As I recently came into contact with the people around him, I realized his life had been far less smooth than I’d imagined. What one sees before their eyes is rarely the whole truth. That was certainly the case for Vincent Bellunita. His path, blind as he was, could not have been straightforward even with the gift of sight.
Violet visited the mansion often. Sometimes Ethan Christopher accompanied her. Perhaps sharing a secret had emboldened them; they seemed less hesitant to visit than before. At first, I felt burdened by their presence, but over time, I grew accustomed to it. Eventually, it became a source of pleasure in its own way.
And then there was Lucas. I could never fathom his intent when he told me, “I was the one who blinded Vincent Bellunita.” Even after that revelation, he would smile as if nothing had happened whenever we crossed paths. Until the very moment he left, his words remained a riddle.
Furthermore, Vincent Bellunita’s attitude toward Lucas remained as calm as ever. If so, did that mean he was innocent? What does Vincent Bellunita truly know? And Ethan Christopher—how much is he aware of? My inexperienced mind could not, for the life of me, parse the tangled web of their relationships.
Well, what could a mere maid possibly know? How could I dare to measure their lives by my own standards?
I had only come to understand a little more of Vincent Bellunita’s habit of doubting, guarding, and turning away from others; I did not think there was anything I could do about it. A strange sense of unease regarding their history didn’t mean it was a problem I should interfere with. I simply had to do my job.
Pointless curiosity only invites trouble.
I reminded myself once again of the purpose for which I had been hired.
[Sending this because it is too beautiful.]
He had sent me dried flowers inside an envelope with golden lettering. The petals were white, turning translucent when held up to the light. After shaking them to and fro, I tucked them into the book I enjoyed reading, then looked up at the clear sky.
The mansion was quiet for the first time in a while. The boisterous days already felt like a dream.
“It’s quiet.”
“Yes.”
Today, I decided to read the book I hadn’t been able to get to. The location was in front of his room window. Perhaps because our last tea time left a nightmarish memory, he had holed himself up in his room again. Instead of trying to drag him out, I arranged a seat for myself in front of the wide-open window.
“It feels a bit lonely when it’s this quiet.”
“Not at all. I prefer being alone.”
“You are quite dry, aren’t you?”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
His retort was filled with ease. His calm face turned toward the window. I watched him. *What are you thinking about right now?* It was a question that had been popping up frequently lately. I had thought him a man with a foul temper born of blindness, but I had only recently realized that I was the one who knew the least about what lay truly inside him.
Even though I pretended not to care, I was curious.
*What exactly is on your mind?*
“I smell something sweet.”
“Sweet? Ah, I brought a pound cake as dessert today.”
I recalled the cake, which I had momentarily forgotten. When I returned the empty dishes after the meal, the chef had offered me a slice.
‘He has liked sweets since he was a child.’
The old man’s face had been filled with joy. I tilted my head, looking at the yellow cake inside its transparent cover.
“A pound cake?”
He showed rare interest. I was surprised by his quick reaction.
“Do you like sweets?”
“A little.”
He quickly felt around his surroundings. His movements were natural thanks to his recent practice, but he couldn’t fool my eyes. So he really did like sweets. It was unexpected that a man with a face as salt-like as his would have such a sugar tooth.
I removed the cover, placed a pre-sliced piece on a small plate, and handed it to him. When I pressed the fork into his hand, he felt the edge of the plate and stabbed at the cake.
The piece, awkwardly speared, slid right off. Thinking the fork was full, Vincent Bellunita put it into his mouth, smacking his lips in confusion. Then, he fumbled uselessly at thin air instead of the plate. It looked like it would take him all day, so I simply handed the cake to him by hand.
He looked slightly annoyed, but he put it into his mouth immediately. He chewed, actually looking like he was enjoying it. After finishing a piece in no time, he reached out again. When I handed him another, he ate it obediently.
Watching him, I became curious about the taste. I snuck a piece for myself. The sweetness hit my tongue instantly—excessively sweet, but delicious. I had never eaten anything this good before.
I marveled that the chef here had such excellent skills, and while Vincent Bellunita wasn’t looking, I snuck piece after piece. Before long, the plate was empty.
“It’s fluttering.”
“Pardon?”
Just as I was sneaking the last piece into my mouth, he tapped the window frame. I brushed back my hair. The long ribbon was being blown by the wind, hitting the frame with a light *tap-tap*. It was a faint sound, but he must have heard it clearly.
“My hair ribbon is a bit long; it was hitting the frame.”
“Is it not the one you usually use?”
“No. It’s a gift from Violet.”
A few days ago, Violet had given me a box containing a pure white hair ribbon with rounded edges and embroidered flowers. It was so soft it looked expensive. When I declined, Violet had insisted, firmly placing it in my hand.
‘I felt bad about how you used a hair ribbon when Paula made you a bouquet in the past. It’s a gift of gratitude, so please accept it comfortably.’
