The Maid of the Cursed Princess

The request, no, the command to lift her curse and make her happy.

Dorothy contemplated her young master’s order. Was the Princess’s wish even possible? Did she herself have the ability to complete such an order?

“It will be difficult.”

Dorothy thought it was impossible. Even if possible, the chances were not high.

A curse older than the Princess, older than Dorothy herself, older even than the current King – a curse that had persisted for centuries without breaking, one the heroic Jason himself couldn’t dispel and had to pass down to future generations. There would be no way for a mere slum urchin unrelated to the royal bloodline to lift it.

“Hmm…”

Dorothy pondered. Could someone incapable of even basic housework resolve such a monumental task? Even stray dogs would laugh themselves silly at the notion before becoming some beggar’s next meal.

“That woman, though…”

However, Dorothy thought there might be a way if not her, but someone else. The world did not solely consist of incompetent fools like herself, did it? For instance:

“The witch…”

The one nicknamed witch, living in the dampest, mustiest corner even among the dank slums, that ancient crone always reeking of mildew.

“She was the one who turned me into a woman, after all.”

The witch had accomplished the logically impossible feat of altering one’s biological sex at birth with a mere vial of dubious potion.

Perhaps that witch could discover a way to break the curse as well?

“Hmm…”

In truth, this possibility wasn’t particularly high either, as the witch and the curse were completely unrelated.

Moreover, if the witch knew how to break it, she would have done so herself instead of sending Dorothy as a proxy to attend the Princess.

However, among those Dorothy knew, the witch was the only one who might possess even a shred of a clue about the curse. Her foul personality aside, there were few as wise as her in all of Orléans.

“I should go meet her.”

The sole existence who might know anything about this curse.

“…But how do I meet her?”

The problem was that to meet the witch, she would have to go to the slums.

Dorothy had never seen the witch leave her workshop.

A reclusive loner – what better way to describe the witch?

It wasn’t due to shyness or excessive modesty.

She simply couldn’t be bothered to go out – that was the entire reason for her reclusion.

“There’s no way to send a letter, and even if I did, she wouldn’t come…”

No matter how desperately she pleaded for the witch’s aid in lifting the curse, that foul-tempered witch would just fart and ask what business it was of hers.

So if Dorothy wanted even a semblance of her heeding the request, she would have to directly visit the witch’s lair in the slums.

“Hmm…”

Having vowed to her master to lift the royal family’s curse, Dorothy couldn’t break that promise, for a master’s command was absolute.

Thus…

* * *

“…You wish to go to the slums?”

“Yes, I seek your permission.”

Watching the maid request her permission as usual after another meager meal, Sibylla thought.

Why does her madness seem to worsen by the day?

“You of all people should know well what kind of place the slums are.”

The danger of Hyperion’s slums was something the slum-born Dorothy undoubtedly understood better than anyone – the sun’s underbelly, Orléans’s shadow, a lawless zone where any incident was unsurprising.

“So you intend to visit those very slums? Now?”

“Yes, that is correct.”

Despite Sibylla’s question, Dorothy simply nodded as if it were no issue.

“I know the slums better than anyone, having lived there from childhood until now.”

Dorothy was confident she could return safely from the slums.

Navigating the dark, filthy alleys and sewers, she had learned how to survive there.

“So have no worries about that. Only…”

“Can you truly guarantee you will return unharmed?”

Cutting off Dorothy, Sibylla asked:

“Can you vouch with absolute certainty there is no chance of injury, of losing your life, of being unable to return?”

“…To claim there is absolutely no such risk would be a lie…”

“Meaning there is a possibility you may not return. Then what about me?”

If Dorothy didn’t return, what would happen?

“If you don’t return, I will inevitably die.”

The only one guarding Sibylla’s side currently was Dorothy alone.

“Is there any assurance assassins will not come for my neck again like that time?”

If even Dorothy left the Princess’s side, Sibylla would be utterly defenseless.

