Chapter 7

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Translator: Harry Potta

Chapter: 7

Chapter Title: The Count's Temperamental Master

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Though I was wrestling with him for fear of being thrown out if I didn't do something, I honestly thought I'd face punishment if I got caught. To me, it was a life-or-death gamble. But why? Puzzled, I followed after her, and Isabella's voice drifted out.

"Paula, do you know how many servants have passed through this place?"

"Ah, yes. I've heard a little about it."

"Given the circumstances, we tried to be extra thorough, carefully vetting candidates more strictly than usual. But even those we brought in couldn't properly attend to the Master. In fact, his condition only worsened. And yet we had to keep finding people, but strange rumors started circulating behind the scenes, making it harder to hire anyone new. That's part of why we brought in someone like you, Paula, without proper training, and put you in charge of this."

Then Isabella stopped and turned around. I halted too, still clutching my nose through my apron as I faced her. My eyes, peeking through the slight gap in my parted bangs, blinked rapidly.

"We can't keep cycling through people forever. It's time to change our approach."

"Then..."

"As long as you don't harm the Master's body, attending to him is entirely up to you. Do whatever you think is best."

It was as good as tacit approval of my actions. I hadn't expected her to turn a blind eye like this. Whatever those rumors were...

Either way, it was good news for me. I had no intention of harming him. Quite the opposite—I wanted to make him healthier. But that didn't mean the process would be easy.

He freaked out at the mere touch of another person on his body, shoving them away and hurling objects while yelling for them to get out. He'd smash every vessel we filled, leaving the floor and furniture in ruins. And when there was nothing left to throw, he'd bellow at the top of his lungs or claw at his own neck and chest until the skin tore, forcing me to intervene and break a sweat holding him back.

At this point, it was just a question of who would wear out first.

And at night, faint groans seeped through the thin walls. Sounds of resistance mingled with sobs of pain. A light sleeper like me would jolt awake at even those whispers. Listening to those gasps, on the verge of flickering out, I'd end up staring blankly into the darkness, wide-eyed. Sleep, once chased away, wouldn't return easily.

He was fighting.

Against death.

That realization stirred a strange sense of kinship in me.

I wanted to live on, thin and long—even just one more day. Some might crave the end in this hellish existence, but not me.

I wanted to live. There had been a time when I'd desperately wished for death, but now I yearned to live. Even if it was a hellish life, choosing death felt like defeat. I didn't care if they pointed fingers calling me ugly or spat curses calling me filthy. I'd bow my head and bend my body if that's what it took to survive.

People called me a freak for it. Fine by me.

Even if it meant catching the eye of the passing Old Gentleman by chance, landing a maid position in the prestigious Count's household, only to serve a blind master with a temper beyond imagination.

As I entered Vincent's room, an object flew at me as expected. A cup whooshed past my right side and shattered against the door with a crash. A clock whizzed by my left and tumbled across the floor after hitting the wall. Undeterred, a pillow sailed in and smacked me square in the face before dropping. The impact sent the silver plate in my hands pitching forward, desserts spilling off in a predictable mess.

I gazed numbly at him unleashing every tantrum in the book, pondering my next move in my head. Advance or retreat. For now, I bent down to clean the smashed desserts from the floor. Another pillow promptly smacked me in the face.

The moment it flopped off, I made up my mind. I had to say something.

As I straightened up, a muffled groan escaped him. Vincent was curled up tight. All traces of his earlier fury gone.

No—something was wrong with him.

"Master!"

Vincent clutched his chest, gasping for air.

Seeing his face drain white, I rummaged in my apron pocket and pulled out a small device, wedging it into his mouth. Pressing the protruding top made him start breathing, ragged but steady.

Attending him lately had thrown all sorts of surprises my way. One was these sudden attacks where he couldn't breathe.

The first time, I'd panicked and bolted to the main house to fetch Isabella. When I explained Vincent's state, she summoned the physician right away. Turns out there was a dedicated doctor living on-site for the Master.

The physician examined Vincent writhing and clutching his chest, then took immediate action—inserting one of these small devices into his mouth, just like this, and pressing the top to help him breathe until he stabilized.

