The Maid of the Cursed Princess

“How… did you…?”

The flaw he had tried so desperately to hide was now exposed.

The Prince’s expression, shocked by the fact that others knew this flaw, bore a look he had never shown to others in his life.

“You… how did you…?”

“It hasn’t been that long in truth. Who could have foreseen that one of the Orléans royalty – a Prince capable of readily claiming any foreign Princess for a consort if he so desired – would instead fall for a mere common woman?”

An allegation so irreverent it was blasphemous to even utter. Who would dare say that a Prince of Orléans had dallied with a commoner?

From his earliest years, Second Prince Louis had been an enviable matrimonial prospect coveted by aristocratic social circles across nations. Not only because of his noble lineage as a direct descendant of the Orléans royal family, but also because of his excellent appearance and character, it was natural that eyes would turn to him.

That’s why even when people saw the Prince rejecting marriage proposals every time, they didn’t find it suspicious. They only speculated that it might be because his standards had become too high due to his artistic temperament, or that he might prefer a marriage that resulted from falling in love and deepening that love to become a couple, rather than an arranged, obligation-born match.

Whether born of genuine affection or more prurient proclivities proved immaterial to Viscount Lusignan’s assessments. Even if he could know, he didn’t particularly want to.

“I always wondered. Why did you, who had been so averse to fratricide, suddenly lend us your strength and become so obsessed with Princess Sibylla’s well-being?”

Ultimately, only the end results mattered. Trivial things like intentions and processes have no effect on evaluating the result. Prince Louis had a relationship with a commoner, and an illegitimate child with royal blood was conceived.

Albeit as yet unborn and of undetermined gender, this child’s very existence propagated the sun’s dynastic lineage.

“Were you afraid of the curse?”

The royal curse befalling  the youngest child among those bearing their bloodline.

In other words, should Princess Sibylla perish following this unborn child’s birth, that primordial bane would then transfer from the Crown Prince’s child onto Prince Louis’s illicit offspring instead.

“Indeed, you must have feared your own flesh and blood succumbing to that wasting malediction. A fate akin to your sister’s appalling condition, with the body rotting away.”

Only now did Viscount Lusignan comprehend the seemingly incongruous motivations fueling the Prince’s abrupt metamorphosis and overt solicitousness toward Sibylla over his elder brother:

“Perhaps Your Highness’s purpose in joining hands with us, being closer to the commoners than even His Highness the Crown Prince, was about the curse from the beginning, not the throne.”

“…”

The Prince’s resounding silence constituted his sole acknowledgment.

“What do you think will happen if such salacious revelations become widespread public knowledge?”

A Prince siring children out of wedlock with some lowborn wretch.

If it ended as just a scandal, if it ended with just the Prince and the royal family’s authority being tarnished, that would be fortunate.

“A most fitting sacrificial vessel upon which to divert that curse has now appeared.”

“…!!”

The possibility the Prince dreaded and strived to circumvent above all others.

An illegitimate child with mixed commoner blood. What greater ideal scapegoat could be conceived?

“So stay quietly in your mansion like a dead mouse, Your Highness.”

Rising from his seat, Lusignan leaned in to murmur into the Prince’s frozen, puppet-like visage:

“Until we place the crown on that head.”

In Orléans, where royal authority was held in high esteem, a noble threatening a royal occurred.

In essence, an unappealable sentence – for the Prince could offer no substantive resistance, only unbidden acquiescence.

“Then… I’d like to ask for your cooperation again, gentleman from Königsberg.”

“The lady said she’s willing to send not only the Slave Prince but also other assassins as long as it’s not hiring other mercenaries without consultation like last time.”

“Understood. In that case…”

Inclining his head with a wordless, inward slump, Louis’s gaze abruptly refocused upon Ruslan’s lurking presence as if noticing him there for the first time.

That professional assassin who couldn’t repress his full-body tremors whenever the gentleman referred to his elusive mistress as ‘my lady.’

“…”

Yet rather than the uncompromising demeanor of a ruthless killer devoid of compunction, Ruslan’s mannerisms instead exuded an unmistakable aura of timorous, cowering terror more befitting a whipped puppy than any hardened murderer.

* * *

Extending one’s hand to assist someone who has fallen.

For most ordinary people, such mundane acts of kindness seldom linger as memorable occurrences worth recollecting beyond that fleeting moment.

Yet for Quasimodo, it had been different.

Burdened by a physical deformity rendering even the most routine daily functions profoundly laborious – ostracized and branded as a cursed pariah forced to trudge onward lugging that unsightly frame.

To him, that simple courtesy could never dissipate from his consciousness as some ephemeral irrelevance to be discarded alongside countless other insignificant minutiae.

Thus, Quasimodo resolved he would unequivocally repay that debt of kindness the maid who had identified herself as ‘Esmeralda’ had extended him, no matter how infinitesimal it may have seemed. And that opportunity had arisen far sooner than anticipated.

