The Maid of the Cursed Princess

The Crown Princess, Adelaide.

Her full name was Adelaide Maria Clotilde, or in Orléans style, Adelaide Marie Clotilde.

However, she was simply referred to as Adele or the Crown Princess by most, for she was the wife of Crown Prince Charls and Sibylla’s sister-in-law.

Sibylla had never actually conversed with the Crown Princess before.

Charls had only formally taken his bride after the war ended, by which time Sibylla had already been confined to the High Tower due to the curse’s manifestation.

“♩~”

Thus, this tea party felt exceptionally awkward for Sibylla as her first meeting with the Crown Princess.

They had never even exchanged casual greetings, so wouldn’t it be stranger if there were no awkwardness between complete strangers?

“Have you ever tried black tea, Princess?”

“No, I have never tasted it before…”

As if aware of Sibylla’s unease, the Crown Princess smiled faintly as she personally poured and offered her a cup of black tea.

“In my homeland, black tea is quite popular compared to coffee. Do give it a try.”

Most people of Orléans, and indeed the majority across the continent, preferred coffee over tea. The propagation of tea and its associated culture had lagged behind coffee’s spread, failing to gain widespread acceptance amidst cultures already steeped in the coffee tradition. The higher cost of tea leaves had also been a deterrent, of course.

However, the Crown Princess’s homeland had a different history in this regard. After her foreign Princess grandmother had included tea leaves among her dowry, the aristocracy had adopted the tea-drinking custom.

“…Hmm…”

Scrutinizing the reddish-brown tea intently, Sibylla hesitated. Was it truly alright to consume this unfamiliar beverage?

“The aroma is… not unpleasant, at least.”

Well, it was unlikely to be poisoned.

Resolving her uncertainty, Sibylla took a tentative sip before immediately contorting her face in displeasure.

“The flavor is… rather peculiar.”

Even with her face concealed, Sibylla’s disgruntled tone made her distaste unmistakable as she set down the teacup.

To describe it as ‘peculiar’ was an understatement – her reaction clearly indicated the tea wasn’t to her liking at all. Unlike the familiar coffee she had grown accustomed to, black tea’s flavor was disconcertingly alien to Sibylla.

“Oh dear, it seems black tea doesn’t agree with your palate, Princess. Shall I have coffee brought instead?”

“There is no need, please don’t trouble yourself…”

An uncomfortable flavor. An uncomfortable aroma. An uncomfortable setting. An uncomfortable person.

Sibylla wished this tea party would conclude as swiftly as possible.

“Well then… shall we proceed to the main matter at hand?”

Yet the atmosphere hardly suggested it would end anytime soon. If anything, it had only grown more uncomfortable.

“First, I must inquire… are you satisfied with the maid I have appointed to your service?”

“…?”

For a moment, Sibylla couldn’t comprehend the Crown Princess’s subsequent remark.

“Ah, I hadn’t mentioned it.”

The Crown Princess’s gaze wasn’t directed toward the seated Sibylla, but rather at her maid Dorothy standing nearby.

“I employed her – Miss Gale, or rather… Arachne, as they say.”

“…Ah…”

Only then did Sibylla realize the ‘maid’ in question was Dorothy.

And simultaneously, she felt a twinge of doubt.

“…You did, Your Highness?”

Sibylla knew virtually nothing about the Crown Princess. She could scarcely discern even her own eldest brother’s inner thoughts, let alone those of someone she had no prior connection with.

Thus, she couldn’t fathom why the Crown Princess, rather than the Crown Prince himself, would have handpicked and assigned someone to attend her.

“…If I may speak somewhat indelicately, I am aware that Arachne had quite the infamous reputation in high society.”

Even the socially isolated Sibylla had overheard the widespread infamy of Arachne from her rapidly rotating cast of maids.

Give or take a month’s time, the cumulative gossip among some 30 maids who had either fled or newly arrived had invariably centered around those stories, the subject never changing despite the revolving faces. As an unwitting bystander, Sibylla couldn’t help finding the tales rather bemusing.

“Though I suspect Your Highness would know far better than I…”

As one residing at the heart of Orléans high society, the Crown Princess would undoubtedly have been more intimately acquainted with Arachne’s notorious reputation compared to the sheltered Sibylla.

So why had she assigned that infamous slum assassin, rather than a loyal servant like the chamberlain, to attend the cursed Princess whose life absolutely couldn’t be jeopardized?

“Well, as someone on the outside looking in, perhaps I should share an old tale…”

Brushing aside Sibylla’s probing with a playful deflection, the Crown Princess redirected the conversation.

“This may be an indelicate topic, but… you are aware the royal staff was reluctant to serve you directly, are you not, Princess?”

“…Yes.”

