Chapter 57
Angela’s unexpected compassion, juxtaposed with the sharp edge of her words, was like staring into a mirror.
How could anyone not see the resemblance?
Rita mulled this over as she left Dominic’s study, her efforts amounting to nothing.
For a mere maid, this was as far as she could go.
If Mary had been here, would she have found some other way to help?
But Mary was gone from this manor now. Angela had only Rita left to stand by her side.
And yet, this feeble attempt had ended in failure, leaving everything unresolved.
With a heavy heart, Rita crossed the hallway to return to her duties.
Her steps were brisk, the soles of her shoes tapping swiftly against the floor.
She felt an urgent need to throw herself into work, as if staying busy was the only way to keep her thoughts at bay. If she didn’t…
Rita quickened her pace, rubbing her eyes fiercely with her sleeve.
Her eyelids burned red, raw from the friction.
It was only because she’d rubbed them so hard—yes, that was it.
That was the only reason they were so red. Rita refused to entertain any other explanation.
“Angela.”
The voice calling her name stirred Angela from the haze of sleep.
Her eyes fluttered open. Kalian… It was unmistakably Kalian’s voice.
She knew it instinctively. Only Kalian’s voice could ripple through her heart like a stone tossed into a still lake, stirring waves within her.
Her gaze settled on Kalian, who held her hand as if in prayer, whispering her name with fervent devotion.
Angela wanted to let him know she was awake, to call out “Kalian” in return.
She imagined the startled look on his face as he lifted his head, perhaps even stealing a kiss in that fleeting moment.
But before she could speak, a tear-streaked face rose before her.
It wasn’t Kalian. A familiar yet unfamiliar hand brushed her cheek.
It was Dominic. Not the Dominic of now, but a younger Dominic, from years past.
And the name on his lips wasn’t hers.
“Wendy…”
Oh, Wendy—the lover lost to Grace’s curse in Dominic’s youth.
He gazed down at Angela, but it was Wendy’s name he murmured.
“Don’t leave me… Open your eyes… Please, stay with me…”
His trembling voice was raw with desperation.
Angela stared, captivated by the sight of Dominic, a man she never imagined could cry.
It was strange to see him so undone.
Her chest ached as she watched.
This was the man who’d pushed her toward death, yet her heart stirred with an odd pity.
Even as she’d swallowed poison, she’d hoped he hadn’t known.
Her eyes lingered on his streaming tears. Without thinking, Angela’s fingertips twitched, reaching to wipe them away.
But the moment her hand moved, the world around her warped, like paint dissolving in water, and everything vanished before her eyes.
Angela blinked, her heart hollow.
How long had she lingered in that void? When her senses returned, she found herself in an unfamiliar scene.
Bodies lay scattered across the ground, blood pooling beneath them, lifeless and cold.
“Little one… Little one, where are you?”
A woman stumbled through the carnage, her voice breaking.
“My little one…”
It was Yvonne, young and ravaged by despair, sifting through the corpses in search of her child.
Her face was drenched with tears, her bare feet torn and bleeding.
Angela’s eyes darted around. She wanted to find Yvonne’s child for her.
Where could they be? Was her Kalian hiding somewhere, breaking Yvonne’s heart with his absence?
As Angela moved toward the pile of bodies, her hand brushed against one.
The world blurred again, collapsing into nothingness.
Another scene unfolded immediately. Where was this place?
She couldn’t tell, but the sound of anguished sobs filled the air.
Angela scanned her surroundings.
There, clutching his dark hair, was a crying child.
She recognized him at once—young Kalian.
His hands were stained with blood, crusted red.
A knife, plunged into the ground beside him, bore vivid traces of blood.
Tristan’s story came to mind—the day he’d first taken a life and wept uncontrollably. This must be that moment.
Don’t cry. Thank you for surviving, for finding your way to me.
Angela longed to comfort him, reaching out to stroke Kalian’s hair.
But just as her hand neared, the world plunged into darkness.
She found herself crouched in a pitch-black void, hugging her knees to her chest.
If only she could touch something, anything, to shatter this darkness.
But in the suffocating black, there was nothing for Angela to grasp. She was utterly alone.
Then, a sliver of light pierced the gloom, as if a tightly shut door had cracked open.
Faint though it was, Angela’s heart surged with gratitude for that small glow.
Rising from her crouch, she began to follow the light, floating weightlessly. She realized this was the same light that always appeared in her dreams.
Instead of raging or resisting, Angela surrendered, trailing obediently behind it.
It felt right. If she lost that light, the darkness would swallow her again.
So she kept walking, unsure of her destination but unwilling to stop.
After what felt like an eternity, she came upon a woman’s silhouette.
The woman gazed into a mirror, her slender fingers tracing its surface.
Suddenly, her hand seized a cascade of hair that fell to her waist, gripping it with such force it seemed she might tear it out. The hair was golden.
Moments later, the woman’s hand fell limply.
She stared into the mirror again, studying her reflection with an intensity that stretched on endlessly—or so it seemed to Angela, who had lost all sense of time.
“Disgusting.”
The woman’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and venomous.
Angela’s hand flew to her mouth. She realized with a jolt that the silhouette was her own.
“Horrible. You demon. Everyone hates you. A wretched blonde like you should just die.”
Watching herself spew venom at her own reflection, Angela felt a chill crawl over her skin.
