Chapter 52

Ch. 52: To the Tower

Her finger is up close to my face, almost touching my nose. I manage not to swat the appendage away, too focused on pleading my case with the only noblewoman who doesn’t openly scorn me like the rest.

“You should have been left to die in the slums where you were found. If no one had brought you back, then... then my son...” she doesn’t finish her sentence as she dissolves into tears again. Duchess Taylor looks up at me frantically and I step back instinctively thinking she is about to take another swing at me, but her eyes narrow on my ears hatefully.

Of all the days for me to wear those earrings, I think to myself balefully.

“Take them off. Take THEM OFF!” she shrieks. Her voice is so loud, it takes me a second to understand what she said.

I oblige quickly, my eyes finally prickling with warmth. I remember how fondly she smiled at me the other day when she handed them to me. How could it all change so quickly?

“Duchess Taylor...” I plead, as my fumbling filthy fingers struggle to take the studs off.

Duchess Taylor looks away sharply, her voice carrying none of her usual sweetness as she says, “Take them off for her then.”

“The maids by her side approach me with an unfriendly expression as they immediately tug the studs off my ears and onto the grass. The duchess personally steps on them a few times, crushing the thin earring until the speckles of emerald blend into the grass.

.....

To watch my newly cherished possession get crushed into the ground in seconds, saying I wasn’t affected would be a lie. The earrings that had symbolized a newly founded friendship between Duchess Taylor and myself now symbolizes the death of that bond.

I can’t say that I was super attached to the earrings, but seeing the crushed gems sparkle causes the scene before me to start to blur. A blind panic fills me as I turn away, not wanting my tears to be seen. My sleeve brushes angrily across my red face, my heart fuming at my injustice.

“Get that wench taken away! Save my son! Where is the doctor?” Duchess Taylor sounds and looks like another person, her hair unkempt and voice shrill as she wails. But as a crying woman in a field of men, it only serves to draw pity for a woman who probably reminds them of their mother.

“There need to be serious consequences for this, royal family or not.”

“Milady, fret not. This situation shall be addressed, we knights of the royal guard pledge to pursue this to its fullest.”

Everyone on the field has been utterly brainwashed, staring at me with such disgust and revile I could drown from the accusations that are being thrown at me. Get a maid to seduce Sir Gregory? He was kind enough to me already, what need would I have for that? It’s such a load of hogwash in my ears, but somehow the truth has been twisted to fit this new, sinister narrative. If this is all truly the ploy of the empress, I can’t believe she would just haphazardously play with the lives of a knightage that is pledged to defend the royal family to their last breath.

The puppet who carried out this great play is still kneeling on the field, but she has been ignored in place of the fake puppet master, me. She inspects trembling hands with trepidation before suddenly feeling the weight of my gaze and looking up. The former servant regards her former mistress in a detached manner and she smiles. It’s ugly, despite her pretty face, full of hate and revenge.

Was this worth it, I want to ask. She seems caught up in the triumph of turning the spotlight from herself to me. However, I can easily guess that as the culprit who physically did something to the commander, no matter what the Empress promised her, her fate won’t be pretty either. At the end of the day, we are both two fools who got played by the same person.

As for the true puppet master herself? Empress Katya has made a full recovery, standing strong on her two feet. Aside from occasionally dapping a handkerchief on reddened eyes, she is absolutely fine.

The voices on the field begin to quiet down, perhaps having run out of insults for me although the hostility, if anything, has intensified. Katya senses this shift as well, for she murmurs something to the smirking Linette, who dispatches two maids to my side.

They both have the poker face of someone whose been in the employ of the palace for a while, not showing any sorrow or happiness as they quietly murmur the empress’ orders to detain before not so delicately grasping my arms. Empress Katya has milked out every ounce of entertainment out of my torment and as it dwindles, she is ready for the real purpose of her mission. Getting rid of me.

“Not the dungeon,” I gasp out as I helplessly struggle against their strong grasp. I remember the taste of warm blood and the harsh scent of iron, along with a plummeting feeling in my chest. I don’t want to go back there. Never again.

“Oh no, you won’t go to the dungeon. You’re royalty. You go to the tower,” the maid says with a false cheer. They continue to drag me away with great haste, the royal guard quickly disappearing behind me.

The two maids look rather alike so I call them Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum in my head.

I want to roll my eyes at her reminding me of my newly founded imperial status. I had been just as royal back then, yet that mountain of a knight had insisted on detaining me anyways. Royal in name, but not in identity. This becomes abundantly clear to me as I am roughly tugged away from a crime scene I didn’t commit.

The hands release me suddenly in front of a quaint tower at the very edge of the imperial property. It took the better part of an hour to arrive, my short legs so weary of keeping up that they dragged behind me on the ground. Now springy strands of grass and pebbles make their way into the holes that have been torn open.

My weary eyes settle on the two-story building, the exterior painted in the same off white color. It would otherwise look like a normal building if it weren’t for the fact that all the visible windows had steel bars in front to clearly prevent any escape attempts. The cone roof is a tired gray color and the tower looks just as desolate as the abandoned shrine I encountered my half-brother in.

