Chapter 50
Hannibal flinched at the sharp glint in Anne’s eyes.
Anne, who had clenched her fists tightly, spoke in a calm voice as she looked down at him.
“And though I may be a maid, I am not someone you can freely judge and define at will, my lord.”
Her voice was dry and crisp, yet a faint flush had already seeped into the corners of her eyes.
“As for why Jamie was working as a servant—it was to keep her alive. I didn’t want her to suffer at her aunt’s and die there. Of course, I treated Young Master Gray without discrimination, and there were times I helped him out of pity. But I have never—not even once—thought of him as a man. And as I’ve said before, I have no interest now or ever in romance or marriage. So if you have a complaint with me, don’t speak in roundabout ways—just tell me directly.”
If she got fired, she could simply go somewhere else.
Now she could add “Head Maid” to her résumé, which meant that even if she left the West, she could demand a higher wage than an ordinary maid.
Plus, having worked in the harsh and dangerous West would only help her prospects.
Anne responded with complete honesty, ready to be dismissed.
What if she looked arrogant? What if she got angry or argued back? So what?
Just because someone was a noble, or her master, didn’t mean they could do whatever they pleased.
Anne had had enough of Hannibal’s tests.
She didn’t avert her gaze this time either.
Their eyes locked, glaring as though they could pierce through each other. Then Hannibal spoke.
“Ten percent raise in your salary.”
It wasn’t a blast of icy rage or a dismissal from her position as head maid.
Anne blinked in surprise at the completely unexpected reply.
“Pardon?”
Hannibal scratched the back of his head awkwardly and sat back down on the bench.
“Sorry. I won’t bring up the past again.”
“Ah… yes.”
She’d been prepared to snap back if he got angry, but the wind was taken out of her sails when he backed down first.
Anne sat down on the bench, leaving a small distance between them.
They stared blankly into the dimly lit rear garden, the silence between them thick and awkward.
Hannibal broke it with an idle question.
“Since you live alone, I suppose you’ll need to work hard to earn money.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
She’d managed to get a house, but now she needed to save for her retirement.
She would work even harder tomorrow. A ten percent raise! She clenched her fists in determination.
The garden had a lot of overgrowth. She should call the gardener to the annex tomorrow. She began mentally drafting a to-do list.
Her shoe heel clicked against the other as she swung her feet idly.
“Are your shoes comfortable?”
“Yes, thanks to you, they’re very comfortable.”
When Anne answered with a bright smile, Hannibal turned to her with a smile of his own.
“Good.”
The sharp edge that usually clung to his expression was gone, replaced with the looseness of the night, and Anne found herself staring blankly.
Hannibal Clayde was a young, handsome, unmarried man. She couldn’t afford to let this turn into something that could spark feelings or misunderstandings.
She should have just left the annex the moment she arrived—she shouldn’t leave any room for this sort of thing.
Anne glanced sideways at him, then abruptly stood.
“I… I’ll be going now!”
“Alright.”
Something about the way he looked at her—almost childlike in its vulnerability—made her want to comfort him.
Whatever his story or wounds were, she wanted to listen.
Maybe, in this lord’s manor, he was just as lonely and burdened as Victoria, and needed support and comfort too.
But who was she to pity him? That would be arrogance on her part.
Once burned, she wouldn’t let it happen twice.
Anne firmly reined in her softening heart and left the annex.
“…Haa.”
Once Anne was gone, Hannibal turned his gaze to the empty bench and muttered.
“You’re different from that woman. And yet… I keep trying to confirm it.”
He felt both guilty and relieved by that fact.
And above all… grateful.
* * *
Three days before the Night of the Witch, Count Arthur Clayde returned to Tegenes for the first time in over a year.
“Why didn’t you go straight to the annex? What brings you here?”
“Even so, I’m still the head of this house and your father. Shouldn’t I be greeted by my own son?”
Sparks seemed to fly behind the two as they faced each other in the lobby. Hannibal gave only a curt tilt of his chin in acknowledgment—his entire show of filial respect.
“You can throw your parties as you wish, but don’t let the guests wander into this place. If you do, I’ll send every last one of them back to the capital. Butler, escort my father to the annex at once.”
“Y-you insolent…! Did your mother teach you to speak like that?”
“Count, it’s been a while. I trust you’ve been well?”
“Oh? Ah, yes, yes. Stop pushing me, I’m going.”
Less than a minute after arriving, the count was ushered out by the butler and the servants.
Count Arthur held his wrinkled chin high and strode past Hannibal without a glance.
