If she could stand next to Evangeline Rohanson, she didn't care whether she was dressed in luxury or looked like a pauper.
Having finished her preparations with unusual haste, Kinder hurried down the stairs. In the entrance hall, the butler had already ordered the carriage to be prepared.
"Madam."
Kinder studied the butler intently—this man who had served the Marquis of Toten's household faithfully all his life. After her husband's death, he had always treated her with respect. For this, she had been grateful. She had trusted him deeply.
It was a bitter shame to realize, so belatedly, that the butler's devotion had never extended to her child.
If Lady Rohanson hadn't pointed this out, and if her son hadn't warned her with his dying breath, Kinder likely would never have noticed it for the rest of her days.
Evangeline's words kept echoing in her mind—those words about a demon who could resurrect the dead. They seemed the only thread of hope remaining. Even if Ryder had truly died, there was still a chance he could be brought back.
"When did they say Diaz would arrive?"
"This evening, as I heard. Perhaps earlier."
The butler's tone carried an unmistakable note of satisfaction.
_Yes, of course he's pleased._
Kinder gritted her teeth. The visit from a man who usually didn't think it necessary to appear here had been timed with astonishing precision. Most likely, the butler had secretly sent him a signal. Had he assumed that, with Ryder's condition so grave, the outcome was already a foregone conclusion? He seemed to understand the situation far better than Kinder herself—or perhaps he simply possessed an overly keen sense for such things.
If news of Ryder's death became known, the title of the next Marquis would pass to Diaz, her late husband's blood relative. Kinder herself, bearing the surname Toten but not related to the family by blood, had no right to inherit. In such a case, she would be unable to fulfill even Ryder's last will.
She would not allow that. Under any circumstances.
"You will head straight to the palace, won't you, madam? I'll inform the coachman."
Kinder looked thoughtfully at the waiting carriage. Instead of answering, she gave a different order entirely.
"I'm going to the Rohanson mansion. Prepare a horse for me."
"Madam, but in such rain..." The butler's brow furrowed with concern that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Wouldn't it be better to take the carriage?"
"Butler." Her voice cut through the damp air like a blade. "Since when do you allow yourself to question my decisions? I'll stop by the Rohanson mansion and take a carriage from there. That is all."
Perhaps because she now knew the truth, her words had lost their former gentleness. Kinder spoke sharply, barely holding back the fury coiling in her chest. Without wasting time on apologies or explanations, she mounted the horse that a servant hastily led forward.
She needed to speak with Evangeline. There were far too many eyes and ears in the palace, and the carriage of the Rohanson household would be far more suitable for a private conversation. Of course, there remained the possibility that Evangeline had already departed—or would refuse to take Kinder with her at all.
"Oh..."
The butler sighed heavily, knowing he couldn't stop her. Kinder pulled up the hood of her cloak, settled into the saddle, and spurred her horse forward. Within moments, she had vanished into the curtain of rain.
_"Could you, Marquise, turn away from Rachel, whom you love so much, and turn to a demon? And what if the price demanded is not the Marquis's house, but a human life? What if it is the life of a completely innocent person?"_
Lady Rohanson's voice still rang in her ears—bright, clear, unforgettable.
_Demon. Demon..._
Now, at last, Kinder could give her an answer.
Those past days, so full of doubt and hesitation, were now a source of bitter regret. She urged her horse faster. Its hooves slipped on the rain-slicked road, nearly sending her into a dangerous fall, but she paid no mind. The wetness on her cheeks came from the rain, not tears.
_Not tears._
She increased her speed even more. Quickly, quickly—to where the demon waited.
---
After the Marquise had ridden off, the remaining servants—astonished by their mistress's unusual behavior—clustered together, passing whispers back and forth.
"Why did the lady leave in such a hurry?"
"She promised to be a chaperone for Lady Rohanson."
"So she went to act as chaperone while young Master Ryder lies ill? And on *horseback*, no less—something she almost never does?"
"Is Lady Rohanson really such a terrible person?"
Rather than correcting the servants' speculation, the butler occupied himself with choosing the right words to convey to the distinguished guest who would soon arrive. That was a far more important matter.
---
Some time later, another carriage rolled up to the Marquis's mansion.
"Ah, sweet home! Long time no see!" The man who emerged from the carriage expanded his chest and inhaled the familiar air with theatrical pleasure. "I'm *so* glad to be back!"
It was Diaz—the late Marquis's younger brother. Perhaps it was the rain, but even the smells of damp and decay that hung about the estate now seemed surprisingly fresh to him.
"What's this? Are you all here to greet me?" He surveyed the assembled servants with evident satisfaction. "Oh, why all the preparations?"
In truth, they had gathered to see the Marquise off, but the butler—without revealing this—merely offered a smooth correction.
"Welcome, young master. You've arrived earlier than expected."
"Yes, well." Diaz brushed rainwater from his coat with an air of importance. "I was *eager* to see my dear sister-in-law's face. Was she in that carriage? Then why didn't she come out to greet me?"
He glanced sideways at the carriage still parked before the mansion.
"No, the lady departed on horseback."
"You've got to be *kidding* me!" Diaz's face twisted with irritation. "What a mess!"
He kicked the carriage wheel in frustration, and the loose wheel groaned in protest.
"What is this decrepit thing? Why is everything so old and shabby?"
"I couldn't say, sir."
Diaz, slightly embarrassed by his outburst, cleared his throat and changed the subject.
