Because the stack of books was piled high enough to obscure my view, I had no choice but to use the central staircase. Servants were supposed to use the back stairs; if I were caught, punishment was inevitable. I quickened my pace.
“Master. I’ve returned to read to you.”
“It took you long enough, even for a simple trip to the library.”
“I chose these carefully. To ensure you find them enjoyable this time.”
I opened the first book.
“Once upon a time, there lived a happy little piglet. The happy little piglet spent every single day in pure bliss.”
“What are you doing?”
“Pardon? I’m not sure I understand.”
As I feigned ignorance, his brows furrowed.
“That’s a fairy tale.”
“Yes, it certainly is.”
“You don’t intend to read that to me, do you?”
“I judged that a fairy tale would be exactly what you need, Master.”
“What?”
“For a master feeling so spiteful, I concluded that you require the warmth of a story that teaches consideration. Perhaps then, you might find some peace of mind.”
He wore an expression of sheer incredulity. I calmly looked down at the pages.
“If there is a specific story you prefer, let me know. From the happy little piglet to the little girl on an errand, the friendship between a boy and a self-sacrificing fairy, the mysterious adventures of siblings, or the love and peace of the Bluebird—I have prepared them all. Since you mentioned you dislike reading the same thing twice, I brought a variety. Please, choose according to your taste.”
*Surely you haven’t read at least one of these,* I added silently. His lips pressed into a thin, white line. Veins stood out on the back of his hand, which gripped the sheets as if he meant to tear them to shreds.
“If there is nothing you desire, I shall continue with the piglet. You aren’t unable to listen to even such a short story, are you? I don’t think you are that impatient, but do tell me if it becomes too difficult to endure.”
I rattled on to prevent him from cutting me off, then began to read. Perhaps my words had struck a chord; for once, he remained quiet. Though his breathless intensity left me nervous, I managed to finish the story.
He promptly threw the next book aside.
* * *
After that, I continued reading to him. Naturally, they were fairy tales. He claimed to hate them, but I read them anyway. I wanted an excuse to revisit the books I loved.
It had been so long. The bookstore where I worked as a girl had shuttered when the owner’s health failed. He had gifted me a few volumes before he passed—mostly fairy tales.
But those books fell into Alicia’s hands. Because she coveted whatever I possessed—even if she had no interest in reading it—by the time they returned to me, they were torn to shreds. I ended up using the pages for firewood.
After that, books became impossible to come by. I had saved money to buy them, but had to stop when Father found out. For the daughter of a poor sharecropper, books were a luxury. Once I realized that money could buy a day’s worth of food, I stopped reading altogether.
Perhaps because I had been starved of them for so long, the simple sensation of holding a book felt delightful. Current circumstances notwithstanding.
“Is that the only way you know how to read?”
“What is your complaint?”
“Everything. Everything about you is a complaint.”
He was doing it again. Was it the fairy tales? He remained irritable. I wanted to read him something more substantial, but he wouldn’t listen, and reading aloud felt more difficult than I had imagined. Even knowing he hated them, I had no choice but to return to the fairy tales.
When I sighed, he snapped at me, asking why I was doing it. I had only learned after coming here that I was a person who sighed so often. Moreover, the person causing it was entirely shameless.
“If you’re going to read, learn how to breathe first.”
“I apologize.”
“Get out. I don’t want to hear any more.”
In the end, I was chased out, having finished fewer than three pages. Cleaning, serving… and now, reading? They say if you seek out hardship, you’ll find it; that was me.
Every time I finished my work and returned to my room, I fell into a death-like sleep. My fatigue was absolute, yet my mind was too crowded with worries for me to rest deeply. My sleep was light, and getting lighter. That was how I heard the *thud! thud!* of someone hitting the wall in the room next to mine.
It was loud. And it was coming from the Master’s side.
Startled, I ran to his door.
I pushed it open and entered the dim room. Looking toward the bed, I saw a rounded shape huddled tightly against the wall. “Master?” I approached. He shuddered, but offered no other reaction.
“Are you not feeling well?”
“…….”
“Master.”
“…….”
“Master?”
“……Who is it?”
His voice was dull, stripped of strength.
“It’s me. Is something wrong?”
“I had a dream.”
