WYRS 10

Chapter 10

“Young Lady, I brought the milk with honey you asked for.”

A maid she had never seen before entered the room, holding a tray with a teacup on it.

Nancy spotted the cup and widened her eyes.

“I told you—the milk the young lady drinks before bed must always be served in the mug with the cat design! That rule has never once been broken.”

“I-I’m sorry!”

The maid flinched under Nancy’s sharp scolding, bowing in a fluster. She had striking red hair. Freya smiled gently and stopped Nancy.

“It’s fine, Nancy. It’s just a cup, no need to fuss. Thank you for bringing it all the way here. Your name is…?”

“Rachel. Rachel, my lady.”

“Rachel, then. You seem new—may you feel at home here. You may go now.”

“Thank you.”

Rachel gave a brief bow and hurried out of the room as though fleeing. Nancy glared at her retreating back and fumed.

“Honestly, the new girls are all so lazy. No matter how many times you tell them, they never bother to memorize the details.”

“There do seem to have been many changes in the staff lately.”

“That’s all because the new Count is trying to build his own circle of people. Even Mrs. Joyce Bennet, who worked here for over thirty years, was dismissed.”

Freya let out a bitter smile. She could still see Mrs. Bennet weeping and pleading with her.

‘This place is like my home, young lady. Please, beg the Count to let me stay.’

Freya hadn’t wanted to see Mrs. Bennet turned out, but there was nothing she could do. The master of Swan Manor was now Jacob. With just one word from him, she too could be cast out.

Rumble—CRASH!

A sudden flash of light split the sky beyond the garden, followed by thunder that seemed to tear the heavens apart.

“Kyaaah!”

Startled by the deafening roar that shook the building, Nancy dropped her comb and collapsed to the floor. Freya, in contrast, pressed close to the window, gazing curiously at the lightning that branched across the distant sky.

Her eyes lingered for a while on the heavens before drifting down to the garden. The neatly planted trees swayed violently, as though about to be ripped out by the storm.

“Goodness! I thought war had broken out again!”

“Yes… what a savage storm.”

Nancy clutched her pounding chest, still shaken, then looked at Freya, who hadn’t taken her eyes off the storm.

“Young Lady, aren’t you frightened?”

“Of thunder and lightning? Or of my future…?”

Freya had only meant it as a joke to lighten the mood, but Nancy’s face grew even more troubled. Regretting her careless remark, Freya quietly glanced at the clock above the fireplace.

“It’s very late. You should go now, Nancy.”

“Are you sure you’ll be alright without me?”

“Of course. I’m so tired I feel like I’ll faint any moment.”

“Well, if you say so. Very well, my lady. I wish you sweet dreams.”

“You too—sweet dreams.”

Leaving behind a warm smile, Nancy rose to her feet and left. Freya lifted the still-warm cup and took a sip of the milk.

The sweet, velvety taste slid smoothly down her throat, washing away the fatigue of the day in an instant.

“Haa…”

She sank deep into the bed, her eyes drifting to the engagement ring adorning her left ring finger.

It had been a dizzying day. Surrounded by people from morning till night, this was the first moment she had truly been alone. She slipped into quiet reflection.

“Freya Swan, wife of Jacob Swan.”

She repeated the unfamiliar combination of names several times. Though they weren’t married yet, her heart throbbed. It wasn’t excitement—it was closer to a heavy sense of responsibility. Her chest felt weighted down, as if a stone had been placed upon it.

Can I really endure this? Can I truly build a family with him?

Her mind spun with memories of her father’s death and funeral, the exhausting political strife, and the disputes over inheritance.

Those thoughts eventually led to the face of her fiancé—the still-strange man who would someday wait for her in bed.

Recalling his sharply lifted eyes, Freya suddenly felt afraid. From now until death, Jacob would be the only man permitted to her.

I really… am going to marry him.

Her lips, usually so composed, trembled faintly.

“It’s alright, Freya. You’ve been taught well. Obedience, devotion, and restraint—so long as you keep those three, you can build a respectable home.”

Freya took a deep breath.

