Chapter 56
In the study, after the knight had departed, Dominic set down the pen he had been holding. He had told her slowly to fade away, but he hadn’t expected her to go all at once like this.
Yet even after hearing of her death, no particular ripple of emotion stirred within Dominic. What kind of emotional turmoil could there be when he himself had pressed the poison into her hand and commanded her to eat and die? He merely thought, She’s dead, then. She died a little sooner than expected.
The maid who had come to report the death, and even the knight who had just left his study moments ago—it was plain to see that they were both straining to detect even the slightest trace of sorrow on his face.
But how could they find tears where there was no grief to begin with?
What Dominic felt instead of sorrow was a certain sense of satisfaction. Had they been searching for signs of ecstasy, they would have quickly noticed the quiet contentment spreading across his features.
At last, he had succeeded in severing Grace and that wicked bloodline of hers from the world. He had erased them completely.
There was only one regret. That the child had gone before reaching twenty-four. On the day Wendy had died at twenty-four, he had wished for her to depart without living to see that age, just like Wendy.
That was all. Beyond that, Dominic harbored no other regrets. Now, it seemed, he would no longer dream of Grace tearing Wendy to pieces.
It was then. The door flew open without warning. At the sharp bang of it swinging wide, Dominic’s gaze instinctively turned toward it.
His wife, Yvonne, was entering. Her face was flushed with fury. She strode right up to his desk and glared down at Dominic.
“Is it true that you told them to let the Count of Florence go?”
The voice that burst from her, laced with traces of tears, was thick with agitation.
“Yes.”
At his curt reply, Yvonne slammed both hands down on the desk with a resounding thud. It was a raw outburst of anger, rare to see from her.
Dominic frowned slightly as he looked up at her. His eyes asked plainly, What do you think you’re doing?
“The Count of Florence took your daughter by force. And you told them to just let it go?”
In truth, Yvonne was in no position to say such things. After all, she was the one who had cleared the way when Kalian had tried to take Angela and flee the Bilton estate.
She had dismissed the servants around them and helped Kalian spirit Angela safely out of the Bilton mansion. She had thought it was the better choice.
It didn’t matter that Kalian didn’t see Angela as a corpse. If he wanted to cling to her forever, that was fine. Angela probably wished to be held by him just as much. And so she had acted accordingly.
But no matter what she had done, it was unbearable to receive such cold indifference from Dominic in return. For some reason, a surge of rage kept welling up from deep in her chest.
“I told you she wasn’t my daughter.”
Yet no matter what emotions Yvonne brought with her into the room, Dominic’s demeanor didn’t change in the slightest.
He countered her words with cool, measured calm—as if there were no issue at all with the current situation. It was clear he believed every action he took was utterly justified.
Like a taut thread snapping, Yvonne suddenly lost the will to fight back. She realized that no amount of screaming or venting would make this heartless man understand.
Pity overwhelmed her for Angela. She truly grasped now that there wasn’t a single soul in this mansion who was on Angela’s side.
Ah, one child. A very young maid had been the only one in her corner, but Yvonne herself had ensured she couldn’t stay by her side.
In the end, it had been right to send her to Kalian. If she had held the funeral here, Angela wouldn’t have received a proper farewell. Better for her to rot away in Kalian’s arms—that would surely bring Angela some measure of happiness.
* * *
Today, too, Kalian stared blankly at Angela. Rumors were already swirling through Bildiem that the lord had lost his mind.
Two days ago, a messenger from the imperial palace had come to summon him. But Kalian hadn’t so much as considered returning to the capital; he remained holed up in his chambers. It was as if he couldn’t hear a thing.
That said, those inside Bildiem Castle no longer thought of Kalian as mad.
It had been over a week since he had begun cradling the corpse in his room. By all rights, decomposition should have set in long ago. And yet the body of the woman he stroked and kissed each day remained pristine, unchanged from the start.
At this point, even the castle folk began to think, just as Kalian said, that she was merely asleep. There was no other explanation.
Her face was so pale, she wasn’t even breathing, and multiple physicians had come and gone, all confirming her death—how else could the body stay so intact? It was inexplicable.
Even the physicians couldn’t offer a reason for it. It only seemed natural that Kalian distrusted them.
If anything, he was the one providing a clear answer, without hesitation: because Angela was alive.
The castle servants wanted to believe in their master’s conviction. They, too, hoped that this strange, undecaying corpse would one day open its eyes.
“Angela.”
His voice calling her name was so heartbreaking.
“Angela.”
His voice calling her name was so tender.
“Angela.”
His voice calling her name went on and on.
The people of Bildiem Castle hoped and hoped again.
* * *
Rita was enduring the most anxious and restless time since entering the Bilton mansion. A sharp, stabbing pain kept pricking at her stomach.
Still, she wanted to keep her mouth shut. She didn’t want to let the words inside spill out, even if she had to sew her lips together. But she had reached her limit. As the stabbing pain migrated from her belly to her heart, she could bear it no longer.
In the end, Rita made her way to the master’s study.
Though Dominic was the lord of the house, he was rarely seen around the Bilton mansion, making him a stranger even to Rita, who had served there for so long.
That only heightened her fear. What if she spoke out of turn and he tore out her tongue on the spot? Worry gripped her ankles, holding her back. But even so, she could no longer deceive her conscience.
It had been the day Angela closed her eyes. Angela had seemed desperately urgent about something. She had limped down the corridor in hurried, anxious steps. Rita had followed quietly behind, thinking she might need help.