“A dream? What kind?”
“A scary one.”
Ah, a nightmare. I have them often, so I knew exactly what he was feeling.
I scanned the room, wondering what had caused the loud noise, but there was nothing out of place. He hadn’t thrown anything; there were no signs of a struggle. My night vision was poor, and Vincent’s head was buried under the sheets, hiding his face. Only his hand, gripping the fabric, trembled.
“What was the dream about?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember.”
His voice was calm, but it held a core of deep terror. I knew from Isabella that he suffered from chronic insomnia, and that the groaning I heard in the night was his. But he had never shown this side of himself to me.
I didn’t need to ask what he dreamt of. They must have been terrifying.
“It was just a dream. Please, try to sleep.”
“I can’t. I feel like it will come back.”
“Shall I hold your hand?”
“Don’t.”
He shuddered as if I’d suggested something repulsive. I frowned and sighed. He seemed lucid enough.
“Should I stay by your side until you calm down?”
“…….”
There was no answer. After a moment’s hesitation, I sat on the floor beside the bed. The figure under the sheets flinched at the sound, but he didn’t order me to leave.
I sat there, empty of words. I hugged my knees to my chest and fiddled with my fingers. He didn’t speak, either, but his ragged breathing slowly began to even out. I listened, gauging his state.
A thin line of moonlight pierced the gap in the curtains, etching itself onto the floorboards. My gaze drifted past the light to the yellow moon hanging outside the window.
It was beautiful. If I reached out, could I touch it? I knew the thought was absurd, but I reached toward the light anyway.
It is quiet.
It is peaceful.
Have I ever felt such peace in my life?
“When I was young, my younger sister used to have nightmares, too.”
I muttered it without realizing. The silence had become too burdensome.
At my sudden words, his ragged breathing stopped. He didn’t interrupt.
“She was the second child. After a nightmare, she would wake me up crying, calling out, ‘Unni, Unni.’”
She was a gentle girl. Unlike me, she was pretty, always following me with a lovely smile. I adored her, but I also pitied her. She was a good child, but in our poverty, that was a poison. Father would often watch her with a calculating look, wondering how to make use of her.
Perhaps because she was aware of her situation, she had trouble sleeping. She would toss and turn, waking me with her sobs. I would hold her in my arms, pat her back, and clasp her hands.
Just like now.
I placed my hand over his—the only part of him visible outside the covers. I felt the tremor as he flinched at the contact. His skin was cold. I gripped it firmly.
“Every time that happened, I would hold my sibling’s hand like this. Then, they would feel relieved and fall back asleep.”
They used to squeeze my hand tight and close their eyes. Shedding round, heavy tears, they would rely entirely on the warmth of my body. To soothe them, I would pat the back of their hand, sharing the terror.
“And I would say: ‘Dreams are just dreams. You don’t have to be afraid. I’m here. This moment, here with me, is reality.’”
But thinking about it now, that wasn’t exactly a comfort. Reality was a different kind of hell. Still, my kind sibling would nod and burrow into my arms.
Right up until the day before they were sold to the brothel.
“They say you should leave the things in your dreams back in the dream. Whether it’s something that already happened, or something you’re afraid might happen, dismiss it as meaningless. If you can’t dismiss it, you must overcome what has already passed and work so that what you fear won’t come to pass.”
I pressed my lips shut. Those were empty words.
Reality is not a fairy tale. It is not perpetually beautiful, and one cannot embark on mystical adventures. At least, not in my life.
I could not make a courageous choice. Until the moment my sibling was sold, I was helpless. I could not show them the miracle of running away together. Even knowing what was coming, I turned away as they forced a smile.
*‘It’s okay, Unni. I’m okay.’*
They had comforted their wicked older sister. All I could do was miss them and pray. The following year, they passed away—an epidemic, they said. But they had been beaten to death. The state of their body was wretched. Swollen, horrific, unrecognizable.
I held the funeral without my father knowing. It was hardly a funeral at all. I buried them next to the youngest, placed pretty, delicate flowers on the mound, and returned to my life.
I survived by turning away from the deaths of my siblings.
I was that kind of wicked girl.
“How could you?”
I snapped back to reality at the voice. The hand I was holding was still trembling, but this time, it was different.