“One spotted cat on the hill, two spotted cats, three spotted cats…”

As she counted cats, the beloved hill she once knew spread out before her eyes. A faint image of the boy who used to carve statues beneath the great tree drifted into her mind.

Gradually, she grew calm. Her breathing slowed, even as the sky screamed relentlessly. Using the thunder as a lullaby, Freya drifted into sleep.

Bang!

A crash like the house itself collapsing jolted Freya awake. Lightning flashed continuously between the curtains.

She lay back down, trying to sleep again, but the furious sky would not relent. Tossing and turning, she finally rose from bed.

It was a strange night. Normally, even when she couldn’t sleep, she would stay quietly in bed. But tonight—for some reason—she couldn’t.

Perhaps she would read. Draping a shawl over her shoulders, she lit a candle.

The new lantern would have been brighter, but she preferred the old. In a world changing dizzyingly fast, worn objects brought her comfort.

Listening to the rain batter the windows, she slowly stepped into the hall. Once, as a child, she had been too scared to walk even to the bathroom alone at night. But now, the quiet of dawn soothed her more than the noisy day.

She stopped short on her way to the third-floor library. Goosebumps prickled her skin; an odd feeling rooted her in place.

Raising her head, she looked to the far end of the right hallway. From Jacob’s room, a faint light was spilling out.

Was he unable to sleep as well?

After all, Jacob had suddenly inherited the Count’s position. For someone who had lived quietly in the countryside, the title of Earl of Swan must have been a heavy burden.

Freya recalled the first day they met—Jacob biting his trembling lips, tense with nerves. He had seemed almost pitiful, so frightened of the fate thrust upon him.

Come to think of it, they had never had a proper conversation. It was late, but since they were already engaged, wouldn’t it be alright to share an honest talk?

Freya wanted to know his true thoughts. Even if they couldn’t share deep love, she hoped they could at least become good friends as husband and wife.

Quietly, she approached Jacob’s room. Hot wax dripped from her candle onto the holder as she moved soundlessly down the corridor.

Rumble—Crash!

Another thunderclap rattled the windows. Freya glanced outside. Just as Nancy had said, it looked as though a war had swept through—the once beautiful garden was in ruins.

Flowers lay crushed into the muddy ground; a tree that had just sprouted green leaves was stripped bare again.

The sight made her frown. When the rain stopped, the garden would be a heartbreaking mess. She disliked the changes storms brought.

She was nearly at Jacob’s door when the thunder briefly subsided. As the soft drizzle brought silence, suddenly, an intimate sound reached her ears.

“Ah… ah! Jacob! Jacob!”

Freya gasped. There were no other rooms at the end of that corridor. The unmistakable cries were coming from Jacob’s chamber.

Her lips twitched violently. The candlestick slipped from her trembling fingers, clattering loudly to the floor as its flame died out.

Ordinarily, Freya would have turned back and pretended she had seen nothing—run away in fear to her room.

But tonight was different.

As her shock hardened into certainty, her face went cold. She strode forward and pulled the door open. What met her eyes was a revolting scene.

“Ugh… damn it! Rachel, yes—move more! That’s it…”

CRASH—!

A thunderclap exploded just then, shattering whatever restraint had bound her until now.

When the roar passed, all that remained was the sticky sound of two people’s ragged breathing.

Sweat-soaked red hair, unabashed gasps, and raw cries scraped at her ears. Every flash of lightning seared the tangled bodies into her eyes.

Suddenly, the woman clinging to Jacob met Freya’s gaze. She recognized her—the new maid, Rachel, the one who had brought her warm milk earlier that night.

Far from being flustered, Rachel stared boldly back, and then, as if to emphasize the moment, moaned even louder.

“Where’s that draft…?”

Jacob, feeling the cold sweat on his body, turned and looked over his shoulder.

“M-Miss Swan?”

His startled eyes shoved Freya backwards, urging her to flee. The pounding rain on the windows seemed to whisper to her:

Run, Freya! Run!

The voice that had long whispered softly in her heart finally screamed.

That night, Freya Swan ran away from her own home.