The Maid of the Cursed Princess

“Yet another vague hint.”

“Is it not more entertaining this way? Simply divulging the answer outright would be terribly dull for this old witch who lives for amusement. Nothing is as unpleasant as boredom.”

The new hint was again difficult to decipher.

However, Dorothy the fairy tale enthusiast surmised it must be related to fairy tales like the previous one. The witch had likely provided an obscure hint considering Dorothy’s propensity, meant to be challenging to immediately comprehend.

“Are you leaving?”

Pondering the clue to break the curse, Dorothy inquired of the witch packing her belongings to depart.

“Unlike some, I lead quite a busy life ordinarily, so I can’t remain here forever. Dawdling here any longer and I’ll be unable to manage the mountain of work piling up.”

Dorothy was well aware that the witch maintained a busier routine than the languid persona she portrayed, for while lazy at times, she absolutely abhorred falling behind on tasks.

Moreover, the witch’s duties largely involved disreputable matters unbecoming to openly discuss, befitting her slum origins – and such unsavory work invariably entailed risks. 

Even prioritizing safety, the witch had no choice but to strictly adhere to schedules, though she hardly feared such hazards herself. It was simply more convenient to avoid unnecessary unpleasantness when punctuality could ensure matters proceeded smoothly.

“It feels like we only just reunited, yet you’re leaving so soon.”

“Does that disappoint you?”

“A bit.”

Though their bond could be considered a bitter enmity that had nearly claimed each other’s lives, Dorothy still regarded the witch with a degree of fondness – one of her few remaining connections, having grown accustomed to her company.

“How disgusting. But I suppose once the work is complete, you will return in due time… successful completion would ensure a hefty payday, after all…”

Playfully mocking Dorothy’s sentimentality, the witch graced her with a rare, genuinely warm smile devoid of her usual derision or condescension.

“We could travel somewhere when you return.”

“Money would be wasted.”

“…I never expected to hear you bemoan wasted funds, you gambling-addicted drunkard lout.”

Though her expression soon reverted to familiar contemptuous disdain.

“You had the perfect opportunity to end on a tender note, yet squandered it with your repugnant remark at the last moment…”

“Take care, Éclair.”

Just as the witch reached for the door handle to storm out grumbling, those words gave her pause.

“You still recall that nonsensical fake name, do you?”

“It’s a rather unforgettable name.”

When they had first met and Dorothy – or rather, the nameless boy she had once been – lacked even a name, the witch had whimsically dubbed him after the pastry she had been eating.

“Éclair au chocolat. I found it a rather fitting moniker for you.”

Though the pseudonym had quickly become an open secret and even the witch herself had forgotten it soon after, Dorothy still remembered the name of the one who had extended a hand to her.

“…I can’t tell if it was meant as praise or insult. You remain as indecipherably enigmatic as ever.”

Yet her face shone with unambiguous delight despite her words.

With a remarkably serene expression, the witch opened the door.

“Take care, my son.”

She must be in an unusually pleasant mood today.

“♩~”

Humming a merry tune, the witch departed.

* * *

Once the witch had left, the room fell markedly silent.

For sound to occur, opposing forces must clash – and with her sole conversational partner gone, leaving Dorothy alone, the absence of noise was only natural.

Moreover, had she been in peak condition it might have been another matter, but not a single part of Dorothy’s body had emerged unscathed from the Slave Prince’s onslaught, rendering even simple movements difficult.

“…Thirsty.”

The problem was that Dorothy’s throat, parched from her prolonged slumber without proper hydration, was screaming for moisture.

One could endure hunger for around a week if need be, but thirst became unbearable after just a single day without water.

“…Water…”

Dorothy surveyed her surroundings, but not even a pitcher or empty cup was in sight, let alone drinkable water.

She should have asked for a cup before the witch left. Only now did Dorothy appreciate the importance of a caregiver.

She had two options: endure the agony and rise to venture outside for water, or remain obediently in bed awaiting someone’s arrival.

“…Ughh…”

Dorothy chose the former, for her overpowering thirst felt so severe that failing to rehydrate immediately might prove fatal, mustering enough willpower to force her creaking body upright.

“…Hurts…”

Dragging her faltering steps, barely containing agonized shudders wracking her battered frame, Dorothy slowly made her way toward the door.

It was daytime, so servants or palace guards would likely be patrolling outside. If she pleaded desperately for just a cup of water, even the most callous soul would surely extend that small kindness, or so she hoped.

But the very moment she grasped the door handle to open it:

“Gahh!?”

The door flung inward, causing Dorothy to pitch forward with an undignified yelp of surprise.

