Chapter 86

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Translator: Harry Potta
Chapter: 86
Chapter Title: The Eldest Son of the de Mare Family
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Ippolito looked up at his friend and exhaled another puff of smoke from his pipe. He had become quite taken with tobacco lately. This herb, imported from the Moorish Empire, was all the rage among the wealthy international students at the University of Padua. At first, it gained popularity for helping them stay alert and focused on their studies. But soon, the tables turned, and they found their hands trembling, unable to concentrate without a smoke.

“Hey, let me have a puff.”

Without hesitation, Ippolito passed his friend the pipe, which was packed with tobacco that cost a ducat a puff. The friend, delighted at the free smoke, eagerly drew from the pipe.

“Why the long face? Something wrong?”

There was no such thing as a free smoke. Ippolito took the bait of his friend’s lip service and let out a sigh.

“Something big has happened at home. I might have to go back to San Carlo without graduating.”

“What? Did your family go bankrupt?”

His friend asked, startled. *Is my free supply of tobacco about to get cut off? No, he’s spending way too much for a bankrupt man.* Ippolito shook his head and answered.

“My mother is in terrible trouble. I heard she was kicked out of the house. I have to go back to San Carlo.”

His friend made a very rational point.

“What does you going back have to do with your mother being kicked out? Will she be allowed back if you don't graduate?”

They had a more immediate problem. Final exams were just around the corner.

“It’s your final exams for your last semester. You only have one semester left.”

Ippolito flew into a rage at his friend’s sensible words.

“You bastard, you’re making me sound like a terrible son. How can I possibly focus on my studies when my mother has been thrown out of her own home?”

He glared at his friend.

“A damn university degree isn’t what’s important right now.”

His friend shook his head, dumbfounded by Ippolito’s sudden display of filial piety. The boy’s usual behavior was as far from a devoted son as Sternheim Castle in the far north of the Central Continent was from the port of Taranto in the far south. But since he was smoking on Ippolito’s dime, he bit back his retort. Ippolito was short on credits. He had spared no expense, enrolling in every special lecture offered, but he always failed to meet the attendance requirements, making his graduation uncertain.

“I have to go home. It’s a shame I can’t get my degree because of my mother, but I suppose there will be other chances.”

“Right. Such a devoted son.”

Displeased with his friend’s response, Ippolito seemed to feel the need to prove his filial piety.

“Father is being too harsh. I mean, no matter what Mother did wrong, how could he send her to a country estate? I have to go home and talk some sense into him.”

“Are you really going? Even if you miss the final exams, you might still be able to graduate if you submit your papers by next week.”

“Don’t you dare say that again. A decent human being doesn’t abandon his own mother.”

Ippolito shot up from his seat. The thought of having to suck up to his professor, begging to replace the exam with a paper, was nauseating. He had already embarrassed himself too much in front of the professor. He didn’t want to go anywhere near him. His friend stared at Ippolito with a look that said, *Is this guy for real?*, but Ippolito himself was dead serious.

“I’m going. To San Carlo.”

***

An old saying goes, “No flower stays red for ten days, and no power lasts for ten years.” Red-haired Maletta was beginning to understand the truth in those words. Lady Ariadne had clearly been a rotten rope, while Lady Isabella, the one she had clung to, was supposed to be a sure path to success. Maletta had believed with all her heart that Lady Isabella would marry a high official—no, a prince—and take her to the royal palace as a lady-in-waiting from her family home. To make a maid a royal lady-in-waiting, they would have to bestow a title upon her, at least a baronetcy. Maletta, a maid from the Rambouillet Almshouse, becoming a baronetess!

‘Oh, such an honor, I never dreamed of it!’

Such were the fantasies Maletta indulged in every night on her straw mattress in the third-floor maids’ quarters, imagining herself feigning humility as she knelt at the investiture ceremony, the King lightly tapping the scabbarded sword on her shoulder. But now, it seemed it would all end as a fantasy.

“Maletta! Lady Isabella is locked up all day, so what do you do besides bring her three meals? Stop lazing around and get over here to scrub the floor! You have to earn your keep!”

Teresa shouted, tossing a rag at Maletta. Teresa was the supervisor of the third-floor maids and head of cleaning, and she had her eyes on the vacant position of head maid, once held by the vanished Giada. *Swish!* The stinking rag flew through the air. The wet cloth narrowly missed Maletta’s face and landed squarely on her shoulder. Feeling a surge of disgust, Maletta glared at Teresa. Five piedi behind Teresa stood Sancha, arms crossed, looking triumphant—at least, that’s how it seemed to Maletta.

