Chapter 6
“She’s lost her mind!”
Vermont shuddered as he recounted yesterday’s events in front of Chloe and Roosevelt.
“Watch your words.”
Roosevelt clicked his tongue in disapproval.
“I went in to draw her blood, like always, and she smashed a vase and threatened to stab me in the neck with it!”
“Hm. That’s hard to believe.”
Chloe responded in a flat tone as she took in the scent of her tea.
“You saw her in the council hall, didn’t you? Whatever she’s taken, she’s clearly lost it. Those murderous eyes of hers…”
Vermont trembled as he remembered it.
He couldn’t deny that, for a moment, he had been overwhelmed by Irene’s gaze.
Irene, of all people—that halfwit girl!
“It was really strange,” Roosevelt admitted.
“She turned into a completely different person overnight!”
Vermont grimaced, and Roosevelt let out a carefree laugh.
“Well, Deborah, her protector, did suddenly die. Who would be in their right mind after that?”
“True enough…”
Chloe agreed with a nod.
“She probably started squirming from fear that she might end up like Deborah.”
“But still, how could that halfwit girl humiliate us in front of everyone at the council?”
At Vermont’s outburst, Chloe chuckled faintly, recalling the scene.
“It seems we underestimated her. She may be slow-witted, but she’s still a beast’s cub. Quite the spectacle, really.”
Roosevelt chimed in with a smirk.
“Maybe Deborah told her everything before she died. Do you think Deborah knew about what we were doing?”
“Hm.”
Chloe sipped her tea thoughtfully but then simply shrugged.
“Well, even if she did, what can a dead girl do now?”
“Haha, well said.”
Roosevelt nodded in agreement, but Vermont still looked unsettled, his brows furrowed in discomfort.
“At least give the girl some time to grieve Deborah’s death. No need to be so heartless.”
Roosevelt’s comment made Vermont twist his lips in disdain.
The same man who had her blood drawn regularly from that frail, sickly body is now pretending to be the compassionate one.
“…Yes, of course. Understood.”
It wasn’t like Vermont could say anything else.
Just then, a knock came at Chloe’s door.
Knock knock.
“It’s Karlin.”
“Come in.”
Karlin’s timely arrival cleared up their doubts.
Her report that Irene had lost her grip on reality from the shock of Deborah’s death satisfied them completely. Vermont agreed wholeheartedly, and they all brushed off Irene’s sudden resistance as nothing more than a minor outburst.
The reason they dismissed it so easily was simple—because someone like Irene could never actually do anything.
Just like always.
Even after resting all day, this body didn’t feel much better.
It was only natural. A frail body doesn’t recover just by lying down for a day.
“You’re up early, my lady.”
Karlin arrived with a light breakfast—some fruit and a thin porridge.
Though I glanced at it, perhaps out of habit, I felt no urge to eat. I’d always been used to skipping breakfast anyway.
“What was my usual daily routine like?”
What had Irene done to pass these long, monotonous days?
The question suddenly occurred to me.
“Well, you read, went for walks, or wrote, my lady.”
A dull routine, as expected.
In a mansion this large, the scope of her life was incredibly small.
Was it a life of voluntary confinement? Or something else?
“Leave it there. I’ll eat if I feel like it.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Karlin placed the tray on the table by the window.
The sun was shining fiercely outside.
Waking up late without anyone nagging me about it… that part was kind of nice, but that was all.
I got out of bed and walked to the corner of the room where the desk stood.
“What did you do here, I wonder?”
On the dark brown desk were an inkwell and a quill, but aside from that, the surface was bare.
The desk was nothing like mine, which was always piled high with documents. There was a sense of leisure here—something completely unfamiliar to me.
My gaze drifted to the drawer beside the desk.
Clack.
Opening the top drawer, I found neatly arranged paper and quills.
In the next drawer below, there was a music box and a pair of gloves stacked together.
My eyes lingered on the gloves.
There must be a story behind them.
