Chapter 19: How a Mercenary Acts Like a Duchess (2)
Regina continued to look at Valentin, who was staring at something only he could see.
Did he just confirm a hallucination? she wondered.
“Why? Are you scared?” he asked, stepping through the doorway with a mocking tone.
“There was a little boy next to that maid,” Valentin said. “His body was rotting. He clung to her skirts, crying, ‘Please, save me.’”
It was a cruel thought, but Valentin was curious—wondering if the fearless mercenary might tremble at something unknown.
“A strong mercenary—aren’t you curious what might follow her? You must have killed people with that sword,” he said, his cane tapping against the marble floor. Yet she still hadn’t sensed him approaching.
Then, the chill scent of dawn nearby filled the air. Regina realised she’d been distracted by his scent, which only came close.
“I don’t catch ghosts,” she replied calmly, though her face showed some discomfort. That made Valentin laugh.
Just days ago, she’d overheard the maid complaining about her ailing brother—how dead he’d felt when he died. It fell on deaf ears. The guilt of a snooping servant was irrelevant to Regina.
“Should I fetch your medicine?” she offered, noticing his pale, sleepless face.
He shook his head firmly.
“I don’t need it. Sleep aids are useless. It’s too noisy for me to sleep.”
His hallucinations and voices were persistent. Hidden under messy bangs, he watched her carefully—no sign of fear.
The thought that he wasn’t afraid disappointed her. Her strong mercenary act fell flat.
So sleep aids really don’t help him.
“Don’t worry,” she said softly. “I’ll protect you here.”
“Can you rescue me from nightmares too?” Valentin asked playfully. Even false visions terrify him. He dreamed of solitary warehouses—screaming, only hearing his echo.
His nightmares were plain yet chaotic, peaceful yet clattering, and impossible in nature. The helpless child inside him suffered.
“That’s… hard,” Regina admitted. Should she fetch Allan or wake him during a nightmare?
“Well then, can you put me to sleep?” he teased.
“I only know how to knock people out,” she replied. “If that’s okay…”
A low, distant laugh echoed in the darkness. Of course, that wouldn’t be okay.
Regina realised how foolish her question was and decided to find Allan instead.
“Do whatever you want with your sleep. Go inside and rest,” she said firmly.
Like a child with a new toy, Valentin backed away. Regina thought, He’s more mercurial than I thought.
Now, I can use his insomnia to keep everyone off balance.
Regina massaged her tired eyes and returned to her room. That night, fewer sneaking servants reached her door. Rumour had spread: the mad duke brought ghosts into the corridors—and even the duchess terrified them more than any spirit.
Absurd rumours—but Regina didn’t mind. She slept better knowing her wards were left in peace.
It was just after dawn—too early for the roosters, yet two young maids were already dressed in uniform, pouting.
“She overstepped even with her letter from the Renzière Countess,” one grumbled.
“She’s acting like the real lady of the house,” the other agreed.
They muttered while organising Lady Finette’s closet, weary of her constant errands, insults, and forced tributes. Even her cutbacks on food costs and late-night demands wore them down.
Still, they endured: the maid with the Renzière endorsement was more powerful than their mercenary duchess.
“Jane got tendonitis from rubbing her shoulders all night for Finette,” one whispered.
“My cousin’s a shoeshine boy for Renzière—they say Finette’s poor. Her husband cared for horses’ manure, and he’s sick from alcohol.”
They exchanged low voices, gossiping:
“Oh please. She’s using the castle’s things secondhand, and we pay for it.”
“So shameless—there’s no reason someone poor should lord over us.”
“Plus she treats herself like nobility.”
They chuckled until a cough in the doorway silenced them.
Then the door opened—it wasn’t Finette, but Jane. The girls sighed in relief.
“Who wanted to come here?” Jane snapped, rubbing her eyes.
“I was up with Lady Bayman all night, and they called me here again,” she replied.
“Yeah, they want us to clean again.”
Jane nearly burst into tears—they’d spilt water on Finette’s shoes and been scolded.
She joined them in organising the desk and floor crevices—then found a hidden scrap of paper.
What was it?
Scrawled lines reflected Finette’s thoughts:
“Good. I’ll make the mercenary regret entering the castle. As for laundry—I’ll ruin her room.”
Jane realised with horror: this was more than a diary—it was cruelty. Finette was ruthless indeed.
“Have you finished cleaning?” Finette burst in, and Jane hid the note.
“Fill all the big wooden buckets in the courtyard with water,” Finette ordered.
They’d already started early—now another chore.
“Why water there?”
“For laundry, you fool!”
“But we have so much to do today.”
“You lower classes are so undisciplined since the duchess entered!” Finette grabbed a maid’s head roughly.
“Do as I say, now!” she yelled. “Jane, you too! You worm! Don’t you dare eat breakfast!”
Scared of losing her job, Jane followed without revealing what she’d found.
Dawn was Regina’s time too. She woke early and trained with her sword before washing. But today she froze at the busy fountain: mounds of water buckets.
One small maid—around age fifteen—sobbed, hunched over the buckets. The other maids comforted her.
“Oh, my wrist… it hurts so bad,” the girl cried.
“Jane, rest a bit. It will help,” one soothed.
“But the pump’s stiff—and I feel guilty sitting here.”
“They’re cruel—only those with the least tribute suffer early,” another added.
Regina leaned against a wooden beam, listening. She realised Finette was demanding tribute from the maids, favouring some over others.
They must be part of her spy network.
She remembered how they watched her with those sly eyes.
