The Villainess Does Not Want to Die

Chapter 12: Some time later.

Recently, as I spent my days holed up in my room, reading books all day long, I came to a realization.

I’m smarter than I thought.

Not in the sense of being wise or sagacious, but simply in that I learn and absorb things quickly.

Or maybe it’s just that I’m young and have a good memory.

The content of the books is terribly predictable.

Don’t point your knife at others during meals.

When eating soup, tilt the spoon outward, not inward, and avoid clinking it against the bowl.

Don’t open your mouth when there’s food inside.

Things like that.

If I read the book out loud once and go over the content in my head, I memorize it quickly.

I suppose it’s more like common sense than I already knew.

It’s been about a month since I arrived here.

The Duchess no longer quizzes me on the contents of the books.

Probably because she’s realized that I’ve perfectly memorized them without the need to ask.

This, after she’d brought actual test papers and practically forced me to solve them at one point.

Lately, instead of reading, I’ve been learning about behavior expected of a noble—how to act and the thoughts one must always keep in mind.

It’s no exaggeration to call it brainwashing.

Through this, I’ve come to roughly understand why even lower-ranking nobles, who are barely different from wealthy commoners, look down on others and treat the poor like flies.

I’ve seen it myself.

Even powerless nobles without connections or wealth, who occasionally got stabbed in back alleys, always treated commoners with disdain.

Even when they were unarmed and their assailants held knives, they acted as if it were unthinkable for a commoner to stab a noble.

In the brothel district, nobles would often kick filthy children asking for pocket change without a shred of mercy—unless the child was as cute as me or as beautiful as my mother, who they might suspect had noble blood in her ancestry.

Thinking about it now, it wasn’t that those people were inherently evil or born wicked.

It’s just that they’d been taught to view commoners as livestock, unless they were attractive or exceptional enough to blur the lines of status.

From the moment they could crawl or utter their first words, they were constantly told so.

Just as kings serve emperors, nobles serve kings, and knights serve nobles, it was ingrained in them that treating commoners harshly was of little consequence.

After all, commoners were in abundance.

“Didn’t I tell you the story of the ancient empire that once flourished in these lands?

Since the emergence of social classes, commoners have always been tools that require a master.

Whenever they were left to their own devices, they inevitably fell into chaos and destroyed themselves.

That’s why they need guidance.”

And that was the content of today’s lesson.

Once again, as I sipped my slightly stale milk tea, the Duchess filled the lesson with this nonsense.

Even she didn’t seem to believe it herself.

“As I’ve told you repeatedly, since you’ve spent time among them, you must shed that distinct commoner aura.

Just as nobles living abroad learn our etiquette and customs when they return to claim titles, so must you.

It’s expected of those who lead.”

Those who lead don’t necessarily have to be nobles.

Why, just a few years ago, a country bumpkin named Thomas led the peasants and killed the lord of their land.

The country, of course, panicked and sent an army to suppress them.

But whether it was Thomas’ skill or the peasants’ determination, they utterly destroyed the soldiers sent to put them down.

For a while, taverns were abuzz with the tale. Surely this woman must have heard of it.

In the end, not wanting to incur the cost of deploying knights and wizards for an expensive battle, the emperor discovered that Thomas’ great-great-grandfather had been a noble.

He granted Thomas a title, exempted him from taxes for 25 years, and showered him with imperial “mercy.”

Only after killing countless people was Thomas finally acknowledged by the esteemed nobles.

He was declared one of their own.

A mere peasant.

To irk the Duchess, who clearly detested me, I brought up his story.

“…What about Thomas?”

“Thomas?”

“Baron Stolberg.”

At my words, the Duchess gave me a look as if I’d just spoken utter nonsense.

Of course, she probably didn’t care much about such things.

Of course, it didn’t happen in her own territory.

And she wouldn’t care what some foolish emperor did.

Perhaps something occurred to her suddenly.

“…He was originally a nobleman.”

That was the end of the explanation.

No elaboration, nothing more.

Maybe she had never even heard of Baron Stolberg or Thomas before.

After that day, the Duchess stopped bringing up historical stories altogether.

