The Lady You Want to Kill 7. Debutante’s Last Night is Stained with Blood 2 (7/39)

7. Debutante’s Last Night is Stained with Blood 2

On the final night, Beatrice attended the party with the orb Agatha had given her. The event no longer held her interest, and her busy partner had left early. Passing the time without much care, she left the imperial palace early alongside Florianne.

This was to watch the fireworks on the promised final night from the count’s manor. Laura followed them, carrying Beatrice’s nightgown and wine. Florianne seemed slightly excited.

“I have many friends, but this is my first time watching fireworks alone with someone,” Florianne said.

“It will be a pleasant evening,” Beatrice replied softly. Florianne nodded at her words, but truthfully, Beatrice couldn’t promise her it would be a joyful night. Perhaps it would only be a pleasant one for Beatrice.

As they arrived at the manor and stepped out of the carriage, Beatrice’s eyes met Lily’s, who was waiting at the front entrance. Lily quickly averted her gaze and disappeared into the hallway, but Beatrice could tell—Lily would seize this opportunity well.

In Florianne’s room, the two chatted and drank wine until past midnight. During their conversation, fireworks burst in the sky, momentarily capturing Florianne’s attention. However, Beatrice, unmoved by the dazzling scene lighting up the dark sky, felt no particular sentiment.

When the lovely fireworks faded into the darkness, Florianne set aside her wistfulness and lifted her wine glass. She began chatting about young ladies and gentlemen who had caught attention at the debutante ball, sharing her impressions of the noblewomen she had met and exchanging light gossip.

Although they did nothing more than this, Florianne seemed to enjoy herself immensely. Her face, flushed from the slight buzz of wine, glowed adorably.

“It’s getting late,” Beatrice remarked.

“Indeed, is it this late already? What a shame,” Florianne replied with a hint of regret.

“If you want to wake up early tomorrow, it’s best to sleep now,” Beatrice advised.

“You’re right,” Florianne agreed.

It was already one in the morning. While not terribly late, noble young ladies typically retired before midnight to maintain their beauty.

Florianne instructed the maids to clear away the remaining wine and glasses. Beatrice, however, poured another glass and handed it to Laura.

“You’ve worked hard these past three days. Have a drink,” Beatrice said kindly.

“My lady…” Laura appeared touched. Watching this, Florianne looked at Beatrice with admiration, as if realizing how thoughtful the young lady truly was. Inspired, she poured wine into her own glass and extended it to Emily.

“Emily, you’ve worked hard too,” Florianne said with a warm smile.

“Thank you, my lady,” Emily replied gratefully.

Florianne even extended her kindness to her guard, inviting them to partake as well. The guard and two maids all drank the wine poured by their respective mistresses. Watching this, Beatrice smiled faintly.

Florianne offered Beatrice a guest room on the same floor as her own chambers. It was a room reserved for the most esteemed guests, nearly as opulent as the countess’s quarters.

Beatrice declared that she would sleep immediately and retreated to bed. Laura, taking her leave, mentioned she would be in the adjacent room and asked Beatrice to ring the bell if needed.

But tonight, Laura wouldn’t hear the bell. She would be in a sleep so deep it would be impossible.

* * *

The Buildrander Count’s manor was shrouded in silence as darkness fell. Though some staff likely worked into the early hours, not even the chirping of insects could be heard tonight.

It was as if every living creature within the manor, save for the humans, had cowered in fear, holding its breath.

The clear sky of the day, unmarred by a single cloud, had summoned dense, hazy storm clouds as soon as night blanketed the land. It was as though the heavens sought to obscure the moon from something lurking on the earth.

Only humans, long divorced from the natural world, failed to notice the oppressive dread hanging thick like mud.

Count Heliette Buildrander had not yet gone to bed. While not incompetent, he had a habit of procrastination. He delayed tasks until they piled up, tackling them only at the last moment before a deadline.

Though his eldest son, Gallet, had eased some of this burden by assisting with family matters, certain duties could only be handled by the head of the household. On such nights, Heliette often remained awake until the early hours.

It was typically the least experienced staff who tended to their master’s needs during these hours. Though not unskilled, they were the newest hires, as senior staff tended to avoid late-night duties. Thus, the midnight shifts naturally fell to the youngest and least established.

Tonight, Amanda was tasked with attending to Count Heliette. She waited in an antechamber adjoining his office, while Sir Mellot, the count’s guard, stood watch at the office door.

Sir Mellot blinked sleepily, struggling against the drowsiness that threatened to claim him. The corridor was utterly silent, save for his own breathing.

Tonight wasn’t even his usual shift. He had swapped with his fellow guard, Patryn, at the latter’s request. Patryn had claimed he needed to attend the debutante ball as his fiancée’s partner.

“Couldn’t you just attend the ball and return afterward?” Mellot had asked. Patryn, with a faint smile, replied, “After meeting my fiancée, do you expect me to simply dance and leave?” Mellot had no response to that.

