusted off the sofa with her hands before allowing Beatrice to take a seat.

“What brings someone like you, a Lady of the Ducal Family, to my humble home…?” Briolette asked weakly.

Her voice lacked energy, and it was evident that offering tea, given her state and the state of the kitchen, would be impossible.

Lily spoke first, her tone gentle but firm.

“My lady was concerned about you and wished to visit.”

“You’re worried about me?”

Briolette’s voice was sharp, cutting through the tense silence.

“What reason would a noble lady have to care about someone like me?”

“My lady held your café in great regard,” Lily explained softly, her tone careful but steady. “When it closed, she sought to understand why and came to see you.”

Lily’s words were met with a heavy sigh, one that seemed to collapse under its own weight.

“If you investigated, then you already know,” Briolette replied, her voice trembling as she locked her dark, sunken eyes onto Beatrice with a glare.

She was a woman burned hollow by grief. Sadness, once all-consuming, had left behind only ashes, which now smoldered with bitterness. She resented everything—the warmth of the sun, the laughter of passersby, even the cheerful songs of birds. Eventually, she had come to hate even her own continued existence. But above all, she hated—

“A noble’s carriage killed my daughter.”

The memory burned in her mind, vivid and unbearable. She could still hear the panicked voice of an employee rushing to inform her.

She had thrown down the dessert she was preparing and ran. What greeted her outside was a blood-soaked carriage wheel, a nobleman gazing at it with irritation, and—

“My little girl…”

Her daughter, crushed beneath the wheels, lay on the ground, a broken, bloodied mess.

“She died like that… and yet…”

The nobleman, clad in fine navy attire, had tossed a pouch of coins at her as she cradled her child’s lifeless body, sobbing and trembling.

The pouch had struck her head and fallen to the ground. Dazed, she stared at it as he casually remarked, “This should suffice. If it’s not enough, go to Viscount Paralett.”

It had felt unreal. Everything felt like a sick, twisted dream.

She had sat there, clutching her daughter’s mangled remains, watching the carriage leave. She hadn’t chased after him, hadn’t screamed, hadn’t done anything. And that, she regretted most of all.

She should have smashed his head just as her daughter’s had been. She should have died right there, alongside her child.

“…I couldn’t do anything, nothing at all…”

She had tried everything afterward—gathering her daughter’s remains with the help of neighbors, pleading with the city guards and watchmen, even offering bribes. But every attempt met with the same response: “It’s unfortunate, but we can’t punish a noble for killing a commoner in an accident.”

She had been told that, at most, she could demand a higher settlement. But how could she put a price on her child’s life?

The world felt like a lie. Everything seemed to mock her grief.

Her breath grew ragged, her hands trembling as they clutched the fabric of her skirt so tightly it threatened to tear.

She hated the world, the nobles, the guards, and most of all, herself. She wished everyone would perish. But the most agonizing truth was that her daughter was gone—utterly, irretrievably gone.

Finally, Briolette broke. She sobbed, loud and guttural, like an animal in pain. Her tears fell uncontrollably, and her cries filled the room.

Lily stood silently, unable to speak. She understood Briolette’s anguish all too well, yet the words to console her felt empty and inadequate. Her throat felt dry, her lips parting and closing repeatedly as she struggled for something to say.

Then, cutting through the sorrow and silence, came Beatrice’s voice, cold and unyielding.

“What do you want me to do?”

Briolette lifted her tear-streaked face to look at the noblewoman before her, confused and incredulous.

“What do you mean…?”

“What should I do about him?” Beatrice clarified, her voice devoid of emotion, her golden eyes steady.

Briolette stared at her, unsure if she had heard correctly. What was this woman saying? Was she offering to avenge her daughter?

A flicker of hope mingled with a surge of anger.

“Do? Do what?”

Briolette’s voice trembled with fury and disbelief. She pointed an accusatory finger at Beatrice.

“How?! How can you do anything? Do you know what I’ve been through? Do you know what I want?!”

Her voice rose, turning into a near scream.

“Are you mocking me too?! What can you do?! What can I do?!”

She pounded her fists on the small table in front of her, the sharp sound echoing through the cramped house.

“And even if you do something, even if you succeed…”

Fresh tears spilled from her eyes, her voice choking with despair.

“…will it bring my child back?”

Her rage melted into desolation. Her dark, hollow eyes reflected only emptiness. The cries gave way to silence as she slumped back into the sofa, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Beatrice, who had remained motionless throughout the outburst, spoke again, her voice as steady as before.