How large are the grounds the palace was built on for there to be so many winding corridors and empty spaces?

“You go here,” Tweedle-dee, the shorter maid, says, finally interrupting the long silence that followed after I stopped griping at them.

“This is where important prisoners with... special identities are detained.”

“If anything is uncomfortable, please let us know. We will serve you for the duration of your stay after.”

A luxury prison is a step up from the dungeon, but I still feel uneasy as I look at the quiet tower.

“...And what happens after my duration?” I ask hesitantly, acknowledging the elephant in the room.

“That is for the emperor to decide,” Tweedle-dum exclaims. It’s unnerving how their face remains pleasant without fluctuation. Just like their mistress.

The lone guard posted in front is burly and alert, even if I was a full-grown adult in Maria’s body, I would still struggle to escape him. He opens the wood door with an unfriendly grunt and we enter the dark hallway. The wood door slams shut behind his with a loud bang.

“He’s deaf by the way, so even if you managed to escape your room, bribing him won’t do you any good,” Tweedle-dee noted helpfully as we passed the outdated wallpaper that’s peeling at the corners.

When she mentions my room, I notice that I will not be alone in this short tower. At intermittent gaps, there are wood doors similar to the entrance, unadorned with any paint with a small opening covered in grim bars. If one were tall enough, they could easily peek inside to glimpse whichever important prisoner resides within.

A lengthy sigh breaks the silence of the passageway, it comes from the inside of one of the rooms. It is an empty sound. No joy, no anger, not even sorrow. Like a broken thing letting out one last burst of life before it dies. The sound is rather chilling and echoes in my head as I sit alone in the desolate chamber I have been led to. Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum leave after promising me to visit once a day. In this isolation, I may grow to look forward to the visit of my dear mother’s lackeys before long.

“It’s not so bad,” I mutter to myself kicking the simple bedpost to test its sturdiness. It’s rather pointless. I just a kid and rather skinny one at that. A bed of feathers would not be flattened beneath me, even with my extra weight gain over the past 2 or so months.

“There’s a bed...” I muse slowly, “A candle, a fireplace, a chair...”.

It’s a little technique my mother taught me, to try to look for the good in every bad situation. Once we were stuck living in a small storage closet that a bakery loaned out for extra money. When I had told her I couldn’t find anything good about the cramped space that could barely fit our ratty suitcase, Dolores had covered my eyes.

“Breath in, mi amor,” she had told me, her warm hands blocking out my vision.

I had taken a deep breath, then two, a faint sugary fragrance becoming empowering as my other senses sharpened to compensate for the lack of vision.

“It’s sweet! Like candy and sweets! Now I’m hungry,” my 10-year-old self had pouted.

“But isn’t it nice? Every day, we can smell something wonderful. Not everyone is this lucky,” she had told me. I’d spent the rest of our short tenure there like a bloodhound sniffing the air obsessively and telling my mom whatever confectionery I thought it was. We even made a game out of it. When I guessed the special baked good correctly, which was fortunately rare, Dolores would buy it for me as a treat with the leftover money from her tips as a waitress.

“There’s a rug too. Now my feet won’t get cold at night... and there’s a-a window...” the tears I had forcefully shoved down on the field decide to make a reappearance as I’m still canvasing the bedroom.

“The w-window has a decent view... shit!” I exclaim, my voice too wobbly to carry on. My throat aches and my eyes burn as I finally let out the emotions I’ve pent up. Harsh, shuddery breaths leak out of me as I cry too hard to even breath properly.

“Mom!” I sob quietly, burying my face into my hands. I miss my mother, I miss my old life. I even miss my scum fiance, who never knew how to comfort me and would pat me on the back in a loving but awkward way. And my trash best friend who would’ve bought me chocolate ice cream and sassily asked me, “Who should I kill for making my bestie cry?”. I’ve tried so hard to acclimate to this world, tried my best to fight for a place. But I’ve lost. I’m not good enough. I’m all alone, without a single person who knows me.

I have grown to appreciate and care for Emma and Marie, but I’ve only come to know them recently. A painful thought occurs to me, and my chest grows tighter as my sobs become more pitiful. In this entire world, no one really knows me. Not a soul.

My hands desperately clutch into the fabric on my chest and I sink to the floor. As a rather quiet, but stubborn person my whole life, I’m not meant for these kinds of experiences. This story is meant for a worthy main character, who luckily is a black belt in karate and a government spy, or a musical prodigy who happens to have an IQ above 150. Reading a few books with witty protagonists covered in plot armor has not prepared me in the slightest for the reality of transmigration.

I wish I never met Bianca, the Mad Dog, Maria, Emma, Janice, Julian, Katya, Helio, or Julia. I wish I had never met them at all.

I fold over completely, my forehead touching the ice-cold floor. I shift my forehead to the side and the cool surface meets my warm cheek, still swollen from Duchess Taylor’s slap. A draft seems to come from beneath and a strand of snot leaks out of my nose unhindered. I’m a mess. A stupid, ordinary mess should’ve never ever come to this world.