Chapter 29: The Day I Learned Madness.

I was wandering the back alleys as usual, stomach empty, searching for anything.
Someone’s leftovers, something rotten, even a drink would do.
If I didn’t get something into my stomach I would die; that was all my malnourished brain could think.

Legs staggering, vision blurring, the sense of normalcy slowly draining from my body.
I had been looking for food, yet at some point I no longer knew where I was heading.
Sleeping rough gave no real rest; chronic sleep deprivation bordering on insomnia had pushed my mind and body to their limit.
I walked without destination, without thought, not even knowing where I was.

I kept moving until my strength gave out.
What I had intended as a blink turned into unconsciousness; I only realized it when I opened my eyes and saw a scene far too beautiful.

“…………”

I couldn’t grasp the situation, and I no longer had the energy to be shocked.
All I could tell through my hazy vision was that the glittering ceiling above me was not the sky.
No sky visible; this was not outside.

“You’re awake.”

“—……”

While those two facts settled in my mind, a voice reached my ears; someone had entered the room without a sound.
My body tried to sit up on reflex, but only my shoulders jerked beneath the blankets.
My voice was hoarse, and even the warmth wrapping around me felt heavy.
My body was no different from a marionette with its strings cut; I knew how to move, yet had no way to do it.

“I brought food. Do you think you can eat?”

“……”

“I also brought something to drink. Start by wetting your throat.”

A straw was brought to my lips; the faintest coolness seemed to spill from its tip.
Before I could even register that the clear liquid in the cup was water, my body’s hunger abandoned all restraint.
Fortunately, my limbs wouldn’t obey; I didn’t lunge like an animal.

With sluggish movements I moistened my throat little by little.
Even that tiny amount of fresh water spread through my entire body.
Thanks to the cold liquid, my mind cleared.
My body remained weak, but the blur in my vision lifted, revealing beauty once more.
Only then did I finally recognize the face of the person beside me.

“If you can sit up, you should eat at least a little… ah, no need to force yourself.
If you can keep water down, that will be enough for now.”

Short, pale gray hair cut neatly.
Soft waves glossier than any silk, a halo of light proudly proclaiming it.
Large, round eyes the color of a sky about to cry, reminiscent of a cat.
Skin white and dewy with a faint pink flush; small lips so vivid they mocked the very existence of rouge.

Dressed in a simple white shirt and black half-pants held up by suspenders, not a single accessory—yet even that only made the figure stand out more.

Perfection incarnate, as though every ideal had been gathered into one form.
I would have believed it if someone told me this was an angel rather than a human; because of that, gender was impossible to pin down.

At first glance—an astonishingly beautiful boy.
The manner of speech, the clothes; nothing suggested the same sex as me.
Yet an unshakable sense of wrongness kept me from fully accepting it.

Younger than Marin, perhaps, but not by much.
The beauty of the face obscured age just as it did gender, yet still younger than me; not a small child, though.
Not short in height either; compared to Marin, who was tall for her age, this person was tall enough that “short” never came to mind.
Complexion healthy, no sign of anything lacking.
Should have been an ordinary, healthy boy.

Yet why did the frame and build visible to my eyes feel so fragile?

“W… who…”

Who are you.
Where is this.
My mind was recovering, but it was only mood-deep.
My parched throat hadn’t retained enough strength to regain its normal function with just a little water.

“I…”

My voice failed; I nearly coughed.
The broken sentence echoed only in my head; from the mouth that should have answered, nothing but air spilled out.
Eyes lowered, a moment’s hesitation sealed the lips.
But only for an instant.

“I am Violet. Violet Rem Varhan.”

At that moment, how much conflict raged inside Violet?
How much resolve and courage did it take to give that name?

At that moment, I could imagine none of it; I simply drifted in the hazy border between dream and reality.

It took ten days for Marin’s health to recover enough to speak and move.

×　×　×　×

“Would you like to work here?”

“…Yes?”

Ten days earlier, Marin—who had been wandering in search of food—had apparently collapsed in front of the Varhan family’s back entrance without realizing it.
A servant discovered her, reported it to Violet, and Violet had taken her in and cared for her all this time.

Upon hearing the full story, my first impulses were apology, gratitude, and the desperate wish to repay the kindness somehow.
I had no money, no home, barely enough nutrition to stay alive, yet I pressed my forehead to the floor and begged to do anything in return.

The reply I received was the sentence above.

While I stood there dumbfounded, Violet’s face shone with the confidence of someone who had just thought of a brilliant idea.

“Our household doesn’t have many comings and goings… I rarely leave the estate, and all the servants are adults, so I’ve been bored.
If you’re willing—would you become my personal companion… and work for me?”

