RAMHM Chapter 2

The Suspicious Countess

I'd had a terrible nightmare. Struggling to escape from water where my feet couldn't touch bottom, ultimately drowning.

"Are you awake now?"

"Mm, mm—"

I cleared my still-constricted throat. It must have been a nightmare—my back was damp. Wiggling my fingers first. Wiggle wiggle. Since having a body like glass, I'd wiggled my fingers first thing each morning. Because moving suddenly made my whole body ache as if it might truly shatter.

"No matter what... you really should go see—"

Annie's voice came in fragments, cutting in and out, but my mind was clear. When in recent years had I felt this good? My head was remarkably clear. Aside from some cold sweat, even my chest—which felt like it was stoking a fire with every breath—was fine.

"Are you listening to me?"

But wait—had Annie's voice always been so aged and hoarse? Unable to control my body that felt submerged in deep water, I closed the eyelids I'd struggled to lift. Unlike my refreshed mind, my whole body ached as if beaten.

"Lady Bliea!"

"......"

Jolt!

"Ahhh!"

The moment I was about to fall back asleep, tremendous force yanked my body upright from the bed in an instant. The terrible herbal scent that usually assaulted my nose each morning was absent. Instead, red rose fragrance circled the entire room.

"Annie, what on earth..."

"The Grand Duchess is dead."

"...Annie."

At Annie's voice—now openly discussing my death to my face—I was... wait, hold on.

"Annie?"

"Who is this Annie you keep calling for?"

The grumbling middle-aged woman's voice was unfamiliar as never before. Because it truly was an unfamiliar voice. Moreover, my voice—usually hoarse from frequent coughing—was normal.

"Wh-what did you just say?"

"What?"

"The Grand Duchess... the Grand Duchess is dead? Which Grand Duchess?"

Was there another Grand Duchess in this Empire besides me? Only then did the room's scenery—never seen before in my life—enter my vision. Unlike my room that was entirely green, this room was filled with white and pink to a sickening degree. Goosebumps rose across my entire body. Ignoring the bewildered woman extending her hand, I rushed to the mirror.

"Haah—"

A sigh of relief. Light green eyes sparkling in the sunlight and golden eyelashes. It was definitely my reflection I'd seen tediously often. Though the rosy bloom in my cheeks was somewhat unfamiliar compared to my usual pale, gaunt appearance—but I often ran fevers in the morning.

"Did I, did I collapse again yesterday?"

My throat always hurt, never able to raise my voice, but today for some reason it felt like I could even sing. Wait. But did I just get out of bed and run to the mirror—on my own strength? My firmly planted legs trembled pointlessly.

"What are you talking about? Yesterday too you lounged around all day and only got up when the sun was high..."

"I did...?"

I was dazed by this body that had become strangely sound and solid, when the woman said something odd. Yesterday I'd been ill all day in my sick body—did people describe that as 'lounging around'? This middle-aged woman I'd never seen in my life sent me a look of disdain before straightening the bedding I'd just risen from. Everything I saw and heard felt wrong. The greatest wrongness was my body standing upright alone without leaning on anything.

Knock knock.

"My lady."

"......"

A servant who should properly call me 'Your Highness the Grand Duchess' entered my bedroom casually. And the middle-aged woman just watched. Was this some large hospital in the capital instead of the Grand Ducal estate? Those actions lacking any courtesy were the only part of this situation that didn't feel wrong.

"Grand Duke Trovika asks whether my lady will attend the funeral."

"...My husband?"

Pfft. At that moment, a derisive laugh burst from the woman who'd finished arranging the bedding. I, who'd fully emerged from sleep, I who'd found everything in this room wrong—froze as if doused with cold water at that laugh.

"Well, he might become your husband now, my lady. Since the Grand Duchess Trovika is dead, if Lady Bliea, the mistress, takes that position, it'll make quite an entertaining bit of gossip."

"Tro-Trovika Grand Duchess is dead?"

Only then did I flounder in memories flooding in like the tide. It hadn't been a nightmare. The bedroom doors—always firmly shut—flung wide open. The cynical maids' expressions turned ashen. The seizure so serious even Annie, who always tormented me, ran out. My body trembling so badly I didn't notice the herbal scent usually sharp enough to sting my nose. That snowy night, the moment I smiled thinking of the heated kiss with Novian—the nightmare that came. No—reality. The rough hands trying to make me swallow that medicine with its terrible taste they fed me during even mild seizures. Water poured into my mouth that I couldn't handle, gasping for breath, my head gradually turning white...

"Urk—!"

"Lady Bliea!"

"My lady!"