The place Angela headed to was the room of Grace, the mansion’s former lady of the house. Rita couldn’t bring herself to follow all the way inside; she leaned against a nearby pillar instead.
She considered turning back, but she was too worried. Angela had become that kind of person to her. Ever since she learned of the abuse Angela had endured since childhood.
Rita couldn’t shake the thought that by returning the necklace Angela had given her intact, she had at least offered a small solace to her lonely life in this mansion.
So Rita decided to wait until Angela came out. She could just see her emerge unscathed and return safely to her room, then go back to her duties.
Angela didn’t take as long as expected to open the door and step out of Grace’s room. But unlike when she had gone in, her condition had worsened noticeably.
Of course, her face had already been twisted in distress when she entered, but this was on another level. She looked like a beast caught in a noose, its throat tightening. Her face was ashen, as if she couldn’t draw a single breath with each step.
Fearing Angela might collapse, Rita hurried after her. She followed that receding back—those long strides despite the injured leg—with careful but swift steps.
It was then. Something lay fallen where Angela had just passed. A scrap of paper.
Rita gazed anxiously at Angela’s fading figure as she hastily picked it up. She hadn’t meant to read it, but her eyes were drawn to it anyway. And then Rita could no longer move a muscle.
‘…….’
As Rita stood there, rigid and frozen, a hand suddenly appeared out of nowhere and snatched the scrap of paper from her grasp. Rita gasped in horror, drawing in a sharp, ragged breath.
When she looked up, Angela had returned without a sound and was staring straight at her. Rita managed a stiff bow, barely daring to breathe.
“You know how to read?”
Angela’s gaze flicked back and forth between Rita and the paper before she spoke. Rita shook her head, striving to make it look as natural as possible. She poured out her excuses in a rush.
“Oh, no. I was too poor to learn. Children from poor families almost never do. Even my parents— they can only speak, not read or write.”
Angela glanced once more from Rita to the paper, then turned away abruptly, leaving behind a murmur so soft it was almost lost to the air.
“Well. That spares us the trouble of cutting out your tongue.”
The words were cruel, yet strangely devoid of venom. Rita couldn’t tear her eyes from Angela’s retreating back, staring blankly after her.
It felt like a warning, what Angela had just given her. As if to say: even if you did read it, keep your mouth shut if you don’t want your tongue sliced off.
But it wasn’t just about Angela doing the cutting, or so it seemed. The words might have been meant for moments like this one, too—foreseeing them.
Rita knocked on the door of Dominic’s study, running the tip of her tongue lightly over the soft spot beneath her front teeth. This might be the last time she could. With that grim resolve, Rita waited for Dominic’s permission to enter.
And at last, the voice from inside granted it.
* * *
Faced with Dominic, Rita found no words would come. The weight of the atmosphere crushed her. The moment her eyes met the master’s crimson irises, her breath caught in her throat, sharp and unyielding. Her neck kept wanting to bow toward the floor.
“A mere maid demands an audience with her master—there must be good reason for that. Something about Angela, was it? Speak, then.”
His tone was even, devoid of highs or lows, utterly ordinary. Yet in that instant, Rita was starkly reminded that her master was a man who wielded a sword. A pen lay in his hand now, not a blade, but even that seemed poised to become the instrument of her tongue’s severing at any moment.
Still, Rita held firm. It was Angela’s death that moved her to such pity. If only Angela had lived—if she’d simply gone on walking whole and unharmed right before Rita’s eyes—Rita never would have dreamed of offering up her own tongue like this.
But Angela was gone. Likely because of the secret Rita herself had glimpsed. And so Rita couldn’t simply seal her lips and stay silent. Clutching the hem of her skirt in her fist, she forced her mouth open.
“Master.”
The word burst out trembling, vibrating with the raw tension coiling inside her. It was the voice of a woman teetering on the edge.
The summoned Dominic said nothing more. His eyes were cold, but unexpectedly, he showed patience, waiting for his maid to find her words. Rita swallowed hard and tried again.
“Miss Angela… she is your true daughter.”
The confession clawed its way out at last. And yet—why was there no response? Dominic was too still, too silent.
A heavy quiet stretched between them for a moment before Dominic suddenly let out a bark of laughter—puh-hat.
Rita, startled by the raw, unrestrained sound of her master’s mirth—something she’d never heard before—stole a glance at him. His mouth was wide open, and he was laughing heartily, as if it were the funniest thing in the world.
Confusion swirled through Rita. She hadn’t said anything amusing. Why on earth was he laughing like that?
Only after his next words did she realize it stemmed from utter disbelief.
“I haven’t the faintest how you came by that tale, but what nonsense you’re spouting. How many lives do you think you have?”
“Master… I mean, the previous master left a note. I saw it. It clearly said Miss Angela was your true daughter.”
“Then where is that note? Fetch it for me.”
“It… it’s… Miss Angela had it. She definitely did…”
But if Angela had chosen death without breathing a word of it to anyone, then surely she’d destroyed the note herself. There was no evidence left.
Rita’s eyes were the only witness now, but she had no idea how to make anyone believe her—how to convince them. She could only tremble.
“That child is my daughter?”
Ha-ha-ha—the laughter crashed against Rita’s ears like thunder.
“You’ve given me a good laugh, so I’ll let this one slide. But don’t you dare let such drivel pass your lips again. Not if you value that three-inch tongue of yours.”
