Chapter 47: There should be no love there.

The moment the door opened, Violet felt as if she had stepped into another world.

Her own room was done in dark—charitably, “calm”—tones and lacked any real sense of life, for better or worse.
She had used it for over fifteen years since birth, yet it still refused to take on her color.
That was probably because none of her preferences had ever been reflected in it, despite it being her bedroom.
Everything necessary for daily living was there, and it was still the only place in the entire mansion where she could let her shoulders drop, so she had no particular complaints.

Mary-June’s room, though in the same house, belonged to an entirely different lineage.

Bright colors, adorable furnishings.
Unlike Violet’s room, which used the original fixtures as-is, every single item here clearly screamed “Mary-June’s favorite.”
Stuffed animals, picture frames—far more objects than Violet’s room held, yet everything was beautifully organized; not a hint of messiness.

A room mirrors its owner.
Tastes, lifestyle—everything shows plainly.
If Violet’s dark, inorganic space was her, then the softness that filled this room was Mary-June’s true essence.
The depth to embrace so many things, keep them tidy, and cherish them.
A place that made one instinctively think of love.

“Please, sit wherever you like! I’ll prepare tea right now.
You just ate, so you’re not hungry, right?”

“Yes… thank you.”

Mary-June fluttered here and there, restless in her own room.
Was she a little nervous too?

Come to think of it, the eyes that had called out to her earlier had been filled with determination.
In other words, this wasn’t her usual behavior.
Whether that pressure became fuel or burden differed from person to person, but the fact that Mary-June could feel nervous was slightly unexpected.
Violet had always assumed she was the type who turned any hardship into nourishment.

This was, after all, the first time they had spoken alone since the day Violet had rescued Mary-June from harassment and then lectured her like a sermon.

(Yeah… that would make anyone nervous.)

The memory made the tiniest tension run through Violet’s own body.

She had no regrets about what she had said that day—neither the act of saying it nor the content.
Throwing a bomb onto a minefield wasn’t courage; it was recklessness.

“Big sister, straight tea or milk?”

“Milk, please.”

“Got it!”

Somehow the tea set was already prepared.
Mary-June handled it with practiced ease, pouring the tea into cups.
Violet too had learned the skill for the times she took tea alone when Marin wasn’t around, but children of noble birth were generally unaccustomed to preparing anything themselves.

Violet had assumed Mary-June, raised surrounded by love and indulgence, was the same; apparently she had been wrong.

The fragrance was exquisite; good leaves, certainly, but Violet knew from both knowledge and experience that even the finest leaves were ruined by poor brewing.

“Here you go.”

“Thank you. I’ll have some.”

She accepted one of the cups.
A sweet aroma rode the faint steam and tickled her nose.

The tea had lost its transparency exactly as requested—milk tea.
One sip brought the expected sweetness and an unexpectedly silky texture.
Only one possible reaction.

“…It’s delicious.”

“Really!? I’m so glad…!”

Mary-June, who had been watching stiffly for Violet’s verdict, melted with relief and smiled softly as she finally took a sip herself.

“You’re quite skilled. Do you always brew it yourself?”

“No, not really… I practiced because I wanted to invite you someday.”

“Eh…”

A shy, slightly embarrassed smile.
She hid her mouth behind the cup she held with both hands, cheeks faintly pink.

Innocent as a child, pure and unsullied white.
Honest, kind, soft.
Violet had always known Mary-June was a good person.

Yet now, that fact struck her like a physical blow.

Creak, creak.
Something near her heart slowly, gradually shrank and tightened.

“Big sister… I really thought about what you told me before.”

Her hands clenched on her lap.

The words Violet had hurled and then fled from without explanation—Mary-June had taken them seriously and reflected on them.

“You were right. As a daughter of this house… I lack far too much.
When your environment changes, so do your duties and common sense, yet I understood nothing.”