No one loves you.
Who could love someone as vile as you?
Every day, I heard prayers. Punish that wretched blonde girl, please. Please. Please.
The words the light had once spoken now poured from her own mouth.
No. It’s a lie. This is all an illusion.
Crash!
As Angela recoiled in disbelief, the other Angela struck the mirror, shattering it.
Her reflection splintered into countless fragments, each shard trapping a piece of her.
Staring at the broken glass, Angela recalled replacing her bedroom mirror with a new one just before the light began visiting her dreams.
Panic seized her. She turned and ran, sprinting blindly forward, terrified that the version of herself who couldn’t even love her own heart might chase her down.
The light stopped her. No longer radiant, it flickered feebly, as if a single breath could snuff it out.
“You’re so eager to ease others’ pain, yet you flee from your own? Foolish Angela, that won’t do.”
The light’s frail voice made Angela realize she’d never reached out to herself.
She hadn’t known. She’d only wanted to avoid her own weakness, to turn away from it.
“I can’t watch over you anymore… I can’t guide you… Can our Angela find her way alone?”
The light spoke in riddles again. Angela wanted to ask where she was supposed to go. She took a step toward the light.
But in that instant, it tore apart, its faint glow swallowed by the darkness. Stunned, Angela stared into the void, her jaw trembling.
It was in that moment.
The darkness split apart, and a hand shot out, seizing Angela’s throat.
The grip wasn’t crushing, but Angela, caught off guard, stood frozen, unable to muster any defense.
“These damned angel spawn.”
A voice, elegant yet sharp as a honed blade.
“To think you’d go so far to keep a mother from her daughter.”
Golden hair, identical to Angela’s own.
“Ahh, at last we meet. I’ve missed you, my darling.”
Emerald eyes curved with a radiant smile.
“…Grace.”
“Oh, dear. You should call me Mother, Angela.”
It was Grace.
Dead, wasn’t she? Dead and gone to hell, and now here they were, meeting like this?
“Grace!”
Angela swatted away the hand clutching her throat and lunged at Grace.
She knocked her backward, pinning her to the ground and straddling her.
For the first time in her life, Angela held the upper hand.
She raised both hands and wrapped them around Grace’s neck.
“Kgh.”
Grace let out a faint, mocking chuckle, despite the gravity of the moment. Her eyes, identical to Angela’s, gazed up at her.
“You need to put some strength into it. What’s the point of just holding on like that?”
Grace placed her hands over Angela’s and squeezed tightly.
“This is how you cause pain. Understand, dear?”
Her voice came out choked, her eyes bulging and bloodshot.
Angela saw the veins throbbing in Grace’s forehead, swollen as if they might burst.
Unable to bear it, she released her grip and stumbled back.
“You’re a demon.”
Angela ground out the words through clenched teeth.
Grace, brushing off her dress with crisp, deliberate motions as if she hadn’t just been rolling in a pit of dust, gave a bright, cheerful smile.
“Words like that don’t sting a true demon, my dear.”
As she spoke, Angela’s body was suddenly yanked backward.
She tried to move, but something held her fast, like vines wrapping around her limbs.
After a few defiant struggles, Angela glared at Grace.
“That trembling, terrified little girl started giving me such wicked looks one day.”
Angela knew exactly which day Grace meant. The day she’d cut Beatrice’s hair.
The day she’d resolved never to be a victim again.
Come to think of it, Grace had grown strangely frail after that.
Her venomous words hadn’t changed, but she’d wasted away—no longer strong enough to shove Angela into closets.
She’d become a gaunt shadow of herself.
Seizing the chance, Angela had driven out Grace’s loyal maids one by one, replacing them with unsuspecting newcomers.
She’d worked tirelessly until Bilton Manor was finally under her control.
You made me miserable, so you don’t get to be happy. You’ll be miserable forever.
If you ever feel even a moment of happiness, another misery will come for you. Remember that. You’ll always be miserable.
Grace had spat those curses at Angela day after day, but that was all she could do. She had no strength left.
All she could manage was to lie there, breathing in and out.
And then she died.
“I didn’t die.”
Grace’s voice cut through Angela’s thoughts, as if she’d read her mind.
When Angela scowled, Grace reached out and stroked her cheek with the back of her hand.
“Where should we start? Shall I tell you how I tore the flesh from beasts, drank their blood, and became a demon, my darling?”
Whenever Grace saw an insect, she wanted to slice it in half.
She wanted to snap the legs of four-footed beasts, one by one.
Winged creatures were no different—she longed to break both wings and watch them crawl.
She imagined beheading the servants who groveled before her.
Those who begged for mercy, she wanted to betray. Those who bared their malice, she wanted to hack to pieces.
Grace’s cruelty wasn’t something that sprang up suddenly or was honed by experience.
It was simply her nature. She was born that way.
And that Grace, of all people, was born the daughter of the Dawson Duchy.
One day, she found an ancient book in the family’s secret archive, and that was where all the trouble began.
Well, isn’t this interesting.
A forbidden text, sealed away by the Dawson family, named the Book of Evil. It contained spells that should never have seen the light of day.
Commanding a few beasts or toying with the weather was child’s play.
There were dozens of spells to harm people, and just as many to bring about death.
And there, plain as day, was a spell promising the power of a demon to rule the world. That book fell into Grace’s hands.