‘Old Teresa is so desperate to become head maid, she must be pandering to that brat Sancha!’

Maletta gritted her teeth and picked up the rag.

“Scrub it till it shines! Everyone else is busy! You can clean the maids’ rooms on the third floor, too!”

This was clearly unfair treatment.

‘And I can’t even fight back!’

Cleaning the maids’ rooms on the third floor was a job for newcomers. It was thankless work, and if anything went missing, you got blamed. Maletta was a four-year veteran and a personal maid to a lady of the house. She was above such menial tasks.

“Oh, what’s with the glare? Do you want a beating for insubordination before you get thrown out?”

Teresa threatened. The person Teresa would report Maletta’s insubordination to was Lady Ariadne. The outcome of being dragged before her was obvious. Swallowing her boiling humiliation, Maletta took the rag, lowered her head, and began to scrub the floor furiously.

‘That brat Sancha must be enjoying the sight of my humiliation, right?’

While Sancha supervised Teresa, she was on her hands and knees scrubbing the floorboards. *I’m her older sister, and her senior!* It was unjust and infuriating.

‘I’ll make you pay for this someday!’

***

Sancha, who was being misjudged for enjoying Maletta’s misery, didn’t even see Maletta scrubbing the floor. Sancha was not the type to giggle at others’ misfortune, and besides, she had something far more bothersome on her mind.

“...Oh, Sancha. Fancy meeting you here.”

*Fancy meeting me here? You look like you’ve been standing here for three hours!*

Sancha looked Giuseppe, the stable hand who had become the captain of Lady Ariadne’s new guard, up and down with an expression of utter exasperation. Giuseppe had shot up in height, had a sprinkle of freckles similar to Sancha’s, and straw-like light brown hair. Everyone said Giuseppe was good at his job, but seeing him waste time like this during such a busy period made him seem utterly unreliable.

“You must not have much to do. Should I tell the mistress to reduce the number of guards and increase your workload?”

Giuseppe was startled by Sancha’s sharp words.

“N-no, that’s not it.”

He took a small, palm-sized object wrapped in a cloth from his pocket.

“Here, this is for you.”

Sancha took the object and unwrapped the cloth. It was a sugar-coated cookie. Sugar was expensive, and even in most noble houses, such a dessert was only served to guests. The cookie had been in Giuseppe’s hand for a while, so the coating had melted and was a little sticky.

“I came across it somehow, and it felt wrong to eat it alone. It’s a good thing we ran into each other. You have it.”

*Came across it, my foot.* The corner of the cloth was stamped with the name ‘La Montagne Patisserie.’ It was a new pastry shop in town. The lines were long, the prices were high, and the popular items were impossible to get. A treat like this wasn’t something that would be gifted to a boy like Giuseppe; it was something a boy like Giuseppe would stand in line for hours to buy for a girl he liked. But Sancha was only fourteen, and no matter how clever she was, she hadn’t regressed in time like her mistress. She was a novice when it came to courtship and love. And she was not one to turn down a free treat.

“Hmm. Well, all right. Thanks, I’ll enjoy it.”

Giuseppe’s face lit up. *What on earth is wrong with him?* Sancha thought, tilting her head quizzically as she took a bite of the cookie.

***

An unsettling tension filled the mansion. Ariadne gestured to Niccolo the butler with her chin.

“What is it?”

“My lady… Master Ippolito is returning.”

Niccolo the butler handed Ariadne a parchment letter. It was addressed to Cardinal de Mare, and the scrawled, terrible handwriting was evident even through the envelope. Ariadne smiled mechanically. *The inevitable has come.*

“When is he expected to return?”

“He says he will arrive early next month, around the time of the New Year’s Festival.”

“I see. We must prepare a suitable room and get ready to welcome my brother.”

She returned the envelope to Niccolo and went back to her room on the second floor. It was the best room on the west wing of the second floor, the one Ippolito had originally used. Sancha followed Ariadne in and asked with a worried expression.

“My lady, surely… when Master Ippolito returns, ‘Miss Rossi’ will also return, and Lady Isabella will be released, won’t she?”

“Mm. I suppose so.”

“Should we be standing by like this?”

Sancha was clearly on edge. But Ariadne simply smiled leisurely at her.

“Let’s not worry about useless things and talk about something fun instead. Tell me, how much do you hate Maletta?”

