“Did you seek Duke Diponz’s adopted daughter? My goodness. I was so shocked!”
“So it wasn’t just me? How can she have the exact same hair and eye color as Lady Claire? They look different, but when they stood side by side, I got chills!”
It was an awkward situation to walk into. Feeling uneasy about eavesdropping, she was about to close the door again when the next words sliced through her like a blade.
“I heard from the duchess that the adopted daughter was taken in from an orphanage because her frail daughter was lonely and wanted a friend her age.”
“Oh my! So she’s not even a distant relative? Then why hadn’t we seen her around the mansion before?”
“At first, everything was fine, but as Lady Claire began to regain her strength and came out of her bedroom more often, the adopted girl started getting jealous, thinking her love was being taken away. She vented her anger on the maids and servants, beating them and driving them away.”
Shailoh drew a sharp breath and gripped the doorknob so tightly that her knuckles blanched. It was the same false accusation from two years ago. She recalled the day she had fled the mansion in haste without properly explaining herself.
No one had taken her side that day. No matter how she tried to defend herself, it would have been seen as a lie, and Claire would have found a way to send her far away. For her, at eighteen, leaving the mansion was the best option. And now, the best choice was to shed the name and status associated with ‘Diponz.’
It’s probably for the best. If I stayed in this noble society, I’d keep hearing things like that. It’s only strengthened my resolve.
Grinding her teeth, Shailoh calmed herself and flung the door open. The women, engrossed in their conversation, hadn’t noticed her presence.
“My goodness. Did she really do such terrible things? They took in a beggar from the streets, and instead of being grateful, she acted like that! You just can’t trust an orphan with unknown origins.”
“Exactly, Madam. No matter how much a fake resembles the real one, there’s always a difference in class.”
“That’s why she’s called the ‘fake lady.'”
At those final words, Shailoh could no longer contain herself and slammed the door shut.
“Eek!”
The startled women glanced away from Shailoh as if avoiding a pest. Shailoh swallowed a bitter smile at their reaction.
“Sorry to interrupt your conversation. I wasn’t feeling well and came in to rest for a moment. I didn’t realize there were guests here.”
“N-No. It’s fine. Hoho. This is your home, Lady Shailoh, so you can enter anywhere you like.”
“We were just about to return to the party anyway. Please, make yourself comfortable.”
“Yes, indeed. We’ll be on our way.”
As soon as Shailoh spoke, the women responded one by one, as if on cue, and quickly filed out of the room like a receding tide. Left alone, Shailoh sank onto the couch.
“A fake lady…”
Orphan. Beggar from the streets. A fake. Those words pierced deeper than any other.
Memories of the days she had desperately learned the manners and etiquette of a noblewoman before Claire arrived flashed before her eyes like a lantern slide. The poetry, piano, dance, foreign languages, and other social skills she had learned at the baroness’s estate.
“What was all that effort for? I could never be the real thing anyway…”
A crushing sense of self-reproach weighed down her shoulders and head as if she could sink into the ground. The chilly air of late winter and early spring brushed coldly against her neck and behind her ears through the slightly open window. She was staring at the fire blazing in the hearth when she absentmindedly picked up the poker.
She heard the sound of two sets of footsteps approaching from the hallway. Not wanting to endure more harsh words and stares, Shailoh hid behind the couch, fearing someone might enter the room at any moment.
“There’s no one here.”
The sound of the door locking was followed by a familiar voice that pierced her ears. It was her brother, Evan. Ever since her return, he had only said he was glad to see her again and then turned away, the cold-hearted duke’s son.
“Perfect timing. Let’s get straight to the point.”
Shailoh peered out at the sound of that oily, slick voice, observing the man who had entered with Evan. He was older, his form betraying the excesses of a life of indulgence—a sagging belly, triple chin, face marred by acne, and a sallow complexion that spoke of poor health. After a moment’s reflection, his identity surfaced in her memory. The Grid merchant guild leader.
Doris’s warning echoed in her mind.
“That’s impossible! The Grid Merchant Guild Leader is a commoner over fifty years old, and there are terrible whispers that his former wife took her own life due to his cruelty. No matter what, you’re the duke’s daughter. There must be some mistake.”
He was the very man who had once sought to claim her. The moment she beheld his countenance, she knew with certainty he was the one Doris had spoken of. How peculiar that he should appear here when she had sought refuge with the Kildare family and the proposed marriage had come to naught. Holding her breath, Shailoh watched the scene unfold before her with mounting dread.