When I asked the departing doctor what it was, he said it was a breathing aid.

"I'll give you one to keep on hand. Always have it ready."

This tiny thing, fitting neatly in my palm, had saved his life.

According to the physician, his blindness left him on constant edge, building up exhaustion. Add irregular meals and no outings, and his body was severely weakened—making illness more likely.

To overcome it, he needed regular meals, sunlight, light exercise. But Vincent stayed holed up in his room. Even medicine he refused.

Like a man trying to die.

What's so bad about being blind? But imagining myself unable to see terrified me. Surviving in pitch darkness, relying solely on sound—how horrifying.

Sure, you could grope for textures, smell, taste. But none of that conquers the unseen terror. And he'd nearly died before. That fear must dwarf my imagination.

Still, don't die.

Not pity. I just didn't want to deal with disposing of my master's corpse.

But I knew. Every night, he thrashed for life itself.

I removed the breathing aid from his mouth as he finally breathed on his own. Slipping it back into my pocket, I checked on him lying in bed. Cold sweat beaded his forehead; his pallid face looked drained. But his breathing was steadier than before.

As I reached to wipe the sweat, he sharply swatted my hand away. Eyes fixed on the ceiling, his furrowed brow screamed displeasure.

"Don't touch me."

"You're talking, so you must be feeling better."

"I'd feel even better without you."

Always with that mouth.

"Enjoying the pain, are you?"

"Get out."

"After you eat."

I'd brought breakfast instead of the ruined dessert. The usual rice porridge, thin as water. One hand held the bowl, the other the spoon as I approached him. No need to show my braced expression.

"Sto— guh— huff!"

"Yes, yes."

I grabbed his familiarly dodging face and spooned porridge into his mouth. Part of me wanted to jam my fingers in to hold it open, but I couldn't. Last time, he'd nearly bitten one off.

I wanted to feed him calmly, but his resistance escalated until I was pouring the bowl outright. Spilled porridge soaked the sheets, splattering his face and neck in a mess.

"N—no, guh, out— ack!"

"Just a bit more."

"Le— guh— let... let go!"

Unable to take it, he kicked me hard. Focused on force-feeding, I toppled backward without resistance. We'd been tussling near the bed's edge; I crashed straight to the floor.

"Ugh."

It hurt! Clutching my smacked occiput, I groaned. My vision blurred. The bowl landed beside my face, spinning to a stop.

Porridge splattered from floor to bed, tracing a milky path. His clothes were filthy with it too. Yet he yanked the sheet over himself. Porridge from his cheek plopped onto it.

How to clean that? Sighing at the inevitable scuffle, I steeled myself.

"You're insane."

"The sheets are dirty. Your clothes too. Better change into fresh ones."

I picked up the empty bowl, hunting for the spoon—but it was nowhere. Giving up, I fetched new sheets and nightclothes. His temper taught me it was smarter to handle everything at once rather than step by step.

"Don't touch my body."

"If you change yourself, I won't."

After a pause, I shoved the fresh nightclothes at him. He pressed against the wall, wary. I shook them enticingly, but he wouldn't take them, so I climbed onto the bed to force it—only for him to snatch them away.

Surprised by his compliance, I quickly grabbed a small basin of lukewarm water. Since he refused baths, it was for wiping him down with a damp cloth.

"Hold on."

As I tried to stop him changing in his filth, he smacked my hand away—hard enough for a slap to echo. He glared fiercely, but I wasn't fazed. Routine by now.

"Changing like that keeps you just as dirty. Wipe with this first."

I pressed the damp cloth into his hand. He hesitated, so I offered to do it myself—prompting him to finally wipe his face.

But he missed the spots. Correcting him, he only pretended.

Snatching the wet cloth, I wiped the porridge from his face myself. He recoiled immediately. Nowhere to flee. Silently, I cleaned his face, neck, and hair, then stepped down.

I needed to change the bedcovers too, glancing at him—but he showed no sign of budging. Testing the waters, I yanked the sheet. Sensing my intent, he feigned ignorance, unmoving.

A tug-of-war ensued between my pull and his resistance. Then, in one go, the sheet ripped free—sending me tumbling off the bed for the second head-smack on the floor.