Sancha was taken aback by the sudden mention of Maletta.

“Maletta? Why bring her up all of a sudden?”

“You can say you’re determined to get your revenge on her, or you can say you want to forgive her since she’s your only remaining family, your older sister. I will do as you wish.”

Maletta had a history of selling Ariadne out to Lucrezia. She owed Ariadne a debt, so to speak. But before that, Maletta had abandoned Sancha at the Rambouillet Almshouse, leaving her to starve. By any measure, Ariadne’s grudge against Maletta paled in comparison to Sancha’s. That was why Ariadne intended to let Sancha decide whether or not to seek revenge.

“Ugh…!”

Sparks flew from Sancha’s light green eyes.

“Maletta must pay for what she did!”

“Is that so?”

“Because of her, my mother… My mother died. And Maletta is the kind of person who would do the same thing all over again if she could go back in time. I will never forgive her.”

Determination flowed from Sancha’s face. Ariadne nodded. Since Sancha had decided, she would make it happen. Ariadne rang the bell-pull to summon a maid. She told the maid to fetch Niccolo the butler, and when he arrived, she gave him a series of instructions.

“Let’s put my brother Ippolito in the room next to the one Lady Lucrezia used to occupy. And he will need a personal servant to attend to him, won’t he?”

“Indeed, my lady.”

“I believe Isabella’s personal maid, Maletta, is not very busy these days. I will appoint Maletta as my brother Ippolito’s personal maid.”

Both Niccolo and Sancha stared at Ariadne in surprise.

“Well? Are there any objections?”

“Not at all! Of course not.”

Niccolo bowed respectfully. His attitude was different from before. The authority of the golden seal, the symbol of the lady of the house, was formidable.

“I will see to it as you have commanded. Have a good afternoon.”

After Niccolo left, Sancha asked Ariadne, her eyes wide with bewilderment.

“My lady! Isn’t that a reward rather than revenge?”

Sancha was so flustered that her tongue stumbled.

“Sh-she’s having a hard time among the third-floor maids right now! This is practically a promotion! And the position of attending to Master Ippolito is…”

It was a position Maletta would desperately want. In her past life, Maletta had seduced a married court official and become his mistress to improve her station. Ariadne smiled gently.

“I’m giving her the position precisely because she’ll like it.”

“Why?!”

“Maletta is a villain, isn’t she?”

“Of course she is!”

“And Ippolito is such a tremendous villain that Maletta couldn’t even hold a candle to him. When a small villain gets close to a big one, they’re bound to get eaten.”

Ariadne patiently explained for Sancha’s sake.

“From Maletta’s perspective, Ippolito is a poisoned chalice. If she touches it, she is guaranteed to die.”

Sancha tilted her head, not understanding what that meant, and Ariadne tilted her head, not knowing how the future would unfold.

“Of course, a person with a strong will might be able to resist Ippolito’s temptations… but do we think our dear Maletta is capable of that?”

***

Ippolito returned to the de Mare estate on the last day of the year 1122, when the house was bustling with preparations for the New Year’s Festival. On New Year’s Day, the entire family was to wake up early for prayers at the Grand Cathedral, followed by a lavish lunch at home, so even near midnight, the servants were still awake preparing for the festivities.

“Hey, you there!”

There was a superstition in the Kingdom of Etruscan surrounding the New Year’s Festival. It was believed that a household’s luck for the year was determined by who was the first to set foot inside the house in the new year. It was a kind of ‘first-footing’ jinx. If a vigorous young man entered, the year would be lucky; if it was an old person, a woman, or a young child, the year would be unlucky. If the person had dark black or bright blond hair, it was good luck; if they had red or washed-out brown hair, it was bad luck. The servant who first spotted Ippolito stood there dumbly for a moment, unable to decide whether the de Mare family’s luck for the year would be good or bad. Ippolito was certainly a young man, but he had a sinister air, like a wolf that had starved for a month, rather than a vigorous one. His washed-out, ashen hair and sallow skin made him look devoid of any vitality. Should this be considered good luck because he was a young man, or bad luck because he was a man who looked like a dried-up gray biscuit?

“You slow piece of trash!”

When the servant failed to respond quickly, Ippolito flew into a rage and slammed the bag he was carrying onto the entrance hall floor. The various decorations on the front door were hit by the bag, getting dented and falling off. *Ah. This is the bad luck kind.* The year’s fortune would undoubtedly be very bad. The servant ran inside to announce that the young master had arrived.