The Villainess Does Not Want to Die

Chapter 17: The Piano Keys

My hand was battered and torn, but after slapping those people senseless, I wasn’t about to let a few piano keys defeat me.

Though I didn’t have sheet music, I pressed the keys, recalling faint melodies buried in my memory.

The tension in my muscles pulled taut, and as it eased, a dull ache set in, but oddly enough, I felt refreshed.

“Maybe it’s deeper than I thought,” I muttered as my index finger quivered. The note it struck wasn’t quite right.

Even so, I couldn’t bring myself to stand up and leave.

Call it a small sense of accomplishment—after all, I’d just swept aside the pests who tried to block me.

It would be pitiful to give up just because my hands hurt.

I started with something simple, like “Chopsticks,” and when the pain subsided a little, I moved on to a softer rendition of The Bells of Moscow.

Something like that.

As I played, I heard footsteps approaching. Someone entered the room, walking steadily toward me.

“That’s a song I’ve never heard before.”

It was the healer.

Behind him stood Alina, clutching a basket filled with powdered herbs and a pipe. Her gaze was heavy with concern as she watched me.

“Where did you learn to play?” he asked. 

“I’ve never heard of a teacher giving music lessons in the slums.”

“Would you believe me if I said I’m a genius?”

“I suppose I’d have to,” he replied. “Now, give me your right hand.”

I obeyed without resistance.

Using tweezers, he carefully extracted the remaining shards of glass embedded in my skin, one by one.

It stung slightly, but the cool sensation that followed was oddly soothing.

“Miss, bite down on the pipe. This will hurt a fair bit,” he warned.

Alina hesitated, staring at the pipe before gently placing it between my lips. 

She then sprinkled the powdered herbs onto an unfamiliar leaf, doused it in an unidentifiable liquid handed over by the healer, and lit it.

It caught fire instantly, burning brightly for a moment before extinguishing, leaving only a faint, moist smoke behind.

I inhaled once, then twice, and before I knew it, ten times. The tension in my body melted away, and for the first time in what felt like ages, a faint smile tugged at my lips.

As he had when treating my nose before, the old man pressed a glimmering stone to my hand, grinding it over the wounded flesh. Instead of worsening the injury, the magical energy healed it.

The strange sensation of new skin forming was both alien and fascinating.

“That’ll do. I’ll take my leave now,” he said, bowing slightly before exiting the room.

Now it was just me and Alina.

“Hey, Alina. Should I play you a song?”

“…What song?”

“I think it’s called Liebestraum.”

With the herbs still clouding my thoughts, I struck the keys in a daze.

Even so, there was a unique thrill coursing through me—a strange, chilling joy I wanted to express immediately.

Of course, I couldn’t play it properly.

My small hands, barely able to span an octave, weren’t suited for grand melodies.

My fingers lacked strength, and the muscles weren’t well-developed.

Maybe I was just using the piano as an excuse. I didn’t want to face Alina’s frustrated, worried expression.

Alina said nothing, just stood there, silently watching me.

She didn’t yawn, scold me, or comment as I paused mid-song to take more puffs of smoke. She simply stared at me, unblinking.

As the sun was finally dragged beneath the horizon by the tenacious grip of the moon, leaving the world in darkness, my strength gave out. My fingers refused to move any longer.

It was only then that Alina spoke.

“Miss, you should have dinner.”

“I’m fine.”

“But what if I made it for you myself?”

That was tempting.

I nodded and followed Alina as she led the way, holding onto her sleeve.

When we stepped out of the room, the hallway—once littered with blood and shards of glass—had been cleaned spotless.

We walked for a while until we reached the dining room, and from there, Alina guided me to the adjoining kitchen.

The chefs inside glanced at me with uneasy expressions before bowing politely in greeting. 

The head chef, a man who seemed to be in charge, removed his hat and approached me.

“Is there a specific dish you’d like for dinner?” he asked.

“Alina said she’d cook for me. Hand over the ingredients and clear the kitchen.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, and he shot me a look that reeked of disdain, but he ultimately nodded and left. 

He called out to the other chefs, announcing that their work for the day was done.

Alina said nothing. She simply moved to ignite the stove, pressing a button that made the process look even simpler than the induction burners I’d seen in my past life.

She began mixing what looked like dough with meat, vegetables, and other unrecognizable ingredients before tossing it into the oven. On the stove, she prepared a simple tomato stew.