Anne had heard their relationship was bad, but this was beyond her imagination.
“Anne.”
“Yes.”
Even a beggar dropping by for alms would probably get more warmth in the gaze than that.
If anything, Hannibal—who cared greatly for his domain’s people—would probably feed the beggar and give him work at the manor.
Yet he treated his own father with complete disregard.
“When Dello Sandor arrives—”
Before Hannibal could finish, news came from the entrance that Sandor had arrived. It was still morning—Victoria wasn’t even awake yet.
“Greetings, my lord. What an honor for you to greet me per—urk!”
Before he could finish, Hannibal grabbed Sandor by the collar, his face radiating murderous intent.
“G-gghk—What… what are you doing, my lord!”
“What am I doing? You should know that better than anyone. The mother and daughter who were to testify against you ‘accidentally’ fell to their deaths.”
“What? What did you say?”
Sandor’s shout, paired with his exaggeratedly shocked expression, rang utterly false to Anne.
She was almost certain—instinctively—that this man was the culprit.
“So you know nothing of it?”
“How could I? An accident, you say? Their deaths are truly tragic and heartbreaking.”
His mournful tone was so overdone it bordered on parody.
Hannibal looked at him with as much suspicion as Anne felt.
“Because of that, we now have two empty spots in the Night of the Witch procession. How about you go to the Witch’s Forest and pray for your ‘truth’ there?”
“Excuse me?”
“What, are you afraid you can’t speak the truth there?”
“Not at all. I’ll go. I truly have nothing to do with this.”
When Hannibal growled, Sandor answered with confidence.
“But that still leaves one spot empty, doesn’t it?”
He darted a sidelong glance at Anne and added,
“Why not take Anne Ferro with me?”
Pointing directly at her, he declared,
“Anne Ferro.”
“I’d like to show her my innocence and sincerity. Then perhaps she’ll apologize for doubting me.”
The supposed gentle, mild-mannered gentleman—so the rumors claimed—looked at her with an icy, hostile gaze instead.
Hannibal turned to Anne.
“Anne Ferro, what do you think? Will you go to the Witch’s Forest with him?”
“I’m not from the West.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Even if I don’t believe in the witch?”
Had an outsider ever gone to the Witch’s Forest? The Claydes had never even married outside Western families.
Anne’s first concern was whether she’d only cause trouble by going.
Hannibal thought for a moment, then said,
“…Alright.”
“Understood.”
Once she agreed, Hannibal released Sandor’s collar, gave him one last glare, and left the lobby.
“Cough, cough.”
Sandor caught his breath, straightened his clothes, and resumed his stiff, arrogant posture.
Then he turned to Anne and smirked nastily.
“You’d better be careful not to set foot in the Witch’s Forest, Head Maid Anne Ferro.”
“Pardon?”
“If you’re not a Clayde, you die.”
As if he were so certain he’d survive. Anne barely managed to hide her distaste and asked,
“Shall I escort you to the drawing room? Once the young lady wakes—”
“No, I’ll leave for today. It wouldn’t be proper to see my sweetheart while in such a foul mood.”
“Very well.”
After Dello Sandor left, Anne went to Victoria’s room upon hearing she’d woken.
“My lady, the mother and daughter who were to prove Lord Sandor’s guilt died in an accident on their way to Tegenes.”
“What?”
Victoria, who had been lounging in bed, threw off the covers and sat up.
“—So now there are two empty spots in the Night of the Witch procession. I’ll be going along with Lord Sandor.”
“What about me?”
Suddenly shouting, Victoria bolted for the door.
“My lady? My lady—”
Anne hurried after her. The first place Victoria headed after waking was none other than Hannibal’s office.
Throwing the door open without knocking, she exclaimed,
“I want to go too.”
“Change out of your pajamas first. What are you talking about?”
“I’m going to the Witch’s Forest.”
“All twelve spots are already filled.”
Victoria turned to Anne.
“I’ll go instead of Anne. That’s fine, right?”
“Of course.”
Victoria’s prayers would be far more effective than Anne’s, who didn’t even believe in the witch.
But Hannibal rejected the idea instantly.
“No.”
“Why not? Why can’t I go? I’m a Clayde. I’ve been reading a lot lately, you know. The whole Clayde family used to enter the Witch’s Forest together, right? Then I can go too! I want to prove I’m a Clayde—”
“No means no.”
Bang! Hannibal even slammed his desk, his tone sharper and more final than Anne had ever heard before.