“I’ll kill him.”

“What?”

“I can’t bring your daughter back, but I can kill him the same way he killed her.”

Briolette lifted her head weakly, her expression a mixture of doubt and bewilderment. Was this noblewoman serious?

Beatrice’s golden eyes, sharp and unwavering, met hers. There was no trace of falsehood in them.

“Or, if you prefer, I can make him suffer something far worse.”

“Why… why would you do this?” Briolette asked, her voice trembling.

“So that you’ll live,” Beatrice replied simply.

“Don’t act as though you’re going to die with your daughter. Live.”

Briolette couldn’t comprehend it. Why would this stranger offer to avenge her? Why would she tell her to live?

When she looked into Beatrice’s golden eyes, she found no pity, no sympathy, no deceit—nothing at all. Except for one undeniable truth: a faint, almost insignificant desire for her to survive.

And that was enough.

Briolette broke down again, crying like a lost child. She wept openly, her wails filling the room once more.

Beatrice remained silent, unmoving, like a statue, until Briolette’s tears finally subsided.

* * *

The room reeked of metal and blood, a nauseating stench that clung to her skin.

The woman buried her face in her arm, sniffing. It would take ages to rid herself of this smell again. Eating was one thing, but not being allowed to bathe afterward made it unbearable.

It didn’t help that her meals always left her covered in filth. This latest “meal” had been particularly feisty, screaming and lashing out at her in a futile bid for freedom.

They used to bring her prey that was half-dead or nearly gone, but lately, they’d started delivering the fresh and lively. Perhaps they’d realized she didn’t mind as long as she could feed. She figured it was sheer laziness—avoiding the effort of preparing the prey properly.

She grumbled quietly to herself as she glanced at the discarded remains strewn across the stone floor. Those bits were useless to her; what she needed was already consumed—the essence within.

With a grimace, she shoved her fingers into her mouth, scraping bits of flesh caught between her teeth.

The sound of footsteps echoed through the stone corridors, growing louder as they approached. Someone was coming to clean up, perhaps. She pressed herself against the wall, chains clinking as they dragged across the floor.

She learned the hard way that if she wasn’t out of the way, they’d lash her with their whips. Bastards.

The man who appeared at her cell door was one of the guards. When their eyes met, his face twisted into a scowl of pure loathing. She found his expression amusing and smiled mockingly.

“Seems like someone really hates it here,” she said, her laughter trailing into her words.

“Oh, what was it? Stealing and mugging to get by?” she mused theatrically, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “But selling kids to perverts made your conscience stir, huh? Funny how that works.”

She raised her arms, shaking her chains dramatically. The clinking noise rang out in a rhythm that grated on the guard’s nerves.

“And then you handed over information about Viscount Paralett to that organization in sector 31-258. What was his name? Red hair, good-looking, maybe mid-twenties? Early twenties?”

Her mockery faltered as the guard stood silently, his gaze steady. She sighed, dropping her arms.

“No fun, huh? Oh well. Let me guess—you had a younger sibling, didn’t you? Maybe that’s why you felt a little guilt? Makes sense. You’re more human than the likes of them—those who don’t feel a damn thing.”

“Shut up,” the guard growled, his voice like gravel.

She laughed again, savoring his anger.

“Do you have a family? Or maybe not? People like you can’t afford family ties. Not when you’re selling children, handing over kidnapped women to freaks, or sending captured hybrids to experimental labs. Can’t afford to feel a thing, huh?”

“I said, shut up!”

“Poor Vilter,” she continued, ignoring his growing rage. “He trusted you, you know? Thought of you like a brother. Maybe if you hadn’t betrayed him, he would’ve escaped with the kids and lived happily ever after.”

It was a lie. Even if Vilter had fled without telling anyone, Paralett would’ve hunted him down eventually. He wasn’t the type to let loose ends dangle.

Still, she kept taunting him, weaving her lies with a cruel smile.

The sound of the iron gate swinging open made her pause. Ah, had she gone too far?

The guard stepped into the cell, a long whip coiled in his hand.

“Angry, are we? How unfortunate,” she said, her tone dripping with mock pity as her lips curled into a smile.

The crack of the whip cut through her laughter, sharp and merciless.

* * *

After what felt like an eternity of lashes, the guard finally left, taking the leftover scraps of her “meal” with him. She lay on the cold stone floor, bleeding and trembling.

It hurt. It hurt so much she wanted to scream.