Sitting with legs elegantly crossed, the very picture of a noble’s child.
This was a ducal house, and Violet was its child, so the impression was correct—yet still something felt off, impossible to swallow.

But this was hardly the situation to question it.
A ducal household employing an orphan street urchin as servant—surely that would cause all sorts of problems.
First and foremost, this household’s master… Violet’s parents would surely object.

That was what I thought.
I was about to refuse—

“My parents will be fine. They won’t… say anything.”

Either they trusted Violet completely, or they were the type to indulge everything.
To Marin, who had lived without a shred of parental love, it was an alien realm.
A feeling close to jealousy—envy, though not quite hatred—sprouted in my chest, and I did harbor some negative emotion toward Violet because of it.

Yet the offer itself was impossibly tempting.
I wanted it so badly my throat ached.
If there were no concerns on Violet’s side, I had no reason to refuse.
The more conditions I heard, the stronger that feeling grew.

A place to live, food, clothes, even wages.
Comparing it to my life until now was almost sacrilegious.

Any jealousy toward Violet—I could pretend it never existed if it meant escaping my current life.

It was supposed to be pure calculation, for survival alone.

When did I start thinking something was strange?

A father who was never seen.
A mother who refused to meet anyone except Violet.
A Violet who never left the mother’s room.

I had been hired as a conversation partner, yet opportunities to fulfill that role were almost nonexistent.
With nothing to do, the other servants taught me various tasks—and concealed various truths.

You must never enter Madam’s room. She will be very, very angry.
You must never speak of the master in front of Madam. She will be very, very angry.
You must never call Violet-sama where Madam can hear. She will be very, very, very angry.

Because it would cause Violet-sama pain.

They told me this over and over with eyes close to tears, faces full of sorrow.
Please keep this rule, never break it, they begged.

I didn’t understand and asked why, but the only answer was “she’ll get angry.”
I was made to accept it as an absolute rule for working here.

Marin learned the reason several months after starting work.

×　×　×　×

The door to Madam’s room, always firmly shut, stood slightly ajar.

I had no intention of peeking; I only approached because I thought I should close it.
But when I drew near, voices drifted out, and my eyes followed involuntarily.

“Hh…!?”

I barely swallowed the scream that tried to escape.
I clamped both hands over my mouth; if I hadn’t, I would have screamed and vomited.

“Ahh… you really are beautiful.”

“…………”

“Your hair, your eyes, even your fingernails—everything the same… wonderful, wonderful…!”

From the sofa she reached out again and again, stroking the cheeks, the hair, the backs of the hands of the figure standing before her.

A mother caressing her child.
In words it should have been heartwarming, yet the profiles I saw were anything but sacred.

In stark contrast to the mother’s clear, shining eyes, Violet’s gaze held no emotion at all.
I had thought those features angelic or doll-like, but that had only been metaphor; Violet was human, flesh and blood.
Should have been human.

Yet the face I saw now looked like a bloodless doll.
The temperature difference between a mother ecstatic with joy and the child before her only heightened the eeriness.

And above all—the reason nausea and screams had risen in me—

(Violet… sama…?)

On the walls, the shelves, the desk—picture frames.
Photographs scattered bare across the floor.
Every single one showed the same person.

Gray hair, cloudy-sky eyes, pale skin, crimson lips.
Angelic beauty—I had thought it was Violet.
Hairstyle and expression were so similar that finding differences was harder.
The moment I realized the strangeness was when I noticed the ages in the photos.

At first I assumed they were Violet as a young child, but the person in the pictures grew rapidly, soon surpassing Violet’s current age and becoming an adult man.

That face—I had seen it before.
In the wedding portrait hanging in the entrance hall of this house.
The groom.

“Come now, call me. Call me…?”

“M-Mother…”

“Wrong.”

A voice that crushed the heart like wet paper.
Not mere denial—clear refusal, rejection.
The hatred swimming in eyes that had melted with ecstasy was not something a mother should ever direct at her child.

“Wrong, isn’t it? Right… Old?”

“…Bellrose.”

“Yes, that’s it. Once more.”

“Bellrose.”

“Yes, once more…!”

The scene repeated endlessly, like a glimpse of hell.

That is why we must never enter Madam’s room; it is her paradise.
That is why we must never speak of the master; it would shatter her dream.
That is why we must never call Violet-sama within her hearing.

Because to her, the person before her is not Violet.
To Madam, Violet is not her child—she is her beloved husband, Old.

“——!!”

Unbearable nausea made my body sway.
The madness forced upon my eyes shattered every shred of ethics I possessed.

I couldn’t watch. I didn’t want to watch.
Unable to endure the terrifying reality, I whipped my strengthless body and fled.

“I love you, I love you… Old.”

The voice that reached me last, even now after seven years, I cannot forget.

A confession of deepest love.
An unmistakable curse.