She sat up straight and looked directly at Violet; those eyes Violet had always found difficult.
The first time they met, the many times she had hurt her, and the second “first meeting” after everything had been reset.
Even when they shimmered with unshed tears, they never clouded.

“I still don’t think I was wrong back then. Judging people by status is strange; I still believe that.
But… I learned that isn’t necessarily right either.”

The way she accepted, considered, sometimes stood firm and sometimes changed; it terrified Violet.
The more she learned about Mary-June, the greater the fear grew.

“And we—nobles—can’t survive just by not being wrong.
I still don’t know what is right, though…”

A girl who until recently had been no different from a commoner.
Her birth was unusual, but she hadn’t been raised as nobility.
A child left dangling between two worlds, unable to fully become either, had suddenly been thrust into the special status of noble; it would be stranger if she adapted instantly.

Yet in this place where mistakes were unforgivable, she could not remain unchanged forever.

Ideally, their father—the root cause—should have taught her little by little.

That he hadn’t was solely because he loved his daughter to excess.
And because she had accepted that love without error, she remained pure white.

And that was surely correct.
At the very least, it was fact that Mary-June had grown into a good person.

Loved, and loved in return.
Gently, softly, gracefully, beautifully.

(Why are you—)

So pure?
So sacred?

Just as she had once forgiven the girl who kept hurting her.
Just as she had shown mercy to the sinner Violet had become.
Violet hadn’t wanted to admit it; she had looked away.
She had known it was simple lashing out.

The truth lodged in her heart could no longer be ignored.

She had wanted to believe Mary-June could be good only because she was raised happily, surrounded by love.
No—she had needed to believe it.
Otherwise she could not accept her own position, her own pain, her own twisted nature.

She had wanted to believe that if she had been in that place, she too could have been happy.
That Mary-June had stolen the happiness that should have been hers.

Yet even if Violet had stood in Mary-June’s place, she could never have become like her.

Few people who grew up with both parents and boundless love could forgive someone who had hurt them the way Mary-June did.
Someone who could remain bright, kind, and purely innocent just by existing was rare in this world.

If Mary-June had been in Violet’s position, whether she could have stayed this unsullied was uncertain.

But if Violet had been in Mary-June’s, she could never have become this.

“…sama? Big sister, are you all right?”

“…Ah—sorry, it’s nothing.”

She couldn’t bear those worried eyes and naturally looked down at her cup, pretending calm.

The tea inside still held half its volume; she simply swirled it without drinking.

“I kept you when you’re tired; I’m sorry.
Shall we end it here for today? May I invite you again sometime?”

“Yes… another time.”

Mary-June beamed and bounced happily at the nod; adorable.
Not just her looks—the very air around her was lovable.

A cute little sister.
Not only in appearance but in personality too.
Someone you wanted to protect, to keep from ever being hurt.

Someone you might end up loving.

“I’ll excuse myself, then.”

“Yes!”

She turned her back on the waving Mary-June and never looked again.
She forced her pace to stay measured even though she wanted to run; the pounding in her ears was unbearably loud.

Gentle, beautiful Mary-June.
If only she weren’t her sister, Violet could have praised her existence, revered the nobility of her heart.

But because she was her sister—because she was the daughter their father loved, the one who shared his blood—

She could not love her.
She must not love her.

The instant she did, she would surely end up hating her.

(I’m sorry, Mary-June.)

For being unable to love her after swallowing all that hatred.
For being unable to decide it had nothing to do with our parents.

Even though she knew it wasn’t Mary-June’s fault, she couldn’t discard the possibility that she might resent her someday.

In the end, she could never become like her.

She could neither love nor forgive; yet she couldn’t bring herself to hate either.

Half-hearted, forever in-between; someone like her was surely best suited to devote her life to penance and service to God.
She still hadn’t atoned for the sins of her erased past.

She would simply accept that one day she would leave, and wait for that day.
And please, forget that a sister like her ever existed.

I want you to be happy.

That wish alone was no lie.