“Lord Evan,” the man began, his voice thick with resentment, “when do you intend to honor our agreement? The previous slight has not escaped my memory! I have waited with great patience, not demanding the return of the substantial bride price, clinging to the hope that you would unite me with Lady Claire. Yet I find myself ignored even after extending my greetings!”
“Your concerns are unwarranted,” Evan replied smoothly. “Claire holds deep gratitude for your generosity in pardoning Shailoh’s transgressions. She has indeed consented to the marriage with you.”
Bride price? Claire?
Evan’s words caused Shailoh’s eyes to widen in horrified comprehension. The true purpose behind Claire and the duchess summoning her back became painfully clear. The debutante ball was merely a façade, concealing their true intentions—to accomplish what they had failed to do before. They meant to sell her to the Grid merchant guild leader, just as they had attempted previously.
Her vision clouded, and suddenly, the air seemed too thin to breathe. Fearing she might cry out involuntarily, Shailoh instinctively pressed her hands against her mouth, stifling any sound that might betray her presence.
“Is that… truly so?” the guild leader asked, his tone softening with satisfaction.
Appeased by Evan’s assurances, he settled his corpulent frame onto the very couch behind which Shailoh concealed herself.
“How gratifying to hear it. This union shall prove most advantageous to both our houses. Consider the immense influence that shall arise when my considerable wealth augments the duke’s enterprises.”
“Indeed,” Evan replied.
With a bright smile that did not reach his eyes, Evan presented a champagne glass to the guild leader and proposed a toast.
“To the prosperity of the Grid Merchant Guild and the Diponz Ducal family.”
“To our mutual benefit,” the guild leader responded.
With these brief words, both men raised their glasses and drank. What followed occurred with such swiftness that Shailoh scarcely comprehended it.
“Ugh… cough!” The guild leader doubled over suddenly, hacking violently into his palm. “L-Lord…!” His hand came away stained crimson with blood. His face, contorted with horror, turned toward Evan, who regarded him with cool detachment. “What manner of treachery is this…”
“The poison works with admirable efficiency,” Evan observed dispassionately.
“…What?”
The guild leader stared at Evan in disbelief, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Evan, seemingly oblivious to Shailoh’s horrified gaze from behind the couch, continued in a hushed tone.
“How dare a lowborn commoner such as yourself presume to possess Claire? The very notion is preposterous.”
“You… you bastard!” the guild leader snarled. He lunged forward, his fingers grasping at empty air before his substantial form crumpled to the floor.
Evan looked down upon him as one might regard vermin, nudging the man’s protruding belly with the toe of his polished boot. “You cannot fathom the depth of Claire’s revulsion for that flabby paunch of yours. I was prepared to offer you Shailoh, as we had previously discussed, but you refused, declaring you would not accept a mere fake who had spurned you out of misplaced pride. Thus, my options were limited.”
“This… treachery… shall not go… unpunished… cough!” The guild leader’s neck veins bulged grotesquely as he grimaced and expelled more blood.
“Your concerns are unfounded,” Evan replied with chilling nonchalance. “You shall appear to have fallen from the balcony in a drunken stupor. Your remains will be so disfigured that identification shall rely solely upon your porcine physique.”
“You… damnable… fiend!”
Evan regarded the guild leader, who thrashed about like a worm upon a hook, with undisguised contempt before stepping outside to summon a servant to assist with the disposal. As the door closed, Shailoh, pale as death itself, emerged from her hiding place and found herself meeting the dying man’s desperate gaze.
“You… it is you,” he rasped.
The guild leader, dragging himself across the rich carpet, broke the terrible silence first. Shailoh, confronted with the bloodless visage of the dying man, managed a tremulous response.
“A-Are you okay?” Her thoughts whirled in chaotic disarray like a skein of thread hopelessly entangled.
Evan had poisoned the guild leader! The horrific truth branded itself upon her consciousness with vivid clarity, seeming almost too monstrous to be real.
“I shall summon assistance immediately…”
“Wait.” The guild leader struggled to rise, his bloodshot eyes fixed upon Shailoh with desperate intensity. His voice emerged as little more than a death rattle, each word purchased with terrible effort. “Si… Sigurd Plateau… west, white…” A violent cough wracked his frame, sending crimson droplets spattering across the rich carpet. “…rock.”
The cryptic message hung in the air between them like a specter.
Shailoh’s brow furrowed in confusion, her lips parting to question his meaning when a terrible transformation overtook the dying man. His body twisted grotesquely, seized by violent convulsions that contorted his limbs at unnatural angles. Then, with a final, shuddering gasp, he collapsed—utterly still, utterly silent. The hand that had reached toward her fell limp upon the floor.
Just then, the door burst open.
