The Maid of the Cursed Princess

“Haaah…”

Another failure in the end, even more disastrous than the last.

Gazing at the blackened, still bubbling sludge on the plate that had been there for quite some time, Dorothy let out a deep sigh.

With the jambon beurre previously, there was at least the excuse of clashing with the Princess’s tastes.

No, it wasn’t merely an excuse – there was no inherent issue with the food itself. It had simply been a culturally jarring shock for the Princess, the unrestrained tavern roughness unfamiliar to her palate.

But this time was different, for even to Dorothy of slum origins, it was clear that horrific black slime couldn’t be called Bœuf Bourguignon.

If the cook whose style had greatly influenced Dorothy’s cooking witnessed this, he might have raged ‘How could you make something like this based on my teachings?’ and tried to kill her with his kitchen knife.

Fortunately, there was no such cook here, and even if there were, he would have no way of knowing Dorothy was the gambling addict who used to frequent his establishment.

“I’m sorry…”

Still, the weight of guilt was so heavy that Dorothy couldn’t bring herself to raise her head as she apologized to that cook.

“…I’m hungry.”

After discarding what had once been beef into the trash and cleaning up her disastrous attempt at cooking, Dorothy’s stomach began to growl in protest.

Since arriving at the High Tower, Dorothy had been subsisting on the leftovers from the Princess’s meals. The Princess was such a light eater that a single slice of bread would fill her, while Dorothy had been serving portions slightly larger than a normal person’s.

Just last time, she had eaten the jambon beurre the Princess left behind. But this Bœuf Bourguignon was such an utter failure even Dorothy herself couldn’t bring herself to take a spoonful.

“I can cook something separate for myself, can’t I?”

In fact, it was stranger to eat others’ leftovers, and her predecessors had prepared their own meals separately, so it shouldn’t be an issue.

However, to serve the Princess an inedible disaster fit only for strays while eating proper food herself would prick even the triple-plated conscience of Dorothy to the point of questioning if she was even human.

The greatest difference between humans and beasts was the ability to exercise restraint. Allowing instinct to precede reason was the mark of an animal, not a human.

“…Princess, I’m sorry.”

But to disregard the findings of various biologists classifying humans as a species of animal was one of the three fallacies Orléans people must avoid – confirmation bias. Should she ignore the life’s work of scholars who do nothing but research and eat?

Thus, Dorothy was about to try her hand at beef again… before stopping herself. A premonition warned that another beef attempt could produce something even more monstrous than the last.

“I should just eat a jambon beurre… Hm?”

As Dorothy considered falling back on the familiar safety of the jambon beurre, her eyes caught sight of a carriage approaching the tower in the distance.

“But the coachman just left?”

Dorothy remembered the chamberlain’s words that the coachman would only come once a week. Yet what her eyes beheld was unmistakably a carriage, albeit with a slightly different appearance.

“Should I go down?”

Whether greeting guests first was the duty of the maid or the master was a conundrum for Dorothy, unfamiliar with noble etiquette. But-

“Hmm… I should probably go down.”

Even if etiquette dictated the master should receive them first, would it not be rather excessive to impose such protocol on an invalid?

“What a hassle…”

Thus, Dorothy sighed deeply and tidied her attire.

Carelessly provoking guests would only bring scolding upon herself, benefiting neither her nor the Princess.

The unexpected person who greeted Dorothy after her hasty preparations was:

“…Miss Gale.”

“Chief Chamberlain?”

The chamberlain, Matthieu de Fontaine – the elderly man who had appeared reluctant to even set foot here now stood rigidly before her.

“…What brings you directly to the High Tower, Chamberlain?”

The first thought upon seeing him was, ‘Can he even get down?’

When Dorothy had arrived with him previously, the chamberlain had been visibly averse to disembarking from the carriage, likely due to the Princess’s curse.

“For a moment, there is something I must discuss.”

But this time was different – he was standing firmly on both feet. And without a separate coachman to drive the carriage, it was clear the chamberlain had handled it himself.