Was he helpful? Quasimodo wondered. Was the result of his series of actions, his efforts to help Esmeralda, indeed positive? Was it of practical help?

Despite harboring exceedingly low self-esteem, Quasimodo could state with conviction this time. Quasimodo was helpful to Esmeralda.

He found the Princess and moved her to a safe place. Quasimodo had faithfully carried out Esmeralda’s request, ensuring the Princess’s survival in the process.

“Heh… heheh… heheheheh…”

Because he could pride himself on being helpful, on contributing to saving the Princess, Quasimodo was able to smile a genuine smile born of satisfaction, not a servile smile, for the first time in a very long time.

He repaid a kindness, not an enmity. For the first time, he reciprocated the goodwill bestowed by another.

“…Heheh… heh…”

Yet simultaneously, Quasimodo comprehended he could never convey the affections blossoming within his heart.

Not due to his impoverished orphan upbringing, unsightly countenance or malformed physique rendering him so despised.

If it were such things, Quasimodo would have never conveyed his feelings, but he also wouldn’t have been able to easily let go of his lingering attachment to Esmerald

“Th-The Princess, was it…?”

Rather, Esmeralda’s heart had already become devoted to another.

Quasimodo, though uneducated, was not stupid and was quite perceptive. He could understand her feelings even faster than she herself did.

The desperation, the visceral terror contorting her features while enlisting his assistance to locate the missing Princess – as if her very heart were being wrenched and squeezed within an inescapable vise.

It was clearly romantic love. The same as what Quasimodo had felt.

Because he could empathize with those feelings, because he knew anguish flowered from the toxically addictive poison known as love.

“…Heh… heheh.”

And so Quasimodo could relinquish his unrequited yearnings with a sense of bittersweet catharsis.

“Heh… oh, F-Father?”

“…Quasimodo.”

But there were those who couldn’t.

* * *

The moon steadily ascends into the nocturnal skies.

Filtered through the bedroom window, those lunar rays cast their melancholic silver luminescence into the darkened interior – an ominously somber vista traditionally associated with squalid destitution throughout the slums.

“Are you awake, Princess?”

Silhouetted against that moonlight while perched upon the window’s sill, a woman sat huddled in pensive contemplation with her chin resting atop her knees.

“…Come to think of it… did you discard the maid’s attire?”

“It became unusable due to being soaked in too much blood. So I had to change clothes.”

While Dorothy frequently alternated her guises depending on the scenario, her maidservant clothes had always constituted her signature constant until this anomaly.

A white shirt and black pants. Dorothy’s appearance with her hair down in such ordinary attire felt a bit unfamiliar to Sibylla.

“It rather suits you in an unexpected way. Perhaps even more than the maid uniform.”

Not that such an appearance didn’t suit her or detracted from her looks.

“Pardon my digression, Princess, but for the foreseeable future I’ll quit my duties as your personal maid.”

“…?”

Regarding Dorothy’s abrupt announcement with a bemused gaze of confusion and disbelief.

“Do you mean you’re going to leave me?”

“No, I don’t intend to leave your side entirely, Princess.”

Abandoning Sibylla was never even a consideration – not after investing so much effort into this endeavor thus far. She couldn’t simply turn her back on Sibylla as if nothing had happened.

Above all, because she felt she would forever groan in inexplicable regret if she lost Sibylla, Dorothy remained steadfastly resolved to protect Sibylla unto the bitter end.

“Do you recall the vow I once swore unto you, Princess?”

“…There were more than one or two, so I don’t remember them all…”

Since Dorothy Gale met Sibylla Thérèse, how many oaths had she promised before her master?

More than could be recounted from memory, Dorothy surmised. Most were words she had uttered to reassure Sibylla, and further to induce her to open her heart.

Not that those vows constituted lies, but.

“I swore to protect, swore not to abandon, swore not to leave until the curse was lifted. I probably swore even more than I can currently recollect.”

For Dorothy herself couldn’t accurately remember each individualized instance either, her own mindset during those initial overtures differ drastically from her current one.

Still, because she couldn’t break an oath made with her master.

“To fulfill my totality of oaths sworn before you, Princess, I have come to realize I shouldn’t serve Your Highness as I have been.”

Dorothy judged that the position of a maid didn’t seem particularly convenient for protecting Sibylla.

“So… for the foreseeable future, I’ll be resigning from my maid’s duties. Or rather than a resignation… it’s more like a vacation. Paid leave.”

“Then what will you be from now on…”

“I think I’ll try being a Prince.”

Unbidden, an image of Robin unexpectedly resurfaced within Dorothy’s mind.

The Little Prince traversing that hallowed desert who had once embodied her entire world.

“…A Prince?”

“Yes, a Prince.”

I wonder, was this the sort of ‘Prince’ you often envisioned?

Probably he was a bit more dependable, handsome, and kind than this.

I’m sorry to disappoint you, Robin.

But still, I’ll try my best.