But without any particular emotion, I closed that drawer and opened the one below it.
Inside was a notebook bound in a fine cover.
I picked it up.
“A diary, huh.”
Flipping through it casually, I saw dates and short entries passing by.
“I’ve never been one for reading other people’s diaries…”
But if I wanted to understand this strange phenomenon, I needed to know what Irene had written down.
“Start with the latest.”
I turned to the back and began reading the most recent entries—just a few days before I woke up in her body.
[I passed by my sister today. It was a lucky day—I got to hear her voice.
She said I looked healthier. I’m relieved that I may have eased her worries, even just a little.
It was comforting to know I still had some strength left.]
Even though it was such a short entry, I could feel the emotions packed into every word.
…Did I really say something like that?
For someone like me, who handled dozens of tasks each day, that brief moment with Irene had been nothing more than a passing detail.
If I had kept a diary, such a conversation wouldn’t have made the cut.
But Irene was different.
To her, that fleeting moment in an otherwise dull day seemed important.
“…This just leaves a bad taste.”
What do they call this feeling again?
Guilt, maybe.
I turned one page back.
[I had meat for the first time in a while. I think I heard the chef changed.
Didn’t make it through the whole lesson before my body gave out.
I hope I can sleep soundly tonight.]
[I went for a walk. I saw the same squirrel again—its cheeks puffed full with acorns.]
[A bird with a hurt leg had collapsed in the flowerbed. It couldn’t even cry.
Its eyes just followed me sadly.]
Trivial things.
What she ate, attending lessons, encounters with animals during her walks—those were the highlights of her day.
“Do people usually see this many animals?”
Maybe it was because I treated walks like business. I’d rarely run into anything like that.
Maybe when you start paying attention to the world around you, things start to appear.
[I’ve decided to protect it until its leg heals. I’m trying to come up with a name.
There must be a name that suits this little one.]
“So she saved a bird.”
I hadn’t known Irene once looked after an injured bird.
I had thought I knew everything about her… but her diary was filled with things I never imagined.
I kept flipping through the pages.
It seemed like Irene was often happy—and sometimes sad.
Even in this quiet life, she felt and experienced so much.
Then, about a month back, an entry caught my eye.
“Was this the day her blood was drawn?”
[It was a particularly dreadful night.
I was scared it wouldn’t end.
The room became filthy.
I’ll pick some flowers at dawn to cover the smell of blood.]
That bastard really was coming twice a month to draw her blood.
The more entries I read, the more certain I became.
I remembered occasionally seeing Irene walking in from the garden with armfuls of flowers.
So that’s why.
Unbelievable.
“She didn’t deserve mercy.”
Reading on, I felt a thread of patience inside me start to snap.
I should’ve just killed him.
[Maybe they noticed I wasn’t feeling well.
Birds flew around me and sang. It made me happy.
The flowers were in full bloom and the fragrance was overwhelming.
It was a day I couldn’t help but feel grateful for the beauty around me.]
What was she so happy about?
Why wasn’t there any anger over being used like that?
“So foolish.”
The more I got to know Irene, the more infuriated I became.
If I had known all of this while I was still in my own body… would anything have changed?
If I asked you to seek revenge, you’d just shake your head with that same pitiful smile.
“But don’t worry, Irene. I’ve always been good at doing things in your place.”
“Sister… I want to be like you, too.”
Her soft, tearful voice echoed in my ears.
You wanted to live like me? No, Irene.
You were never meant to live that way.
Now, I think I finally understand why I ended up in your body.
What I must do.
My revenge—and Irene’s.
Even if that revenge ends up being as predictable and hollow as a third-rate melodrama.
I had been completely absorbed in Irene’s diary when, A sudden knock sounded at the door.
“Lady Irene, are you in? It’s Elliot.”
Elliot.
“Come in.”
At my reply, the door opened.
“Good day, Lady Irene. My name is Elliot. I was Lady Deborah’s personal aide.”
How many years had it been since I answered Elliot so politely?
