RAMHM Chapter 3

Bliea Acacia's Sturdy Body

Marge, the head maid and longtime servant of the Count Acacia estate, narrowed her eyes and watched the lady of the house. Bliea, reading the Imperial Daily that the butler had hurriedly procured for her. Yes, that Imperial Daily. The very newspaper she used to mock and toss aside, sneering about how it was filled with nothing but nonsensical drivel. The one she'd said shouldn't even be delivered to the house when the Count wasn't home—might as well use it as kindling.

'She's truly gone mad. No doubt about it.'

Walking perfectly well on her own two legs, then suddenly stopping to beam with joy. Asking for a glass of water, then when it was handed to her, looking up with moved eyes and saying, 'Thank you.' And now, sitting in the drawing room sipping tea and suddenly looking happy again, starting her day by reading a proper newspaper instead of a gossip rag—the Countess Acacia, of all people...

Marge turned her gaze toward the drawing room entrance, and sure enough, the other maids had clustered there, whispering as they gawked at the spectacle. Bliea paired with a newspaper was certainly something worth gawking at.

'Maybe there's a shopping catalog inside?'

'Or news about some big fire or flood somewhere.'

'Could be. The mistress would like that sort of thing.'

The murmuring reached her faintly. Marge hurried to shoo them away. Love her or hate her, she was still the lady of this estate—bad rumors wouldn't do.

And Marge had a particular reason for this renewed concern. Until now, she'd only worried about the Countess's lack of refinement, how she 'showed her common roots.' But after Bliea had shut herself in her room for several days, she'd begun asking strange questions. Questions like:

'W-what exactly is my name?'

'Where is Count Acacia?'

'Are you—are you my nanny?'

Completely nonsensical questions. And asked so carefully, too. Thank goodness she'd only asked when Marge was alone—if the loose-lipped young maids had heard those questions, the rumor that 'Countess Acacia has gone mad' would have spread through the entire capital.

"Marge."

So when that voice called her name, Marge tensed immediately. She checked that the drawing room door was properly closed, pressed her lips together firmly, and approached Bliea's side. Bliea had finished reading the Imperial Daily and sat staring blankly for a long while before calling her.

'What absurd thing is she going to say now...'

"Am I... am I Novian Trovika's mistress?"

"!"

Good Lord, good Lord. Marge quickly glanced around the empty drawing room and lowered her voice to answer.

"Are you finally going to tell me the truth?"

"...Truth?"

Bliea's beautiful pale green eyes stared at her intently. Marge nodded and leaned in close, whispering.

"You and His Grace the Grand Duke—you have that sort of relationship, don't you?"

"...Why—why would you think that?"

Bliea's speech pattern, which had been no different from a commoner's, had somehow shifted to something unmistakably aristocratic. Like Count Acacia himself. Marge felt an odd sense of dissonance but hurried on, afraid Bliea might suddenly clam up.

"Well, if you weren't his mistress, why would you take such interest in the Grand Duchess's personal affairs?"

"...I did?"

"Of course. And His Grace the Grand Duke has frequently sent jewelry and dresses..."

"He... he did that."

Bliea's voice sank low. Marge's face showed concern, wondering if she'd said something wrong. Truth be told, Marge had already treated her theory as established fact. That's why she'd casually probed this morning about whether the Grand Duke's mistress would be pleased by the Grand Duchess's death—all to gauge the reaction.

"Even now you call His Grace 'him' so affectionately... Oh my, Madam. It's true, isn't it? Would His Grace the Grand Duke personally invite a vassal's wife to a funeral and look after her so attentively simply because that vassal is away?"

Count Acacia was so busy with estate matters that he rarely came to the capital residence—you could count the visits on one hand. When a vassal was absent, his spouse naturally fell under the Grand Duke's protection. So it made sense for the Grand Duke to personally invite that wife to the Grand Duchess's funeral. But...

"Just the fact that the Count turns a blind eye to all your outings—that alone suggests something more than ordinary, doesn't it? Stop hiding it now and tell me everything, nice and clear."

She'd just sent word to the attendant that, after consideration, she would attend the funeral—such an audacious response. To the Grand Duke, no less. If Bliea could do such a thing for any reason other than being his mistress, then what else could it be? But as a longtime servant of this household, Marge had heard plenty about the Grand Duke's temperament, which made her anxious. The Grand Duke didn't seem the type to exercise great patience with a mistress.