What remained was a tiresome, boring lecture about how nobles should behave and think—so dull it made my head spin every time.

The conclusion was always the same: nobles must oppress, reprimand, and lead the commoners.

Because of this, I found myself shocked when I unwittingly mistreated Alina.

All she had done was forget to put sugar in my tea, and I ended up saying something like, “You’re useless.”

I had to console her for quite a while afterward as she sat there looking hurt and apologetic.

After endlessly hearing about how to treat commoners and servants, even the Duchess seemed to grow weary of it—or perhaps she saw enough progress in me and wanted to try something different. Today, she announced we’d have a slightly different lesson.

To my surprise, it was dance lessons.

And, as if that weren’t bad enough, I had to perform a partnered dance with the Duchess’ son.

Wearing a flowing white dress, no less.

Dancing alone, she said, was for the uncultured, and true noble dances were only performed in pairs—man and woman, elegantly keeping an appropriate distance.

Who was I to argue?

If someone at the uppermost tier of nobility decreed it, I had no choice.

And so, for days, I held hands with him, spinning in circles as we practiced the dance.

The only dances I knew before were those performed by young ladies in skirts so wide their undergarments were visible as they hopped around, or the clumsy movements of men missing arms or legs as they sang, I Like Onions, flailing their remaining limbs.

The latter hardly qualified as a dance—just a pitiable display of movement.

But now, here I was, holding hands with a boy who, half like me, shared some of my blood.

The boy, clearly displeased with me again today, grabbed my hand roughly and squeezed.

“Don’t hold it so tight,” I said.

This refined dance of spinning in circles while holding hands didn’t appeal to me in the slightest.

It seemed the boy, stepping in rhythm with me, felt the same way.

“Why do I have to keep teaching you this dance day after day? What was Mother even thinking?”

“You’re saying that right in front of me.”

I called him “the boy” because I’d forgotten his name.

I’d heard it before, of course, but we’d barely spoken over the past few months. 

Mostly, he ignored me—or, on occasion, threw trash at my head.

Once, he even spat at me from a window, though thankfully it missed.

So I decided to casually ask for his name.

“Now that I think about it, I’ve always just called you ‘you.’ What was your name again?”

His response was predictably sarcastic.

“You must be really dumb if you can’t even remember someone’s name.”

I stumbled slightly.

Or rather, it felt like he deliberately messed up the step to trip me.

Judging by how he lightly stomped on my foot, it seemed intentional.

“Guess I am,” I replied, keeping my tone neutral.

I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me react.

“Are you enjoying learning this kind of dance? It’s something you couldn’t have learned where you came from, isn’t it?”

The mocking expression on his face made it obvious he was relishing this.

“What about you? Do you enjoy dancing with me?”

The slight scowl on his face froze, hardening into an expressionless mask.

He wasn’t the type to take jokes lightly; he actually thought about my question seriously.

What a terribly unfunny person.

Following the 3/4 time waltz rhythm, we took three steps, paused for a beat, spun once, and paused again. Over and over we turned, matching the stately music.

“Not at all,” he finally said.

The Duchess, seated to the side reading a book, occasionally glanced at us to ensure we were moving correctly. She didn’t intervene, behaving like someone for whom everything was a bother.

“…Libian,” he said suddenly.

“What?”

“My name. It’s Libian.”

“Got it.”

When I didn’t react much, he gave me a look that seemed to say, That’s all the response I get after telling you my name?

The noise around me seemed dull, almost muffled.

I hated the way he looked at me, as if I were someone beneath him.

I wanted to let go of his hand, shove him away, and run out of here.

“Don’t look around with that ‘I hate this place’ expression.

It’s far better than where you used to live, isn’t it? Even if everyone here hates you—except Father—they haven’t kicked you out.”

It’s just the background music. I don’t like it.

But some thoughts refuse to escape through the lips.

“By the way, Eileen said she had something to tell you after the lesson. Did you two fight or something?”

“You mean that clueless little girl who always carries a doll around? That one?”

Realizing he’d almost referred to her as a brat, Libian shot me a blank look, clearly hoping I hadn’t noticed.

Feigning innocence, I “accidentally” stepped on his toes with the sharp tip of my heeled shoe.

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