The Maid of the Cursed Princess

Moon river, wider than a mile ♪

Across the wide river bathed in moonlight ♪

I’m crossin’ you in style some day ♪

Someday I’ll cross you in style ♪

Oh, dream maker, you heart breaker ♪

Oh, you who made me dream and broke my heart ♪

Wherever you’re goin’, I’m goin’ your way ♪

Wherever you flow, I’ll follow you ♪

Two drifters, off to see the world ♪

Two drifters setting out to see the world ♪

There’s such a lot of world to see ♪

Yet there is so much world to see ♪

We’re after the same rainbow’s end ♪

We chase the same rainbow’s end ♪

Waitin’ round the bend, my Huckleberry friend ♪

Waiting around the bend, my dear friend ♪

Moon river and me ♪

The moon river and I ♪

The hall previously filled with music and chattering laughter had fallen deathly silent, as all eyes were fixated on the mysterious Countess’s spectacle.

No one knew the identity of that beautiful bronze-haired Countess, for many guests besides her had concealed their faces behind masks.

Or rather, they likely had no interest to begin with. To those who had already prioritized which connections to cultivate, an unfamiliar Countess of unknown origins could hardly concern them.

Yet as the Countess approached the royals’ seating area, people’s gazes inevitably turned toward her.

No matter how esteemed the guests, none could outrank Orléans royalty. And even setting aside class disparity, for a guest to audaciously mingle with the hosts without permission was a breach of decorum that simply shouldn’t occur.

However, the Countess ascended the dais without hesitation, striding forth undaunted as if the Orléans royals’ authority meant nothing to her. And her destination upon the dais wasn’t the Crown Prince’s seat, nor anyone else’s – but directly before the one person none dared approach.

“Why do you suffer such torment alone, Princess of Orléans?”

The cursed Princess all had shunned.

“You… you are… why are you dressed like that… you are-“

“Shh…”

Their exchange couldn’t be clearly heard, for the Princess’s voice was never particularly loud to begin with, and the Countess seemed to match her register with an equally soft tone only audible to those nearby.

“Shall we dance?”

Yet the Countess’s final words rang out clearly enough for the entire hall to hear, as the Princess accepted her proffered hand.

“…”

With the hand not holding the Princess’s, the Countess gestured toward the orchestra that had fallen silent.

Without even turning her head, a simple flick of her wrist prompted them to resume playing.

…♪♪♩♬~

Slowly, one step after another, the pair began to move in rhythm with the music as all eyes focused squarely upon them.

“W-Wait, I have only learned the steps, never actually danced before…”

The Princess’s movements were understandably clumsy, having merely studied the theory without any practical experience, those lessons cut short long ago.

“Don’t be so tense. I’ll lead, so relax your body and move naturally. That is the essence of the waltz.”

However, the Countess didn’t chastise the Princess nor force her movements, gently guiding her partner with the nurturing care of a mother.

“One, two, three.”

“One, two, three…”

Following the Countess’s instruction, the Princess’s stiff form gradually began to loosen and move with increasing grace.

Still lacking refinement yet steadily recalling long untapped memories, one step then two, holding and parting hands.

The Princess steadily adapted to the Countess’s gentle lead, her unnatural motions fading as their union became as harmonious as long-practiced partners.

Whether aware of the Countess’s identity or not, all silently watched their waltz in awe.

They had been profoundly influenced by the wave of Romanticism pervading high society since the war’s end – ideals of romance and sentimentality that the current era prized above all else.

So in their Romantic eyes, how did the pair appear?

The Countess extending her hand without hesitation to the shunned, cursed Princess entombed in exile. The Princess rising to accept, slowly overcoming her fears.

It was the epitome of Romantic ideals to those enthralled by such notions.

As their waltz concluded with the music, the hall fell silent once more.

Clap, clap, clap-

That silence was broken by the Crown Prince’s applause as he watched their dance, prompting-

“…Huh…?”

A smattering of applause to erupt from all directions.