“Damn it… Why is it always me? They beat me up like this, and I can’t even complain!” she muttered, the unfairness of it all simmering inside her. But the pain was too overwhelming to dwell on anything else.

“Hey… Hank. Hank, are you there? I’m hurting real bad, Hank,” she called out weakly, addressing the boy in the cell across from hers.

Just yesterday, that kid wouldn’t stop talking to her, trying to stave off his own fear and sadness by pestering her with questions. But today, he was silent.

She dragged herself closer to the bars of her cell, gripping them as she peered across. Was he asleep?

The children in the other cell were huddled together in a corner, trembling as they clung to one another.

“Hank, I know you’re not asleep, so why aren’t you answering me? I said I’m in pain,” she growled, her frustration mounting.

The boy clung to a smaller child beside him, his shoulders shaking as he stifled sobs. He didn’t respond, even as she banged the bars angrily.

“Why won’t you answer me?! Yesterday, you couldn’t stop talking, annoying me to death. What, are you sick of me now too?”

Her shouting finally broke him. Hank began crying in earnest, and soon, all the children in the cell joined in.

Even so, the cries were muffled. The little ones sobbed quietly, holding back their wails as if afraid to make too much noise.

The woman stared at their tear-streaked faces, her irritation slowly ebbing.

“Are you gonna stop talking to me too now?”

If his cell had been beside hers, he wouldn’t have seen her devour the meal they brought. But his cell was across from hers—he had seen everything. She clicked her tongue in annoyance.

She dragged her chains as she leaned back against the wall, wincing at the movement. Amidst the faint sniffling, she heard Hank’s trembling voice.

“…Monster.”

Her lips curled into a small smile.

“Finally, you’re calling me by my name,” she said, her tone laced with bitter amusement.

She let out a soft, mirthless laugh as she laid down on the cold stone floor. Her body burned as though it were on fire, but the chill of the ground brought a small measure of relief.

Staring at the damp, cracked ceiling, she began counting the stains.

“You know… sometimes, I think it’d be nice if someone called me by the name I used a long time ago,” she muttered to no one in particular.

A strange sadness washed over her. She felt… pathetic.

With a sigh, she closed her eyes. It was always better to sleep when useless thoughts like that started creeping in.

* * *

Beatrice and Lily were enjoying a quiet moment when unexpected news arrived—an invitation from the Crown Prince.

The letter politely requested her presence at a small tea gathering. Beatrice tilted her head as she read the invitation, her expression neutral.

The Crown Prince had shown considerable interest in her since the last party. She wondered briefly what had happened to Vicellophe, but judging by the letter’s tone, she wasn’t the sole invitee.

Beatrice had no personal interest in the Crown Prince, but as she needed to uncover the Imperial Library’s secrets, she instructed Lily to draft an acceptance letter.

“By the way, did your friend settle into the palace well?”

“Yes, my lady. She’s still at a low rank for now.”

As a commoner, it was unlikely for a maid to advance much within the palace hierarchy. Even if they were skilled or exceptionally attractive, they were only occasionally tasked with greeting important guests. Remaining at the lower ranks might be more advantageous for someone like Rose, who needed to search for the library.

Beatrice decided to put thoughts of Rose aside for now and leaned back in her chair. The plan to deal with Viscount Paralett was set for Friday, while the tea with the Crown Prince was scheduled for the following week.

Maybe she could spend the interim lazing around in bed.

Her peaceful musings were interrupted by the sound of her door suddenly opening without so much as a knock.

“Hey, let’s go riding,” Felix declared, stepping in as though he owned the place.

“Go by yourself,” Beatrice replied curtly.

“Nope, you’re coming with me.”

Of course, it was Felix. Why was he even at the estate? As a knight of the Imperial Guard, he should’ve been busy, but somehow he managed to take two days off each week.

Beatrice sighed, massaging her temple as she turned her gaze toward the window. The last time he had pestered her into going riding, she’d agreed after relentless badgering and ended up winning their little wager. He had sulked about it for days and now seemed determined to challenge her again.

When she ignored him, Felix came closer and began shaking her chair.

“I just got an amazing new horse! I only lost last time because of my old one!”

“Right. I only won because my horse was too good. Go enjoy your amazing new horse by yourself.”

Despite her attempts to dismiss him, his persistence was unmatched—like a leech that refused to let go. Knowing it would be less exhausting to give in than endure his whining for days, Beatrice finally stood and instructed Lily to prepare her riding attire.