Chapter 8

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Translator: Harry Potta

Chapter: 8

Chapter Title: The Count's Cantankerous Master (8)

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"Ugh, that hurts."

As I pushed myself up, Vincent was calmly changing his clothes. Even though he must have heard me tumble, his face remained utterly composed. It hit me then—he'd deliberately stepped out of the way. I swallowed my surging anger with a heavy sigh.

Getting the new bedsheet on was another ordeal. He absolutely refused to lift his hips, so I ended up just draping it over haphazardly.

Even this much left me exhausted. When Vincent, now dressed, reached for the dirty sheet again, I snatched it away and handed him the fresh one instead. Thankfully, he draped it over himself without complaint.

Good, done. I set the laundry by the door, then cleared away the empty dishes. I wiped up the dessert I'd dropped earlier and the porridge splatters that looked like snail trails. After picking up the items that had rolled across the floor, I finally started sweeping.

In the quiet room, only the soft swish of the broom broke the silence. Vincent stayed silent. He probably knew I wouldn't bother him anymore. Compared to his earlier bellowing for me to get out, this was a huge change.

"Why are you still here?"

"Pardon?"

He spoke up out of nowhere. I jumped in surprise. He usually only spat sharp commands like "Get out," "Scram," or "Don't touch me." I never expected him to actually try talking to me. Was he in pain somewhere? His face was pale, but he didn't look ill.

"I'm asking why you're still here."

"...To earn money."

"So if I gave you money, you'd leave?"

"Why? To pay me off and kick me out?"

"If I could."

Was he bragging about his wealth? I appreciated the offer, but if money alone could solve this, I wouldn't be sticking it out here like this.

"Even if you chased me away, another maid would come to tend to you."

"I'd chase her off too."

"And she'd come back."

"So you're saying you won't leave."

"Yes."

I resumed sweeping. He turned to look at me.

"Do you like this mansion?"

"I haven't really thought about it."

"Think about it. It's not the place for idle dreams."

Idle dreams... I pondered for a moment, then shrugged. I wasn't dreaming anyway.

"Where are you from?"

"From Pilton."

"Pilton... That's pretty far."

"Not really. Just over one mountain."

I'd traveled even farther on errands for Father.

After days of walking there and back, my calves would swell up, leaving me barely able to walk for a while. But even when it hurt and I wanted to rest, Father and Alicia wouldn't let me. I was the only one who could handle the housework.

That's why being away from home actually felt more relaxing.

"It felt exciting, like an adventure. Like the protagonists in fairy tales setting off on mysterious, beautiful journeys."

"What nonsense."

"You're right. Real life doesn't have adventures like that. But it was still nice. There was this old bookstore in town—the oldest one. I worked there briefly as a kid. The owner was an elderly gentleman who let me read lots of fairy tales."

"Turning a child into a fantasist."

"Maybe."

But I still loved books. I didn't read fairy tales much anymore as I got older, but I enjoyed stories. Tales of worlds I'd never known or dreamed of. True or false, it didn't matter.

Imagining the worlds in books had been my one joy as a child.

"I even remember a passage: 'When the Lord fashioned thee and bestowed thee upon the world, thy mere existence is a blessing. Love without restraint, for it shall pave thy path ahead.'"

"Love's Sorrow."

"You've read it?"

I asked in surprise, but he replied nonchalantly.

"It's a famous book even kids read."

"I didn't know."

"Bad taste."

"Is it?"

"It's not a good story."

He was right. The ending was tragic. Not in death—the protagonist simply abandons everything and chooses to live alone. Even the person she loved.

'Ah, so this is the end.'

With those words, she walks alone into the vast sea, and the story closes. Far from dying, she shakes off all her torments and departs. That freedom was strangely appealing.

If my life ever reached its end, I'd want to say the same.

Ah. So this is the end.

"I actually liked that part."

"..."

Suddenly, I felt awkward. I wasn't usually this talkative, but his initiating conversation had thrilled me into rambling. I glanced at him cautiously before continuing.