“Ow… Owww…”

Groaning in anguish at the excruciating jolt, just who was the rude individual barging into others’ rooms without permission?

“…While I had hoped for a more auspicious reunion, you certainly have a knack for shattering atmospheres.”

“…P-Princess…?”

Fortunate she hadn’t vocalized her uncharitable thoughts aloud, Dorothy forced her gaze upward to meet Sibylla’s legs.

“Enter. We have matters to discuss.”

“But… water…”

Without another word, Dorothy was ushered inside by Sibylla’s grip.

She needed to drink water.

* * *

“Phah…”

Thankfully, Sibylla wasn’t so callous a mistress as to deny her parched maid even a simple cup of water.

“If you were thirsty, you should have requested water from the servants beforehand.”

“I only just awoke…”

Reclining once more upon the bed, Dorothy regarded Sibylla’s back as the Princess seated herself beside her.

“To have awoken so soon, did that witch treat your injuries?”

“…I am uncertain.”

Dorothy inwardly pondered if she should admit to having regained consciousness once before, lest she invite a scolding.

“And you, Princess? You were unharmed?”

“I am well. The chamberlain neutralized the assassin.”

“I am relieved.”

Yet Dorothy couldn’t feel entirely at ease, for strictly speaking she had failed in her mission.

Protecting the Princess. That had been the nature of her commission, her primary objective. Anything involving the curse had always been secondary.

However, in her battle against Ruslan, Dorothy had been defeated. With the battered Dorothy unable to intervene further, Ruslan had sought to slay Sibylla – had the chamberlain not arrived, both would have perished on that very spot.

If Ruslan sought Sibylla’s life again, could she thwart him? Victory or defeat – it was impossible to declare with certainty which scenario awaited.

“I’m sorry, Princess.”

Dorothy apologized to Sibylla, for how many times had she assured the Princess, urging her to have faith and rely solely upon her?

Having fostered that trust only to betray it – rebuilding broken trust was never easy.

“…Why do you apologize to me?”

Yet Dorothy didn’t expect this.

“You are the one who suffered injury, who nearly died. Why apologize to me?”

That her apology would only further torment Sibylla’s heart.

“…Princess?”

“Don’t apologize. Don’t bow your head to me. I am unworthy of such words from you.”

Sibylla’s heart had long since reached its limit, having witnessed with her own eyes Dorothy continuously rising despite sustaining grievous injuries for her sake.

Had Sibylla been a touch more selfish, a touch more wicked, she might have felt disappointment upon seeing Dorothy’s state, fleeing to preserve her own life alone.

“How can I reproach you for the harm you endured protecting my life?”

Yet Sibylla couldn’t, for she knew full well what compelled Dorothy’s unrelenting struggle.

“But Princess, it was my duty…”

“Enough!!!”

Sibylla’s anguished cry echoed through the room.

“Is this commission truly so paramount to you? More precious than your life…?”

Fearing not death, cherishing not her own life.

Sibylla despised that aspect of Dorothy, prioritizing something else over herself. It sickened her.

“Do you know the thoughts that crossed my mind every time I saw you rise again?”

Clutching the blankets with trembling hands, Sibylla continued in a quavering voice:

“I wished you would stop getting up, that you would either abandon me or lose consciousness instead.”

Yet ultimately, all her resentment and revulsion had merely been directed inward.

“I wished for you to live, to remain unharmed, even if it meant forsaking me.”

Watching Dorothy’s suffering yet being powerless to aid her had pierced Sibylla’s heart like a guilt-tipped lance.

“The sight of you being savagely beaten by the assassin, your blood spilled across the mud and washed away by the relentless downpour… do you know the anguish I felt…?”

The hesitation she had thought utterly banished after the ball came crashing back, that weighty anchor of guilt bearing down upon her once more.

“…I am a cursed being.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks, dampening the back of her hand.

“A calamity who invites only misfortune wherever I tread…”

Having confronted the truth she had desperately sought to avoid by the cruelest possible means, how could her heart emerge unshattered?

“…Truly, you were far too good for someone like me…”

The words Sibylla never wished to utter were upon her lips.

The command to depart from her side, to free Dorothy from the misfortune she wrought.

“So stop now…”

But the very moment she forced her reluctant tongue to give voice:

“Stay away from… me…?”

A tender warmth gently enveloped Sibylla from behind.

“…Princess.”

Embracing Sibylla affectionately, Dorothy softly whispered:

“I love you.”

“…!!!???”

The gentle confession Sibylla had yearned to hear above all else.