DYKWRI - Prologue

Prologue

“Oh? Is that so? And what does that have to do with me?”

I tilted my head at the personal maid introduced to me — the girl who had gone pale right in front of me.

Even though she was presented as my personal maid, she couldn’t even choose a dress proper for the dining table. The face-washing water she brought each morning was either as cold as ice or hot enough to burn. When I gave her an instruction she sulked and refused to answer. She, of course, didn’t carry out the task. She wouldn’t tell the other maids to clean the room; when asked to prepare tea she would slap down a pot that smelled foul. When I asked Daniel, the butler, if this was the standard for maids in the Count’s household, he was dumbfounded and stared at the girl.

“Excuse me, Madam… Is what you just said true…?”

“Oh, Daniel, how dreadful. There’s no advantage for you to lie to me. It’s been a week since I married into this household, and everything has been like this from top to bottom. I even thought you have different culture than that of my family.”

As I tilted my head, my long blonde hair fell lightly. I added that I had thought all the maids were unable even to do their hair properly.

“You know, my husband told me he would leave the management of the mansion to me, didn’t you? So when I reviewed the employment contracts I found this girl was paid less than the others. When I checked the reason it said that because she would be my personal maid, the Count’s family would guarantee medical care for her family. But, as I said, she shows no ambition and is quite rebellious. I judged that the reason was actually her way of indicating she didn’t want the guarantee.”

Was I mistaken? I looked at Daniel, who, like the girl, had gone pale.

“Miss Mina… did you really abandon your duties…?” Daniel asked in a trembling voice, but she did not answer.

Perhaps “unable to answer” would be more accurate.

“They told me it's just for appearance...”

“But does being a figurehead justify abandoning one’s duties?”

When I asked her again, she bit her lower lip and looked down. I had heard she was twenty-two this year, but her manners were far more childish than that, I thought, and I looked at the two of them straight on. That is why I call her a girl.

Well, all of this must have been my husband’s poor judgment, I thought myself. I found myself remembering the conversation I’d had with my husband a week ago. 

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