"M-Master, have you read any books you enjoyed?"

"I don't read that crap."

That crap...? Isn't reading part of a noble's education?

Alicia used to complain that the lord's son droned on endlessly about his "cultivation" books. When I worked at the bookstore, nobles visited often. Newly published ones sold fastest.

I turned to him. Vincent lay staring at the ceiling, eyes closed. Thinking he might be falling asleep, I stopped talking and focused on cleaning.

"I stopped after I lost my sight."

Ah, realization dawned late. I looked back at him. His profile, eyes shut, seemed a bit forlorn.

"There are books for the blind."

"Not all books."

"Then hire someone to read to you."

"So they can blab about my condition everywhere?"

Sarcasm again. He was so twisted inside. Even if he hired a reader, he'd find some excuse to fire them. Or just ask someone he trusted... Ah!

"Shall I read to you?!"

I couldn't hide my excitement.

This huge mansion must have a library. Why hadn't I thought of that? But when his puzzled gaze fixed on me, I realized my mistake. Calming my trembling heart, I feigned composure.

"If that's what you want, Master."

"With that piggy voice of yours?"

"...I've never been told my voice is bad."

"Must be everything else then."

"..."

He latched onto my words instantly. Tempted to whack him with the broom.

But I backed down. This wasn't the time to clash—it was time to yield.

"Don't you get bored sleeping all the time? No walks, never leaving bed. That's why you're so listless. People need routine."

"Stop beating around the bush. What do you want?"

"How about trying a book?"

"Can't read."

"That's why I'll read it to you."

"No."

Not a hint of hesitation. I let out a deep sigh.

"I thought a hobby might mellow your temper..."

"Hey."

"You never consider the poor servants... Always yelling, hurling things dangerously. Scarring a pretty girl's face... She endured it quietly... What makes you so superior...?"

"Hey."

"It's so unfair, so heartbreaking."

Seizing the moment, I unloaded every grievance. His hand groped across the nightstand. But he'd already thrown everything.

I grinned as I saw him clench his fist tight.

"Now, Master. Listen closely."

Hm, hm. I cleared my throat. No response. He seemed to have rolled over—only his back visible. Still, I happily picked up a book.

"It was a day when the warmth of the sun seeped into her body."

"Boring."

"The girl— huh?"

"Boring. Something else."

I thought he was asleep, but his ears were open. Not even a full line in, though.

"I barely read one line."

"That line sucked."

"You should hear more..."

"Something else."

"Fine, something else."

I set the book down calmly and picked up another. Books have tastes too, and I didn't know his, so I'd brought several.

I cleared my throat again.

"The girl's day began with a stroll in the garden."

"Boring."

"..."

"Something else."

Not even a word. You bastard.

Old anger bubbled up. Calm down. He's the master paying my wage. I breathed silently to suppress it.

"Why no answer? Something else."

"Yes. Sure. Something else."

I set down the book and grabbed another.

"The boy—"

"Boring. Something else."

"Are you serious?"

I slammed the book on my lap and vented. But Vincent was shameless.

"Is it wrong to say boring things are boring?"

"You won't even listen properly."

"I know without listening. It's boring."

"What kind of standard is that?"

"Daring to sass me? A mere maid?"

"..."

His words shut me up. Coward!

"No more books to read. I need to fetch more."

"Then go fetch them."

"...Tell me a book you like. I'll get that one."

"I don't reread books."

"Tell me what kind of stories you like. Genre or something."

"None."

I sighed deeply. This was payback for earlier, no doubt. After all my kindness, this pettiness. So childish.

"What're you doing? Go get them."

I shot to my feet.

Grabbing three unread books, I stormed out with loud thuds. The library was just downstairs. I was so mad I took the central stairs.

Calm down. Stay cool in moments like this. His tantrums were nothing new—I needed to be colder.

In the library, I scanned the packed shelves, pondering what stories he'd like. He'd probably whine no matter what I brought.

Still, I examined carefully. Then my eyes locked on one spot.

"This is it!"

I yanked out every book from that shelf section.