I had received a small bouquet back then, too. That one had withered in a few days, but this was a gift I could treasure. Her gentle face had held a strange sense of compulsion. Eventually, after I accepted it, Violet had even tied my hair for me herself.
“Must be nice.”
“It is, but it’s also burdensome. It’s so beautiful that I’m not sure if I should even be wearing it.”
Since I had never owned anything this expensive and feminine, I was cautious even about touching it. It didn’t suit me at all. In my embarrassment, I fidgeted with the ribbon, then quickly let go, afraid I might wear it out.
Then, Vincent Bellunita reached out and cupped the ribbon fluttering in the wind. With his hand fully extended, he fiddled with it, as if trying to gauge its shape.
After a moment, he tossed out a comment.
“It would suit you well.”
“No…”
I was about to protest, but I stopped. I swallowed the retort, picturing the face of the impudent maid in his mind.
“Your beauty will shine.”
“Where did you hear something like that?”
“Violet says it often.”
He spoke as if he’d just made a joke. I laughed shortly and wiped my hands on my apron. My heart stung. I didn’t want to drag this topic out.
He felt around for the plate and looked perplexed.
“Why is it empty already?”
“I will finish reading the book now.”
I pretended not to notice and opened the book. He tilted his head and took a sip of his tea. I glanced at him and continued reading aloud. My voice flowed quite smoothly.
“You read quite well now.”
“Thank you.”
Compliments are always pleasant. I smiled contentedly and finished the chapter.
“You must really love books.”
“Ah, does it look that way?”
“Because you always read them happily. It’s as if you’re so happy you don’t know what to do with yourself.”
“Yes, I like them. Did I tell you that I worked in a bookstore when I was young?”
“You did. The day you first said you would read to me.”
“Oh, right. Back then, Master, you told me that the owner of that bookstore had turned his child into a delusional patient when he was young, and—”
“…do you remember?”
“Well. I remember that you forcibly began this act while pretending to serve me for your own selfish desires.”
“You have such a good memory.”
I retorted, asking if he remembered throwing things at me and screaming for me to get out when we first met. He shot back that he remembered me shoving food into his mouth by force. When I asked if he remembered how I smelled because I hadn’t washed, he replied that he remembered me throwing him into the bathtub to wash him.
I laughed out loud.
“It’s an honor that you remember all those memories with me.”
He smiled brightly.
“The pleasure is mine.”
A moment of awkward laughter echoed in the room.
“You said back then that you wouldn’t read any more books, Master. How is it? It’s nice to read again, isn’t it?”
“Well. It would be better if you read them with a bit more life in your voice.”
“It’s a shame I only have one voice.”
“Practice more. You never know, another personality might emerge from within you.”
“Thank you for the advice.”
Laughter rang out, louder than just a moment ago.
“And it would be even better if you didn’t act like a rat, sneaking bites of my cake.”
“…….”
The corners of my mouth drooped. The bastard. How did he know?
“It’s not like I ate that much… We could have shared it… How stingy…”
I grumbled under my breath and buried my face in the book. He didn’t even pretend to hear me, simply staring out the window. A gentle breeze blew in. His hand was still fiddling with the edge of the hair ribbon that fluttered in the wind.
“Do you like this life?”
“What do you mean by that?”
I tilted my head to look at him over the book. He was still watching the window.
“I’m asking if you’re satisfied with a life stuck in this mansion, waiting on me.”
“…Why do you ask that?”
“Because I’ve never heard you speak of your family. People usually miss their hometown when they come to such a strange place. Homesickness, and the like.”
Family. A wave of forgotten emotions surged. I tried to suppress them as they threatened to surface.
I rolled my eyes and set the book down. I raised the corners of my mouth out of habit, then let them fall. There was no need for that. This was the one good thing about him not being able to see—I didn’t have to hide my expression.
It was easy to pretend as if nothing was wrong. I did it all the time.
“Yes. I’m satisfied.”
“Don’t you want to go back home?”
“Not particularly.”
“Why not?”
Why, he asks. Just because people are family doesn’t mean they necessarily miss each other. I thought of the demon who appeared in my dreams every night to torment me.
“Because I have no reason to go back.”
“…….”
He turned his head toward me. I avoided his eyes, lowered my gaze, and toyed with the empty plate. *I’ll have to ask for more next time,* I thought, erasing the useless memories.
“You said you had sisters.”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Four. Five, including me.”
“Which one are you?”
“The first.”
I spun the empty plate around and answered vaguely. I didn’t want to dwell on it. Wanting to end the conversation, I answered his questions abruptly, without adding any rambling explanations.
“You mentioned your younger sister before. Was it the second one?”
“Yes, that’s right. But why are you asking me all this?”
It’s embarrassing. I added that, forcing a smile. He propped his chin in his hand and stared at me. His other hand was still fiddling with my hair ribbon.