“Then let me escort you to the Princess…”

“Not the Princess, but you, Miss Gale, are the one I must speak with.”

What wind was blowing? Dorothy wondered, for his grave demeanor suggested this was no trivial matter – something serious enough to disregard even that dreaded curse.

“Ah, could this be about those assassins?”

“…”

She had hit the mark, judging by the chamberlain’s silence, confirming her guess that he had come regarding the assassin’s severed head delivered to him by her own hand.

‘Was my explanation lacking? It shouldn’t be, though?’

But was that reason enough to come in person, setting the mood like this? Dorothy knew the chamberlain was no simpleton to miss such implications.

“First, shall we board the carriage? This is not a discussion suited for the Princess’s presence.”

“That will not be possible.”

However, the chamberlain’s following words made Dorothy wonder if this elderly man was perhaps duller than she had assumed.

“The Princess nearly came to harm just last night. In such a situation, how could I leave her side unattended?”

If not for Dorothy, the Princess would have died then and there. With only Dorothy as the Princess’s sole protection detail, if she were to leave, the Princess would be utterly defenseless.

“…It seems my thinking was shortsighted. Then we shall speak here.”

“Yes, by all means. It hardly seems a suitable place to enjoy tea and refreshments, in any case.”

“No matter, at my advanced age chewing is already difficult enough.”

The chamberlain walked past Dorothy through the gate, under his own power.

“Whose neck is that?”

After silently surveying the ravaged courtyard, the chamberlain suddenly asked Dorothy.

“It belongs to one of the assassins who tried to harm the Princess.”

Why even ask when he should know full well already?

“If one of the assassins, does that mean there were others?”

“Yes, a total of four. One who directly targeted the Princess, and three who waited outside for their comrade. That neck belongs to the one who tried to harm the Princess directly.”

At Dorothy’s answer, the chamberlain turned to face her.

“And what of the remaining three?”

“Have no worries, I eliminated them without a trace to prevent any further trouble. Though I regret being unable to deliver their necks as well due to the severity of their… bodily damage.”

In the chamberlain’s eyes, Dorothy read an emotion distinct from his previous evaluative gaze – a look of unease and disorder.

“Miss Gale.”

Clenching and unclenching his fists as if about to throw a punch, the trembling chamberlain forced the words out:

“Are you… Arachne?”

“…Arachne?”

Posing his question like a detective unveiling her identity before the final curtain, Dorothy fell into contemplation at the chamberlain’s inquiry.

‘What is Arachne?’

From the outset, she had little interest in worldly affairs. So would she even consider the consequences of her actions, or what she might be called by others?

‘…Ah right, the witch did mention it.’

After straining to dredge up her memories, Dorothy recalled the witch saying, ‘Those noble bastards are calling you Arachne.’

“Yes, I… suppose so. Probably.”

Unable to say for certain, but supposing she was likely the one the chamberlain sought, Dorothy unhesitatingly answered.

“…I had hoped not.”

It didn’t seem to be the answer the chamberlain wished for, however.

“How could such a murderer be allowed at the Princess’s side…”

“Is it not precisely because I am such a murderer that I am at the Princess’s side?”

Dorothy responded to the chamberlain’s murmurs.

“Everyone else avoids attending the Princess.”

She took no offense at being called a murderer, for it was the truth.

“So someone like me with tarnished hands ended up being assigned to the Princess. The able-bodied nobles with not a single burden in life shunned the Princess, leaving the opportunity to this wicked one who would kill for money.”

But at least to those primarily responsible for leaving the Princess in a murderer’s hands, she didn’t wish to hear such words.

“I don’t know if you have the right to call me a murderer, Chamberlain.”

“What…”

“Are you not one of them as well?”

Absolutely not.

“Refusing to even disembark from the carriage, unwilling to lay eyes on that dreadful sight for fear of vomiting everything in your gut – all because she is the Cursed one.”

To those wretches who ignored and turned their backs on a child, severing her from the world solely because she was cursed:

“This hypocrite.”

She didn’t wish to hear it from someone like him.