Frantically batting away the two hands reaching for me, I lunged at the mirror I'd been staring at. My light green eyes that someone once praised as beautiful, my sparkling golden eyelashes, nose, mouth. Everything the same, yet the name they called me and my status were different. What on earth... Wait. Like someone possessed, I tugged loose the ponytail tied back loosely. Tug. Simultaneously I removed the pajama cap covering my head. The hair cascading down my back wasn't shining blonde but black hair like my husband's. The naturally wavy hair was sensually thick with waves.

Definitely my face, but not my body.

"What, what on earth is this...!"

Confused, I leaned my swaying body against the console cluttered with cosmetics. And reached for the pile of papers filling my vision. Not the Imperial Daily I usually read, but Back Alley—a gossip rag filled with scandals.

"Ahhh—"

I clutched my head and swayed. The strong middle-aged woman firmly caught me and clicked her tongue.

"So pleased you want to faint?"

Adrienne Trovika. I with that very name died last night. That agonizing, bizarre sensation wasn't a dream but reality.

"To attend Her Highness the Grand Duchess's funeral, attendance would only be possible in the afternoon."

And according to the maid, I'd been reincarnated into the body of his mistress.

An enormously extravagant meal was being laid on the table. I stared at it with a blank expression. None of it felt real. The splendid dining room—clearly reflecting the estate mistress's taste—had various artworks plastered everywhere like rags. Loving fullness, the gaps between frames were crammed with vases holding flowers as tall as a person. It felt like eating in a mad artist's storage room. Yes—if I were in my right mind, that would be the first feeling I'd have. The breakfast course that began with salad garnished with brie cheese finally ended when piping hot lamb stew was served before me.

"No appetite?"

The middle-aged woman who'd skillfully shredded the lamb in the stew with an enormous fork, removing bones, addressed me.

"Wh-what is your name?"

"...What game is this now?"

"I asked what your name is."

The woman set down her fork and approached me with a serious expression, examining my face. As if looking at a crazy person.

"...How unpleasant."

"Have you truly gone mad?"

Good Lord. Though I was a neglected mistress, I wasn't so low as to be insulted to my face like this. The owner of this body I'd entered, this woman called 'Bliea'—for some reason she's called my husband's mistress. Blunt but reasonably decent treatment. But surely she wasn't in a position to be treated this way by what appeared to be a maid. At my speechless stare at such rudeness, she identified herself as 'Marge' and clicked her tongue.

"Cooped up in your room for days, laughing then crying making a total scene, and now at news the Grand Duchess died you bolt upright asking my name all of a sudden..."

And straight from Marge's mouth came:

"If you're going to go mad, at least do it prettily."

My appetite completely vanished. Just asking a name got that reaction—if I said I was actually Grand Duchess Adrienne, I'd truly be treated as insane. I only drank cold water.

'Bliea Acacia, Countess.'

The servant who'd entered the bedroom called me that continuously as I came down to the dining room. I'd never heard the name Bliea, but I knew Count Acacia well enough. A vassal of the Grand Ducal House but not holding an important central position. Count Acacia—so old his hair was completely white, could die any moment. A humble family, so he handled errands for my husband's territory affairs, which made him seem rather pitiful. I'd heard he'd taken a young, beautiful wife, but I—constantly ill—couldn't attend his wedding.

Of course, a woman of Grand Duchess rank wouldn't attend a humble family vassal's wedding anyway. He couldn't possibly be so bold as to covet his lord's wife, finding a woman this similar to live with. I'd seen his face several times, but he was the type who couldn't even look up at me, the Grand Duchess, keeping his eyes downcast. And I, with poor health, attended almost no parties after marriage except one or two—I could hardly recognize not just the Count but any noble's face.

For a coincidence, this is extremely unpleasant.

If not for the hair color and overall atmosphere, this woman was unmistakably like me. They say a noblewoman's image changes completely with one lip color, one feathered hat... but I, who'd seen no face frequently except my own reflection—couldn't fail to recognize a woman this similar.

"You're eating well."

As I mechanically put food in my mouth while thinking, Marge smirked and kept extending plates. Rough speech but she didn't seem a bad person. Was she like a nanny who came from Bliea's family home? Ah, come to think of it, I...

How long has it been since I ate with my own hands?

Blithe's body must have been quite hungry too—I felt no fullness at all. I was putting food in my mouth like someone who'd starved for days. Not entirely wrong. It had been long since I'd eaten proper food, given the petty torment at the Grand Ducal estate. Nom nom. At first I'd eaten mechanically with my mind elsewhere, but at some point the very act of eating with my own hands became so novel I couldn't stop.

Bliea's hands were white, slender and long like mine, but the strength was completely different. Though there was some body ache, compared to my previous body this was 'unprecedented healthiness.'

"Um, my lady. What should I tell His Grace...?"

The servant sent from the Grand Ducal estate stood restlessly beside the dining table. Waiting for my answer. To whether I'd attend 'Grand Duchess Adrienne's funeral.' Was this Bliea truly my husband's hidden mistress?