“Contact the palace to borrow the royal guard…”

“This High Tower is a place even that loyal chamberlain was reluctant to visit. Would the royal guard be any different?”

Sibylla didn’t trust the royal guard.

“How could I entrust my protection to those who dread even laying eyes upon me?”

For she had learned from her father how untrustworthy the royal guard could be.

“Thus, I cannot permit you to leave for the slums.”

Of course, Sibylla herself knew full well it was a mere pretext, no matter how elegantly she tried to package it – her innermost feelings were not so.

Deliberately ignoring her selfish, childish inner voice, Sibylla didn’t grant Dorothy’s request.

“…Princess.”

Though her hidden feelings had been seen through once already, there were no rules against being read a second time.

“Are you afraid of me leaving the Princess’s side?”

“…If you say another word, I shall severely punish you for blasphemy-“

“Then let us go out together.”

In a tone as casual as discussing the next day’s menu, Dorothy proposed to Sibylla.

“…What?”

It was not so trivial a suggestion to be so lightly tossed out.

“Princess, don’t you wish to go outside?”

* * *

11 Sangsong Street – the address of their intended destination designated long ago by the now meaningless Hyperion municipal office. Take a right from the main street into an alley, then another right, and a three-story building would appear.

Push open the dilapidated, practically non-existent door and enter, slide the old cabinet aside to reveal a spiral staircase leading underground, descend three and a half turns, and an aged door would come into view.

Beyond that door was the workshop of a young girl – or rather, an old crone donning a young girl’s guise, befitting the slums.

She was called the witch in the slums.

Her witch-like attire and somewhat sinister appearance contrasted with her girlish looks, coupled with a gruff tone and mannerisms more akin to a cantankerous old woman, and most decisively, the various items she would produce that defied the world’s natural laws, all contributing to her witch moniker.

“…Achoo-!!!”

Suddenly seized by an itchy nose, the witch let out an unceremonious sneeze as she gazed into the empty air.

“Someone’s talking about me, my ears are itching. Hmph…”

But the witch soon attributed the sneeze to the dust permeating her workshop, sniffling as she brushed away the swirling particles.

“So, what brings you here?”

She then addressed the guest silently watching her.

“…”

“When an adult speaks, you should respond. You’re still utterly graceless, I see.”

The witch knew this guest, for they were bound by a bitter connection.

A guest as unwelcome as Dorothy – that was who this woman was to the witch.

“Arachne is…”

“What, did you come dreaming of completing that unfinished revenge from back then? Though I suppose the residents of Königsberg are famously stubborn.”

The woman hailed from Königsberg, a city that had once suffered greatly at Arachne’s hands – a city of evildoers.

“Arachne is gone, off on quite the lengthy request. It would be nice if she dropped dead over there and never returned, tehee…”

But the witch herself knew better than anyone that would never happen, for Dorothy Gale, Arachne, wasn’t so weak.

“I have no business with Arachne.”

“Then what brings you here? That’s the second time I’m asking.”

In lieu of a verbal answer, the woman retrieved something from her bosom and set it on the table in response to the witch’s question.

“Oh ho, this is…”

“My target to kill.”

It was a photograph, so shaken that the subject was difficult to make out, as if the photographer had palsy.

“The Princess, Sibylla Thérèse d’Orléans.”

But the witch easily recognized the person in the photograph, as the one provided by the client when arranging Dorothy’s request had been of similar quality.

“I wish to obtain information on the target.”

“Oh-ho.”

So the Lombardy fools have not regained their senses yet, the witch inwardly mused.

‘Though I suppose those idiots would have no way of knowing who is currently guarding the Princess.’

She wondered how they might react in Königsberg if they learned the nightmare from nine years ago was by the Princess’s side.

‘Not that it would change anything even if they knew.’

It might even be more dull than expected, the witch thought as she observed the envoy they had sent.

“Well, very well, I shall tell you. Slave Prince.”

“…”

“What, would you prefer I call you Slave Princess instead? Kuhuk.”

Ah, it had been too long since she had some fun.

The golden eyes glinted ominously.