"Well, I hope my sister-in-law has a *wonderful* time at the reception." A thin smile curled his lips. "After all, this could be her last ball, couldn't it? Once I become Marquis Toten, she'll have no reason to attend such events." He paused, his expression souring. "I hope she's not planning to *marry* me just to maintain her position? Ugh. The very thought."
Watching Diaz—who was already strutting about as though he were master of the estate—Luck the butler quietly reconsidered his choice of allegiance. But the dice had already been cast. Now he could only pray for a favorable number.
"It's raining heavily, sir. Please, come inside. Zion has already prepared your room."
"Ah, the nanny! I haven't seen her in ages."
Luck led Diaz toward the entrance. The man had been swaggering about as though he'd returned to his rightful home, but suddenly he stopped mid-stride.
"By the way—where is *he*? Did the sister-in-law take him with her?"
The "he" Diaz referred to was, of course, Ryder.
"No, sir. Master Ryder is ill and confined to his room. Since the lady departed for the reception, his condition must have improved significantly after these several days of illness."
The butler, unaware that the child had actually died, attempted to construct his own logical explanation. If Ryder's condition had truly improved, it was only natural that a loving mother might leave her son for a short time to fulfill her obligations. For someone unaware that the Marquise had disguised Ryder's death as a peaceful sleep, this conclusion seemed perfectly reasonable.
"Ugh." Diaz clicked his tongue, his face twisting into a sardonic sneer. "If he was going to die, he should have done it quickly. The little bastard's a real survivor."
Luck shared the sentiment entirely. Ryder had long been rumored unlikely to live past the age of five, yet the child had passed that milestone and stubbornly continued to exist. His life—thin and fragile as a taut thread—simply refused to snap.
Moreover, a disturbing precedent had recently emerged: someone had appeared who might actually be capable of breaking the curse. Under other circumstances, Luck would have waited for the child's natural death without much concern. But now the situation had changed.
His impatience had intensified with Evangeline Rohanson's arrival.
He feared she might actually improve Ryder's condition. That was *unacceptable*.
The cursed child should never take the place of the Marquis.
Lost in these thoughts, Luck was interrupted by Diaz's grating voice.
"Oh, really? Uncle's here, and the boy doesn't even come out to say hello?" He feigned offense, though his eyes glittered with something else entirely. "Well, if he's sick, I suppose that's understandable. We haven't seen each other in so long—perhaps I should go and see him myself?"
Diaz headed toward the stairs with a sly grin spreading across his face. He looked suspiciously pleased, and in that moment, he reminded the butler of a child about to throw a stone at an unsuspecting frog—gleeful with secret cruelty.
---
## — An Uncomfortable Dinner —
Silence.
Such an oppressive pause could have been deliberately staged—this awkward father-daughter dinner where the only sound was the measured clatter of cutlery against porcelain.
We sat at the same table because the Count had announced he needed to speak with me about something important before the ball. I had carved out this time from my intense preparations for my debut, sacrificing precious minutes I could ill afford.
And all I received in return was a suffocating silence that nearly choked me.
Even to my eyes—still adjusting to the intricate rules of etiquette—it was obvious that the Count's table manners were impeccable. No wonder Evangeline's mother had capitulated to his courtship without much resistance. However, manners alone don't make a father.
Without quite noticing how my mood had soured, I completely forgot Dollina's careful instructions and began irritably jabbing at my steak with my fork. The bloody meat oozed crimson juice that spread across the snow-white porcelain like a wound. The sight killed what little appetite I had. I preferred my food well-done, but now even that preference seemed irrelevant—the taste had vanished completely. I merely tore at the meat mechanically, never actually bringing it to my lips.
I made no effort to hide my displeasure.
Eventually, the Count set down his cutlery with a soft *clink*.
_What—is it embarrassing to witness how far from refined your daughter's manners truly are? Did you imagine I was comfortable sitting here?_
Naturally, the kitchen staff had been the most terrified when they were suddenly informed that dinner would be served in the formal dining room. The servant bringing the dishes trembled so violently that, upon meeting my gaze, he nearly knocked over a glass of wine. I had been keeping particularly close watch on the frightened staff, anticipating trouble, so I deftly caught the glass before it could topple. Not a single drop was spilled.
"Be careful."
"Yes, yes! Sorry, so sorry!"
After that incident, Yulma was given the task of serving meals—practically shoved forward by the others. I'd heard he had often cooked at Daisy's shelter, and now he worked in the kitchen here as well. I was surprised that an assistant had suddenly been pressed into serving duty, but as it turned out, he was simply considered the least likely candidate to faint from sheer terror.
From the kitchen doorway, I could hear the staff's anxious whispers:
"Yulma, just *don't* tremble before the mistress!"
"Hope of the kitchen! Forward!"
"We're so grateful you're with us."
"The lady won't kill you for a mistake—why is everyone shaking so much?"
"What is your heart made of, anyway?"
They were gossiping far too loudly. I had to pretend I heard nothing, and the effort cost me dearly. I glanced sideways at the Count; he, too, continued dining with an impassive expression, pretending not to notice the commotion.
_To see but pretend not to see—the highest art in aristocratic circles._
Yulma finished serving and bowed his head respectfully. It occurred to me that I hadn't seen him in quite some time. Of course, I had no particular reason to visit the kitchen. Still, since he was the child I had saved, I found myself wanting to ask how he was faring.
"You look like you're holding up well."
"Yes, my lady." A small, grateful smile touched his features. "It's thanks to you."