The Maid of the Cursed Princess

From the start, Dorothy had no intention of going to the slums alone.

She knew that if assassins attacked again while separated from Sibylla like last time, she would be powerless to deal with it.

Moreover, seeing is believing – Dorothy judged that directly showing Sibylla’s condition would be slightly more helpful in breaking the curse than merely describing it verbally, as her own speaking abilities weren’t particularly eloquent when it came to detailed explanations.

Opportunities to meet that reclusive witch would be few and far between. So would it not be better to properly handle everything at once, whatever it took?

Of course, Dorothy also knew bringing Sibylla to the slums was equally dangerous.

What kind of place were the slums, after all? A lawless land where naive outsiders who blundered in would be stripped of not just their possessions, but their very bodies, unable to return?

To bring a frail woman there, moreover one in such a dreadful cursed state, was suicidal. Dorothy vividly remembered the various atrocities that occurred in the slums’ shadier corners.

Had it not been for the unprecedented attack by assassins, Dorothy would have gone to the slums alone no matter how fervently Sibylla protested. But with Sibylla’s life confirmed to be targeted, she couldn’t afford such recklessness.

Thus, Dorothy decided to bring Sibylla along, for as dangerous as the slums were said to be, it was no more perilous than leaving the Princess alone in the tower.

And so, in the dead of night when all had fallen asleep, a horse boldly appeared before the High Tower.

“…What is that horse?”

“I brought it from a nearby stable.”

“You didn’t steal it, did you?”

It was the middle of the night, and the horse was but a mere beast, yet for some reason Sibylla could sense its inner turmoil and reluctance.

“When Orléans’s Princess requires a horse, who would dare refuse? Everyone would be overjoyed and insist I take their steed, if anything.”

The horse’s unease suggested it hadn’t been properly cleared by its owner, yet Dorothy shamelessly saddled it and offered her hand regardless, prompting Sibylla to let out a ‘Huh’ – whether a sigh or something else, she couldn’t tell.

“Mount up, Princess, I shall handle the horse.”

“You know how to ride, then?”

Horseback riding was a more difficult skill than it appeared, for horses were inherently unruly, selfish beasts by nature.

Even experienced grooms would occasionally provoke a horse’s ire and meet an untimely end by hoof, incidents uncommon enough to be reported, demonstrating riding’s difficulty. And that only covered a horse’s temperament and the act of mounting – properly handling one required technique.

“I learned in the past. I had more occasions to ride than expected.”

“I see- Kyaaah!?”

Before Sibylla could finish, Dorothy had lifted her onto the horse’s back and mounted up behind her, taking the reins.

“Hold on tight. You may fall off if not careful.”

For a moment, Sibylla wondered what to hold onto, as there was only one thing to grasp from horseback.

“…”

Soon, she embraced Dorothy from behind, leaning against her back.

“…Is this alright with you?”

Then, Sibylla suddenly asked Dorothy.

For this was the first physical contact she had experienced with another since becoming cursed.

Previous servants had avoided not just touching Sibylla, but even meeting her gaze. And Sibylla hadn’t found such treatment particularly strange either.

Rather, the one who seemed strange to Sibylla was Dorothy, behaving as if the curse meant nothing – an utter anomaly to Sibylla, who had suffered the curse’s effects for over half her life and grown accustomed to the subsequent treatment.

Was she truly unbothered by such close contact, by this embrace?

“Is something… uncomfortable?”

“No, no, it is not you.”

But despite Sibylla’s concerns, Dorothy showed no signs of discomfort, only asking if there was any inconvenience.

Suddenly embarrassed by Dorothy’s attitude, Sibylla tightened her arms around her waist and buried her face in her back.

* * *

“…That aside, what is with that outfit?”

“I temporarily donned clothes from the second floor wardrobe. Riding sidesaddle in a long skirt would be inconvenient, and going to the slums in a maid’s uniform would draw unwanted attention.”

A beige checkered coat and hat evocative of a detective, plus some pipe and monocle of unknown origin.