'We need to get her dressed and have the carriage ready...'

Here Marge was, worried sick that lightning might strike from the Grand Duke's direction, while the person in question showed not the slightest hint of urgency.

"So you don't know either."

'How am I supposed to know when you won't tell me anything?!'

There was a limit to how much she could accommodate this strange behavior. Marge gritted her teeth, summoned her patience, and nodded.

"Right. No one in this estate can give me a proper answer. For now—for now, I have no choice but to accept his invitation and go to the funeral."

Wait, so what is your relationship? And the Grand Duke himself contacted you about the Grand Duchess's death—why are you acting like it's some grand favor to attend the funeral when it's a vassal's wife's natural duty? All manner of protests churned in her chest, but Marge held her tongue.

Just because Bliea had been quiet these past few days didn't mean Marge had forgotten that temper. Before she could start throwing things, Marge chose to quietly help with preparations. And she kept a sharp eye on Bliea's unfamiliar behavior—the constant fidgeting of fingers, the visible anxiety.

I observed how head maid Marge treated me casually enough, but the other maids practically bent themselves in half when dealing with me. They all watched my every move, but the moment our eyes met, they immediately looked down. And if I so much as opened my mouth to speak, they tensed visibly.

'Bliea Acacia must have been a frightening person.'

Small wonder. My body brimmed with strength. Even if I ran around screaming at the top of my lungs, I'd be perfectly fine. For the first time in ages, I could wear proper shoes instead of slippers without swaying. My hair, which used to fall out by the handful, barely came loose no matter how many times I brushed it.

"All done, Madam."

A young maid named Yona said with flushed cheeks. Standing before the full-length mirror, I saw a familiar face and an unfamiliar body reflected back. The well-proportioned face with its healthy fullness fascinated me. Not once had I coughed. Not once during waking, eating, and dressing had I suffered an attack.

"...I look healthy."

"Pardon?"

Thinking it was criticism, Yona's face went pale. But I smiled with satisfaction. How much had I prayed—prayed—for a body like this? All morning I'd alternated between confusion and numbness, but eventually I accepted that this wasn't a 'dream' or a 'delusion.'

Every newspaper carried the sad news of Adrienne Trovika's death on the front page, and the circumstances matched what I remembered last. A severe attack from chronic illness, and sudden death. Whether my dead soul had entered Bliea Acacia's body, or whether I'd been Bliea Acacia all along but suffered from mental illness—only that remained confusing.

But no matter how I thought about it, I was Adrienne. I took another slow step toward the mirror. The rosy cheeks were lovely. The only reason I hadn't gone completely mad in this absurd situation was simple: this woman's face resembled mine to an uncanny degree. It looked exactly like the image I'd always dreamed of. As if I were living in a dream.

'Did God give me a chance?'

I couldn't shake the feeling—as though I'd been born anew. As though I'd shed my sick, ailing body and gained an identical one. An unheard-of phenomenon, yet wasn't I experiencing it right now? What if my soul, contained in this body, tried to return to my original corpse that was already dead?

'Absolutely not.'

I'd rather prevent it myself. I felt a bit sorry for Bliea, the owner of this body. But right now, I was eating alone. Walking alone. Every single action I took by myself moved me to tears.

The idea that my husband and this body's owner had some strange relationship seemed utterly unbelievable from the start. Novian, who prioritized his reputation above all else, would never do such a thing.

Why would a man who loved me so much that he made me Grand Duchess despite knowing my frail condition—what could he possibly lack? The thought of him, too busy to even stop by the capital, leisurely enjoying dates with a mistress made me want to laugh. The man I knew would never do such a thing. Dates? He was half-mad with work.

In the first place, I'd heard rumors of women who whispered among themselves in society, claiming to be Novian's attractive mistresses. But those were the words of people who didn't know how frantically he traveled around, solving incidents and crises by imperial command.

With a strange mixture of joy and sadness, I climbed into the carriage.

It had been so long since I'd dressed up like this and gone outside. When I arrived at the Trovika family cemetery, I calmed my pounding heart and stepped down from the carriage. The closer I got to the cemetery entrance, the more my spine prickled. The strange thrill didn't last long. My joy at being healthy gradually faded.

With each step forward, I could see 'me' lying there, beautifully arranged as though I weren't dead at all.