When the food was ready, she brought two bowls of steaming stew and a plate of freshly baked bread to the dining table.

“This is one of my mother’s best dishes,” Alina said softly.

“If you ever have the chance, you should visit my home and taste her cooking yourself.”

“…Maybe someday.”

Neither of us wanted to delve into uncomfortable topics, so our conversation filled with hesitant pauses, filled with phrases like “Oh, um, you first,” or “No, go ahead.” In the end, we ate in silence.

It was delicious.

Far better than the lavish feasts the Duke’s family held. It wasn’t even close.

“This dish was for special occasions—birthdays, celebrations, or days when someone in the family made a mistake. It was her way of telling us to pull ourselves together.”

I froze, staring at Alina with my spoon midway to my lips.

“…Alina, did I do something wrong?”

Her silence felt like an accusation, and my emotions threatened to boil over.

When the servants mocked me, I hadn’t felt like this. Then, I had only been consumed by anger, my body trembling with rage.

“The only ones who’ve done wrong are the fools in this house who torment you,” Alina said firmly.

Her simple words extinguished the storm within me.

The crimson tomato stew was nearly gone, the bread had cooled, and the grease it contained had started to seep out.

I scraped the last bits of food into my mouth, savoring every bite.

With a full stomach, my mind finally felt clear again.

The Piano Keys

Until just moments ago, everything I did felt strangely impulsive.

After finishing the meal, Alina guided me to the bathroom. No one else was there—only her.

By now, having lived here for months, I’d grown used to this routine. I raised my arms without a second thought, waiting for someone to undress me.

Alina knelt to remove my stiff shoes, stretching my feet gently to loosen the tension before peeling off my socks. 

She unbuttoned my blouse one button at a time, loosening the tight strings of my undergarments. Then she slipped off my skirt.

My clothes slid from my shoulders, brushing past my hips before landing in a heap on the floor.

The messy pile was stained with my blood and the blood of the man whose face I’d slashed earlier. Over time, the crimson stains had dried to an unappealing brown.

“I’ve drawn the bathwater. Please go ahead and wash yourself. I’ll fetch some clean clothes in the meantime.”

“I’d rather someone else took care of it and washed my hair too.”

“And who would that be? Everyone would just run away,” Alina replied with a soft sigh.

“…Fair point.”

“Even that stubborn chef, who would never part with his kitchen, left it to me earlier, didn’t he?”

She was right. That man had initially refused, but when I met his eyes, he shut his mouth, handed the kitchen over to Alina, and walked out.

“Fine,” I conceded.

Before stepping into the pristine white tub, I rinsed myself under the warm water flowing from above. It washed away the grime that had clung to me, flowing down in murky streams.

Once I’d soaked my entire body, I turned to look in the mirror.

Not a scratch was left on my skin.

The hand that had been torn and bloody just moments ago was perfectly healed. Even my nose, bruised and broken from the fall earlier, was now flawless.

White, silky skin.

Red eyes so vivid they seemed to glow unnaturally.

Snow-white hair that framed my face.

Still young enough to appear somewhat cute at a glance, yet unnerving upon closer inspection.

Unfocused, hazy pupils that never seemed to settle on anything.

That girl in the mirror—

That’s me.

Marisela.

The one who would someday wreak havoc in this mansion.

The one who would mercilessly torment the heroine destined to appear.

The one who would harbor endless hatred.

No one would ever truly understand me or like me. That was a certainty.

No one would care what had been done to me.

The Duchess despised me.

A wise woman who understood all too well that she could never reclaim the love the prostitute had stolen.

The servants had never mistreated me.

The butler had never ignored me.

I had never been mocked.

Spoiled milk had never been served to me, and meals had never been thrown out when I made the slightest mistake in dining etiquette.

None of that would matter. The only thing that would be remembered was the fact that I bullied innocent servants without cause.

After all, truth is always selectively chosen.

The future was clear as day.

I submerged my head into the fragrant bathwater, holding my breath for as long as I could. 

The muffled sound of water filled my ears, isolating me from the world.

Part of me wished I could just lose consciousness like this. But as soon as I started to run out of air, I instinctively lifted my head, gasping deeply.

At least there’s one difference.

Unlike those useless, foul-tempered, and talentless villainesses, I can play the piano.

And that’s all.

“Shit.”

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