It was his own fault for not having a fiancée even at his age. The oppressive silence of the hallway, broken only by his occasional sighs, amplified his fatigue. Mellot yawned, wide and unabashed.

At the tail end of his prolonged yawn, a sound cut through the quiet—footsteps. Slow, deliberate footsteps.

Mellot didn’t immediately tense. It was likely one of the staff doing their rounds. Who was on patrol duty tonight? Ah, yes, Lily. It must be Lily.

The guards were typically informed of which staff would be patrolling at night, so they could identify anyone acting suspiciously. Mellot glanced at the clock on the wall. It was just past two. The footsteps were slightly earlier than expected, but it wasn’t worth worrying about. Many staff preferred to complete their tasks quickly and return to rest, a mutual understanding among lower ranks.

He turned toward the direction of the sound, noticing what seemed to be a swaying skirt in the darkness. But was the maid’s uniform ever that white?

Squinting, Mellot peered at the silhouette. When the figure finally emerged from the shadows, it was not who he expected.

The gown, made of thin, gauzy white fabric, was unmistakably a nightdress. And the woman wearing it was not Lily, the low-ranking maid he’d anticipated.

Her hair was dark, blending with the shadows, but when light glanced off it, it seemed to shimmer faintly. Her yellow eyes gleamed, strikingly vivid even in the absence of moonlight. Her slender arms and the delicate, just-woken expression on her face made it clear who she was.

Mellot immediately recognized her as the young lady of the Ember Ducal Family.

The lady’s ethereal beauty was accentuated in the dim light, making her presence feel even more eerie. Did the lady suffer from sleepwalking?

“Young Lady Ember?” Mellot called out, his voice instinctively hushed. At the sound, her pale face turned toward him.

Her eyes were sharp and focused, disproving any notion of sleepwalking. She walked toward him with measured steps, the echo of her mismatched shoes audible in the stillness. Mellot looked down—she was wearing large, ill-fitting men’s shoes, the kind male servants typically wore. The stark contrast with her white nightgown made them stand out oddly.

“Young Lady…”

Mellot began, but he couldn’t finish. The young lady reached out and gently touched his face.

Her hands were smooth and clean, unlike those of a maid or commoner. Her cool touch felt like porcelain—perfect, flawless.

She was slightly shorter than him, and their gazes naturally aligned. Mellot felt his heart pound—hard and fast. It wasn’t nervous excitement from encountering a young woman at night; it was fear. But he realized this too late.

Before he could make sense of the dread pooling in his chest, his thoughts cut off abruptly.

In the desolate hallway, the dull thud of a body hitting the floor echoed.

* * *

Heliette Buildrander heard the sound of something slamming against the wall. It was the unmistakable noise of a heavy impact. He furrowed his brow in irritation.

Wasn’t Mellot assigned to tonight’s guard duty? A knight of commoner origins, Mellot’s skills were mediocre, but his straightforward nature made him easy to manage. No matter what depraved acts Heliette indulged in, whether bringing common men or women into his chambers at night, a few gold coins were enough to make Mellot feign ignorance, yawning away his complicity.

But men like Mellot were rarely competent workers. He was known for nodding off even during midday shifts, so expecting vigilance from him in the dead of night was laughable.

Already agitated from the mountain of unfinished work that needed to be completed by the day after tomorrow, Heliette decided to forgo summoning a maid to investigate. Instead, he rose from his seat with a scowl and strode briskly toward the door.

If that fool had tripped and fallen asleep, a sharp slap across the face would sort him out. Heliette dismissed the loudness of the noise, failing to consider it could have been anything other than a clumsy mishap.

Without hesitation, Heliette flung open the door to his office.

Through the gap, a pale, blood-soaked hand reached in. The claw-like grip latched onto his throat with terrifying precision.

Before he could react, the door slammed shut, sealing him and his fate within the suffocating darkness.

* * *

It was just past two in the morning when Lily walked through the silent halls of the manor, her path lit only by a faint lantern.

Before this night, she had received a letter from an unfamiliar sender. The address traced back to the capital’s post office, and the sender was simply signed as “Viche,” without a surname. Lily immediately realized who had sent it—the young lady of the Ember Ducal Family.

The letter contained simple instructions: prepare a pair of men’s shoes in an average size and ensure that her friends were on duty during the final night of the debutante ball.

The requests weren’t difficult. Though Lily had no idea what the young lady intended to do, fulfilling such small tasks wouldn’t draw suspicion. Night duties were typically assigned to lower-ranking staff anyway, so volunteering for the role wouldn’t raise eyebrows.

Lily and her colleagues discreetly arranged the night duty schedule, either adding their own names or persuading those assigned to swap shifts under the guise of personal matters.

Despite their preparations, unease lingered. They didn’t know what would happen tonight, but no one dared voice their fears. Perhaps, deep down, a strange anticipation clawed its way up their throats. It was an emotion they couldn’t ignore—a foolish hope, maybe even a longing for something unfulfilled.

