Guidelines for the Perfect Goodbye - Chapter 235

Having lived comfortably as a member of a count’s family, it might be strange to say, but Cecilia could take some pride in her resilience. She had been hit often enough to build some endurance.

If she were to be specific, she was far more accustomed to hands than switches.

Switches were tools meant for punishing children who’ve done wrong, weren’t they?

Cecilia wasn’t a child who caused much trouble. In fact, during her childhood, she was often described as quieter than Caroline. Though that description frequently carried an undertone of being gloomy.

One cannot accuse an innocent child of wrongdoing. But if her mere existence was the issue, that couldn’t be helped.

That’s why they didn’t use switches. Instead, they resorted to the most emotional tool of all.

‘Hands…’

Yes. She had grown accustomed to hands.

Whether pinched while reading a book, slapped on the head while sitting, or shoved in the back while walking, hands rarely leave marks.

Hands weren’t frightening.

Even if she was struck, the absence of marks means it’s like it never happened—so long as she forgot it.

***

A shadow fell over her. At the sound of a servant’s frantic apologies, claiming it wasn’t intentional, Cecilia looked up.

A figure stood before her, his face already flushed red before the slap landed. It was a face she recognized, one that didn’t suit the rough bruises marking it—Ulysses.

‘Why…?’

Cecilia’s lips parted silently, but before she could speak, a sharp voice cut through the air like a blade.

“Ulysses! Why did you come out here?”

Ulysses glanced briefly at his mother, who was yelling at him, before turning his gaze away.

Cecilia sat motionless like a statue. Her reflection appeared in his clear blue eyes.

It was quiet. For a fleeting moment, a contrary desire to disrupt the stillness and cause ripples stirred within her, but she held her tongue.

This was not the time for such thoughts.

Ulysses had taken the slap meant for her.

‘A pointless gesture…’

Though her feelings about his sacrifice were cold, she no longer felt the urge to mock him as she once might have.

Living under the same roof, she had seen him grow. He was not quite the Ulysses Rosencrantz she had envisioned.

He was still taciturn, often misunderstood, and as arrogant as any Rosencrantz could be.

But the gaze that once seemed devoid of emotion now revealed distinctly human feelings. The icy blue of his eyes had melted, dripping like thawed water.

…It was unsettling.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

Cecilia remained silent. She could have given a defiant answer, but too many eyes were watching.

The question soon shifted to his parents.

“I heard a commotion outside… Was Cecilia the reason you told me to stay in my room?”

“Ulysses, this isn’t your concern.”

Marquis Rosencrantz said, his tone unusually gentle before growing cold again.

“Nigel, that foolish boy, brought this ridiculous mess here.”

And, to himself, he muttered.

“If only you were the eldest son.”

Ulysses pretended not to hear his father’s words and turned his attention to Guinevere.

“Why is Cecilia here?”

“This isn’t your place to interfere. Go back to your room.”

When Ulysses stubbornly stood his ground, Guinevere sighed.

“She’s here to retrieve her belongings.”

The Marquis added sharply,

“How shameless of this wench!”

“…On her own?”

Ulysses asked, lost in thought before pulling Cecilia to her feet.

“You didn’t need to come back here today, and you certainly didn’t need to be slapped like this.”

“What do you mean? If you knew what she did with Nigel, you’d—”

“I know the full story because I was there and heard it myself.”

Ulysses interrupted, the scratches on his lips and chin serving as evidence.

“It wasn’t entirely her doing, was it?”

Without waiting for a reply, he continued.

“If she deserves to be slapped at the Rosencrantz estate, then Nigel should also go to the Lasphilla estate and be whipped.”

“Our family is different from theirs.”

“They are my mother’s family and my relatives. I’d prefer not to see them humiliated like this.”

“Yes, for your mother’s sake, I didn’t want to resort to this either. But Ulysses, do you think she’s just the daughter of a count? She’s the daughter of a gypsy. My son consorted with the daughter of a gypsy!”

The Marquis’s voice rose, his face flushing with anger at his own words.

“A boy who knew nothing but playing soldier… Now, he’s involved with a woman? Ha! Ridiculous. It must be the gypsy’s witchcraft—there’s no other explanation!”

“Cecilia is not a gypsy, Father.”

“She has gypsy blood, doesn’t she? That cursed blood that moves corpses, enchants the living, and steals their souls!”

Cecilia bit her lower lip at his words, nearly laughing.

The idea that someone who so thoroughly despised gypsies could believe such baseless rumors was absurd.

It was her first time facing Marquis Rosencrantz this closely, and she began to understand, at least a little, why Nigel detested him so much.