“…Have there been any servants who dressed like that?”

It was an outfit both befitting and unsuited, Sibylla assessed.

“…Ah, come to think of it, we should decide on an alias.”

“An alias?”

Sibylla made no attempt to hide her bewilderment at Dorothy’s words. What was this about deciding on an alias?

“I can’t call you Princess out there.”

“…I suppose not.”

That the Princess had been cursed was already common knowledge throughout Orléans, the slums no exception.

So what would happen if a suspicious robed figure appeared calling their companion ‘Princess’?

“An alias, an alias… but nothing comes to mind.”

Yet when it came to actually choosing an alias, Sibylla couldn’t think of a suitable idea.

Was not giving an alias essentially naming someone? Having never named even a dog or cat, let alone a human, the task of nomenclature was too daunting for Sibylla.

“Then may I suggest one?”

“Do as you wish.”

But unlike Sibylla, Dorothy confidently requested permission, as if she had already prepared an alias.

“How about Ozma?”

“Ozma?”

An unfamiliar name, not a foreign-sounding one like Dorothy Gale, but a strange name of unknown origin.

“What does it mean?”

“Nothing in particular. I only recall it was the name of a Princess from a fairy tale I read in childhood.”

“Ah.”

Sibylla had momentarily forgotten this eccentric maid’s fondness for fairy tales.

“A fairy tale, is it…”

“If you dislike it, I can suggest another name…”

While not particularly appealing to Sibylla, who didn’t care for fairy tales:

“No, Ozma will do.”

Still, she accepted the alias Ozma. It was a name she would only use once and discard, after all.

Compared to ‘Princess So-and-So’ or ‘The Girl with The Cape’ or whatever, Ozma at least sounded like a proper name.

* * *

Orléans people generally disliked being active after sunset.

Part of it stemmed from their sun-worshipping tendencies, but even without that, working by day and resting at night was effectively a genetic instinct ingrained in humanity long before achieving proper civilization.

Fundamentally, humans and most animals are diurnal creatures active during the day. How could one function, move about, if they could not see?

Thus, unless evolving as nocturnal creatures to avoid predators or take advantage of prey’s vulnerability, most animals preferred activity during the day rather than night – humans were no exception.

Even the residents of Hyperion’s slums, considerably more active after sunset compared to other districts, would return home for a good night’s sleep once past the 3-4 AM threshold more often than not. Truly nocturnal lifestyles were quite rare.

“What, do you expect me to open my door during my precious free time for rude guests?”

And the witch was one of those few genuinely nocturnal humans.

“Still sleeping by day and rising at night, I see.”

“These days, I keep encountering faces I’d rather not see. Maybe I should move to Lombardy.”

Even before Dorothy came to know the witch, she had been a nocturnal human.

Not due to busy workloads or insomnia, but simply someone who chose to become nocturnal out of pure preference for sleeping during the day and being active at night.

“I had thought you would be awake at this hour.”

“If you’d come just two or three hours later, I wouldn’t have had to see your face at all.”

Despite their long journey, the witch made no attempt to hide her disdain toward the unexpected guests, prompting Dorothy to inwardly remark: She hasn’t changed, has she?

“So, what business brings you? Your request couldn’t possibly have ended already.”

“It is not me, but this person who can better explain directly.”

The robed, unidentified figure who had appeared behind Dorothy.

“Oh-ho… I didn’t expect to meet you here.”

But the witch immediately saw through her identity.

“Princess Sibylla. Such esteemed presence in this humble… no, this humble presence in an esteemed place.”

One target someone sought to protect, while others wished to kill – the subject of two opposing requests.

“So what brings the Princess here… Ah, but first I should introduce myself.”

Seeing the Princess she had assumed would never leave the High Tower standing before her very eyes, even outside the tower, the witch chuckled.

“I am… what should I call myself? The Good Witch, perhaps? And my name… right.”

Murmuring inwardly that she would be seeing many things in her long life:

“Call me Glinda for now, Glinda the Good Witch.”