After confirming that Florianne and the young lady had retired to bed, Lily placed a pair of men’s shoes outside the young lady’s door. The shoes had been stolen from Charlie, one of Heliette’s servants, who was loyal to the count and often assisted in his and Gallet’s despicable deeds for a price. Charlie even preyed on victims Gallet had driven out, compounding their misery.

As her lantern swayed with her steps, Lily made her way to the fifth floor, the floor assigned to her for patrol. It housed both Count Heliette’s quarters and his office.

The fourth floor, where Gallet’s room was located, was assigned to Amelie and Rose, while the third floor, which housed Florianne’s room, was under Samantha’s care.

Lily had already given them instructions to regroup on the fifth floor after their rounds. She couldn’t completely trust the young lady. Whatever was about to happen needed to be witnessed with their own eyes.

Reaching the fifth floor, Lily sensed something strange. A faint, unfamiliar smell lingered in the air.

What is that? she thought. It wasn’t a smell she recognized, but it was one she felt she should know. The lantern’s light flickered faintly in the hallway, and her pulse quickened. Her steps grew faster.

There was a crawling sensation in her gut—a feeling she recognized as ‘anticipation’.

Her hurried steps brought her to a fallen figure—Mellot, the count’s inept and corrupt guard, lay sprawled on the floor. The smell was coming from him: thick, heavy, and piercingly sharp.

It was the smell of blood.

As she cautiously shone her lantern toward him, she saw the half-collapsed shape of his head. A cry threatened to escape her throat, but she quickly clamped a hand over her mouth. Raising the lantern higher, she noticed blood splattered on the wall—a clear mark of where his head had been slammed against it.

It resembled the mark left by a bird crashing into a glass pane with full force, except this wasn’t a bird. It was a man’s head, and the imprint was far larger.

Mellot’s expression was eerily peaceful. It wasn’t a look of fear or surprise—just the face of someone who hadn’t understood what had happened to him.

The lantern quivered as Lily’s hands shook. Slowly, as if drawn by an invisible force, she turned away from the body and looked toward the count’s office door. It was firmly shut. She had the distinct feeling she wouldn’t need to knock.

Lily opened the door.

Inside, Amanda knelt by the door, hands clasped as if in prayer. Her expression teetered between terror and reverence as she gazed up at the woman standing before her.

Amanda looked like a worshiper overcome by awe, or perhaps just someone petrified by fear. Lily followed her gaze to the figure Amanda stared at.

The scene before her was surreal, almost unreal. The young lady stood by the table, her pristine white nightgown stained with blood.

Count Heliette was slumped over the large table in front of the sofa, his body resembling a broken doll. He was still alive, barely. The cravat that once adorned his neck had been shoved deep into his throat, leaving him wheezing painfully for air.

His limbs bent at grotesque angles, no longer resembling anything human. Something pale and jagged jutted out through his skin and clothes—his bones, Lily realized with a shudder.

The count’s face, arms, and legs were drenched in blood. Black handprints circled his neck, a stark contrast against his ashen skin. Nothing about the scene felt real.

Standing calmly by the table, the young lady let her blood-soaked hands dangle loosely at her sides.

“You’re here,” she said, her voice smooth and soft, like velvet in the dead of winter.

Lily froze. Beatrice turned her gaze to the open door and slowly blinked, tilting her head.

“When will the others arrive?” she asked.

She was waiting for those who shared a grudge against the count to gather. Waiting for her audience to witness what came next.

* * *

Amanda kept her head bowed, standing by the door. She had adjusted her schedule, as Lily had instructed, to serve the count during the early hours. Yet tonight, like every other, had been uneventful.

The manor was quiet, the kind of silence that seemed to press down on her as the debutante’s final night stretched on. Despite the young lady’s presence at the manor—raising hopes that something might finally happen—the night had passed without incident.

Her briefly swelling anticipation fell like a drenched cloth, heavy and limp. Of course, she had foolishly hoped again. But in the end, all they had left was each other.

Lost in her thoughts, Amanda froze at the sound of a dull ‘thud’. She bolted upright, her heart pounding loudly, echoing the sound she had just heard.

The count’s voice did not call for her. For several minutes, Amanda stood frozen in place before cautiously opening the antechamber door and stepping into the count’s office.

What she saw was beyond anything she could have imagined.

A tall, slender woman stood before her, holding the count by his neck, lifting him into the air with one hand.

‘Is this a dream?’ Amanda wanted to slap herself to wake up. But Beatrice, seemingly unaware of Amanda’s disbelief, moved her hand with cold precision, as though simply completing a task.

With only her bare hands, Beatrice snapped the count’s limbs. The sound of bone twisting in impossible directions was sickening: ‘crack, snap, creak.’ The count’s attempts to scream were cut short by the grip tightening around his throat, leaving only choked gurgles.

She twisted his arms and legs as easily as snapping twigs, her movements deliberate and unhurried. The torn flesh around his knee revealed glimpses of bone.

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