The destination for the newest, greenest recruits among novices – particularly those of meager pedigree from lower nobility or merchant households lacking illustrious backing.

Sibylla’s High Tower had been such an undesirable post – akin to a remote military outpost that none wished to be stationed at, if one were to use an analogy.

“With none willing to attend you, the opportunity ultimately fell to a slum assassin instead… not to mention certain rumors had reached me of threats against your life as well, Princess.”

Hence the pragmatic decision to entrust Arachne, whose deadly reputation was mitigated by her diligence in upholding contracts and ability to provide capable protection, with Sibylla’s safety as an auxiliary rationale…

“…Or so the official reasoning would suggest.”

At least, the publicly stated justification.

“The true reason I assigned Arachne to your service, Princess…”

After letting the suspense linger over her tea, the Crown Princess abruptly:

“…Hmm, I believe I shall end my tale there.”

“…Huh?”

Concluding with a smile, as if the matter were settled.

“What is the meaning of this…?”

One of the two surefire methods to infuriate someone – leaving them hanging midway through a conversation.

“Even to you, Princess, I can’t so freely divulge matters of grave national importance.”

“You can’t be serious…!!”

Unable to contain her indignation at the Crown Princess’s insouciant grin, Sibylla could only rise abruptly and storm off.

Yet despite Sibylla’s vehement protests, the Crown Princess remained unfazed, still smiling as she replied:

“Well, if we set aside the convoluted political circumstances and speak solely on a personal level… I do have faith in her.”

“In that infamous assassin?”

“No.”

Without warning, she placed an ashen cat with golden eyes wearing a tiny witch’s hat upon the table. A feline visage holding an uncannily familiar quality for both Sibylla and Dorothy.

“I’m sure you can discern whom I refer to. Ah, but this is no magical transformation – merely an ordinary cat styled in her semblance.”

Even unspoken, they could deduce whom the Crown Princess alluded to.

“The one Orléans call the Witch, that mischievous soul.”

Glinda to some. Éclair to others. And to the general Orléans populace, the Witch. And to some:

“She does possess a rather lovely name – Medea, is it not?”

Medea, to a certain few.

“…”

Silence enveloped the room for quite some time.

“…W-Wait, wait just a moment, did you just utter…”

Sibylla’s mind had momentarily blanked from the sheer shock of that name being invoked without any preamble. A name that should never be uttered in such a place.

No, a name that should never pass one’s lips anywhere within the borders of Orléans. That name was:

“S-Say that again. Say it again, I implore you.”

Praying she had merely misheard, anything but that cursed name having been spoken aloud.

Struggling to suppress the tremor in her voice, Sibylla beseeched the puzzlingly blinking Crown Princess to deny it, to refute having uttered that name.

“Medea.”

But Sibylla’s hopes were crushed, for her ears hadn’t deceived her.

“…Ah.”

The name that had passed the Crown Princess’s lips was indeed:

“Was I not meant to say that?”

The same as the witch who had inflicted the curse upon the royal bloodline.

* * *

“…”

Deep, pounding head pain – not quite a severe migraine, yet hardly ignorable discomfort.

That was how the witch awoke from her slumber, as if someone were rhythmically squeezing her temples.

“…Tsk, broad daylight.”

An utterly unpleasant sensation, she assessed. Like nails being driven into her skull.

Already suffering from sleep deprivation, being roused during the daytime hours when she would ordinarily still be sound asleep only compounded her foul mood.

“…No doubt some wench is slandering me behind my back again.”

Or perhaps some flapping jaw was carelessly gossiping about matters that didn’t concern them.

That was how her self-proclaimed friends and comrades typically behaved – motivated solely by amusement, forever ravenous for entertainment.

“Haah…”

Not that the witch couldn’t empathize with their mindset. Was she not forever chasing fleeting pleasures and delights herself, in an endless pursuit of indulgence?

It was an inevitability for those who had lived far beyond a normal human’s lifespan. Having experienced events that most would be fortunate to witness even once, over dozens or hundreds of repetitions, they gradually became desensitized – perpetually seeking more potent thrills to sate their ennui.

The witch was marginally better off in that regard, having managed to foster genuine attachment to someone, or rather something.

She had never anticipated developing such profound affections for a whimsical adoptive child, not even her own flesh and blood. Yet it was undoubtedly a far healthier circumstance than her supposed friends whose only remarkable trait was sheer longevity akin to tortoises.

“…Perhaps I should write a letter.”

To her adoptive son – no, daughter given his current form.

Entirely unaware of any occurrences at the palace, the witch had reached for a pen before pausing in contemplation, ultimately reclining once more.

“How dreadful, resorting to letters.”

The witch murmured, donning the faded golden pelt that had once shone with dazzling radiance as a shawl.