Chapter 28: Seven Years of Life.

“Then, if you’ll excuse me.”

“It was delicious. Thank you for the meal.”

I took the empty cup and left the room to clean up.
It was the same every day, yet every day my lady thanked me with the same words and the same gentle consideration; today her face was unmistakably brighter than usual.
Not that her usual slightly weary voice had suddenly become bouncy—just the tiniest lift, barely perceptible.

Even that microscopic change was something I had almost never seen in these seven years.
She was always so tense, like a balloon on the verge of bursting, fragile and dangerous.
When I learned the concubine would be elevated to legal wife, I genuinely feared the thread stretched inside her would finally snap and everything would explode.

Lately, though, Violet’s expressions have grown much softer than before.
That alone makes me happier than I can say.
The lady I love and respect is far too unpracticed at indulging herself; even when it hurts, even when she’s sad, she cannot properly digest those feelings.
She bottles everything inside, never learning how to release it, and the negative emotions pile up until they bury even joy and pleasure.
I never want to see that again if I can help it.

If even a fragment of peace exists for her, then nothing in this world could make Marin happier.

“I’ll prepare Violet-sama’s favorites for tomorrow’s breakfast.”

A small gesture of care—one she won’t notice—is surely allowed.
If I told her directly she would only worry or politely decline, so I will simply add a few extra touches to the usual morning spread.

The rest of the family will have a slightly different menu, but that hardly matters now.
They won’t even notice.

(Though I must be careful of Mary-June-sama.)

She is the only one who would realize Violet’s portion was different.
That perceptiveness might be praiseworthy in another context, but to me it is nothing but trouble.

If she wished it, that foolish father would sacrifice Violet without a second thought to grant it.
Violet would be given no choice but to accept, and Mary-June would never once imagine that her own words had cornered her older sister.

A sheltered, innocent princess.
To others she must appear pure and beautiful.
To me she is nothing more than the source of my precious Violet’s suffering.

Mary-June surely believes in “family harmony.”
And because the parents see only Mary-June, they too believe this is the correct way.

They see in the Varhan house the ideal family from a picture book.

(Truly… how infuriating they all are.)

The grinding of my teeth echoed inside my skull; my clenched lips throbbed with pain.

The feelings spreading through my chest threatened to make me tear myself apart, but if I appeared before Violet tomorrow morning with wounds, that gentle girl would only worry.

I released the tension from my entire body and drew air deep into my lungs.
As I exhaled, my shoulders dropped, and it felt as though the strength left with it.
In my suddenly clearer mind, the tangled emotions sorted themselves into neat little boxes.

Devotion, trust, loyalty.
Anger, disgust, contempt.

Boundless love for Violet, and bottomless displeasure toward the House of Varhan.

Marin hates the Varhan house.

In the past, when I was far more impulsive, I used to think it would be best if this entire household simply vanished.
I even nursed the sweet illusion that if misfortune struck them, they might finally reflect on how they treated Violet…
Now I no longer bother cursing them; I have not the slightest expectation left for this house—for the Varhans.

Technically my employer is the head of the house, Old, and my wages come from him, but for me there is only one master: Violet.
If it is for her sake I can endure any humiliation, but if I were ever forced to call anyone else “master,” I would bite off my own tongue and die on the spot.

This heart of mine decided seven years ago to belong to Violet and Violet alone.

×　×　×　×

Marin became an orphan on her fourth birthday.
As though it had been decided from the start, her parents abandoned her at the church.

She waited from early morning until nightfall, and when she finally realized no one was coming, the acceptance came faster than the shock—because somewhere inside she had always known.

That her parents did not love her.

The reason lay in Marin’s eyes—crimson, the color of fresh blood.
Not particularly rare; if it was hereditary, plenty of people in town had the same shade.

The problem was that neither parent possessed red eyes.
Not father, not mother, not grandfather, not grandmother—no one in the entire family tree.
Father’s side ran to greens, mother’s to blues; no combination would ever produce red.

When the father demanded an explanation, the mother confessed the painfully simple truth.

“This child is not yours.”

Her mother’s child, but not her father’s.
The meaning was obvious.

Mother had cheated.
Marin was the result—no, had simply happened.

Who the man was, who her real father was—she still didn’t know, even now.
She no longer cared to know, but whoever seduced and impregnated a married woman was surely no decent human being.

The husband who learned the truth about his wife and daughter agonized, then made his choice.

“Your child is my child.”

Because it was the child of the woman he loved, it was the same as his own.
He truly, deeply loved her; separation would hurt more than betrayal.

He forgave his wife.
Because she was the person he loved most in the world, he would accept everything and live together with her.

He was a gentle husband.
His great love for his wife was indeed ideal.

But as a father he was utterly unprepared.

Raising another man’s daughter on love for his wife alone—child-rearing is not that sweet.
If he did not love the daughter herself, of course his feelings would run dry.
Accepting someone through another person’s love was far harder than he had imagined.

In the end, the living proof of betrayal standing before them proved too much for both father and mother; four years was their limit.

The sisters pitied her, comforted her, but to Marin the shock was hardly great.

This was merely the culmination of four years.
The parents had treated her like a foolish child, but children—precisely because they are children—are the most sensitive to parental love.
She had noticed long ago that she was not loved.

Because they did not outright abandon her but simply left her behind, the sisters told her, “They’ll surely come back for you,” but those words never reached her heart.
She knew better than anyone that they would never become reality.

Some said, “There must have been a reason,” never dreaming that the reason was simply “they couldn’t love her.”
They believed the parents had loved her but been forced to leave her for some other cause.

People who believed in God and therefore never doubted love—they smiled with a cruelty born of kindness and warmth.
They tried to make her cling to the hope that she was loved.

Suffocating in that environment, Marin left the church at twelve.

She was grateful for being raised, and probably held some attachment, but it had never truly been home.
A little distance and occasional visits—that was the right amount.

Yet an orphan with no proper education had no means to live.
Sleeping outdoors every night, always hungry, wearing clothes far dirtier than when she was abandoned, taking whatever grueling, underpaid work she could find.

The kindness and suffocation of the church, versus the life of a homeless stray.
Days spent barely choosing the streets over returning.

The turning point came on an utterly ordinary day.
Not her birthday, not a holy night—just a day anyone would forget.

Seven years ago, on that day, Marin’s life changed forever.