The Countess’s identity didn’t matter. For one couldn’t sully such unabashed Romanticism with tawdry presumptions of being ‘unrealistic’ or ‘contrived.’

The Princess and Countess were actors on stage, the rest mere audience. And if the audience didn’t applaud an excellent performance, how could they be called good audience members?

“What is… this…”

But that was merely an outsider’s perspective.

The actual subject, Sibylla, couldn’t comprehend why they received such applause.

No, she had already lost her senses the moment the Countess offered her hand, following her gentle lead in a half-dazed trance.

Yet even through that hazy consciousness, the Countess’s presence had seared itself deeper into Sibylla’s heart-

Like a brand upon bare skin.

* * *

“…”

After the ball’s conclusion, Sibylla somehow managed to stagger her way back to her room.

That she could even find her way back without getting lost was quite the feat, given her state – repeatedly stumbling and crashing into walls along the return path.

“…Ughh…”

Clutching her chest, Sibylla collapsed onto the bed.

“Why…”

This very ball she had wished to escape and conclude as swiftly as possible.

Yet as it neared its end, Sibylla had instead longed for it to last a little longer.

“Princess.”

A familiar voice came from beyond the door, accompanied by a knock.

“My apologies for the delay, may I enter-“

As if entranced, Sibylla rose from the bed and swiftly strode over, flinging the door wide open.

“…Princess?”

“Hah… Hah…”

There stood Dorothy, her eyes slightly wider than usual in apparent surprise. Her typical shameless, foolish maid.

“Is something the matt-“

“…Follow me.”

Seizing Dorothy’s wrist, Sibylla dragged her into the room and flung her onto the bed.

Of course, Sibylla was well aware this wasn’t through her own physical strength, for Dorothy towered over the Princess of stunted growth and was far stronger.

“Heh… Heh… Hahah…”

Yet the very moment Sibylla climbed atop Dorothy, pinning her wrists above her head, she felt an indescribable rush of elation surging through her.

What expression was she making right now? Sibylla couldn’t bring herself to wonder.

“…What was your reason for appearing at the ball?”

“…”

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Sibylla asked Dorothy in a strained, hushed voice.

It should be clear to all present that any outlandish excuses were no longer possible.

“…I wanted to please the Princess.”

“Did I give you such an order?”

“No.”

Sibylla had never requested that Dorothy spare her the embarrassment of appearing at the ball.

“This was an act of my own volition.”

And yet Dorothy had done so, acting for Sibylla’s sake without being instructed.

“…Why?”

“Didn’t I already say?”

Oblivious that her unilateral actions had inflicted a deep wound in Sibylla’s heart.

“I wished to bring you joy, Princess. That’s all.”

“…”

Sibylla gazed into Dorothy’s eyes, praying her words were lies, mere lip service to satisfy her master.

But as always, Dorothy’s eyes held not a shred of falsehood, confirming the truth behind every word she spoke.

“…Hah, hahah…”

Only then did Sibylla finally understand Dorothy.

“Hahah, hahahah…”

Her endlessly foolish, simple-minded nature.

“…You’ll never comprehend the gravity of what you have uttered, for the rest of your life.”

No, perhaps all of her words and deeds until now had been thus.

“For you are one who can’t foresee the consequences of her own speech, who makes no attempt to do so.”

Sibylla’s hands undid the collar around Dorothy’s neck.

“My Hélène, my Carmen, my Esmeralda.”

A doe-eyed femme fatale who, through pure goodwill and affection, led all around her to ruin.

“If you are such a person, then I too shall no longer deny myself.”

Having recognized Dorothy’s nature, Sibylla could finally confront the unsightly desires she had desperately tried to reject and turn away from.

“This is an order, Dorothy Gale.”

“Ugh…”

Sibylla’s lips met Dorothy’s nape.

“Become mine.”

A small mark branded the neck of the servant.

Tl/note: Femme fatale – the French phrase, which means ‘deadly woman’ or ‘lethal woman’. An attractive and seductive woman, especially one who is likely to cause distress or disaster to a man(woman?) who becomes involved with her.