Lizzie of the North (Yrsoreth Chronicles 2)

4 ◦✿◦ Dead Garden of Red and Blue

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

Hewitt the butler, Erdan, and Garth found them in the same scene and it was as if they had seen something they shouldn't have.

"Father, welcome home," Erdan broke the silence, with his voice squeaking at the first word.

Lizzie would have congratulated him for not choking while trying hard not to laugh, but she was more occupied facing all the nightmares rolled into one. The bread was now on the floor, she remained dangled and unable to look away. So she grinned, and prayed to whoever gods, will hide the tremble of her lips.

"Is this her?" the duke asked.

"Yes, father. We confirmed it twice."

"Except for the eyes, she got that woman's face."

Is this another fork between life and death? She has yet to seek Red the fortune teller, who told her things and messed her head. She has yet to determine her fate.

To do those, she must survive first.

Right, be adorable, she begrudgingly reminded herself.

Lizzie reached his face, but the Duke stopped her, the blood on his gloves stuck to her hands.

Ah, this guy is tough, she thought. He already placed her back on the floor and then he left without any last words. Garth glanced her way but quickly followed Erdan and the duke for some reports.

Butler Hewitt, who received command of a simple side-eye from the duke, attended to her. She did not bother the little cuts on her feet from the splinters of the honey jar. She was numb from the mind freezing glare of the man supposed to be her father.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

It has been a week since then. Lizzie was formally introduced to the servants by Hewitt, the rest of her family was rarely seen. It was like she was there, for the sake of existing. Well-fed, clothed, and comfortable. It was the best life she could ask. She ate, played in her room, and read alone. Just alone. Her freedom of roaming around the castle was taken away, as ordered by the duke.

"Hewitt, who is Lizzie?" she asked, one day, in the library attached to her bedroom as a study area.

"You're Felizzia, my lady," was his immediate response. He then proceeded to say her full name and her status.

It was not the answer she wanted. All that she had were like a stranger's own existence.

"How about Mama, where?"

Hewitt had only been the Norvillon butler for three years before his father's retirement. At age of twenty-four, he's dubbed as the most excellent in all of Norvillon's butler history, as said by his father and the older servants. Yet, the excellent butler faltered before he flipped the next page of the book. As her temporary tutor, he was always composed during their daily three-hour classes in the morning and three in the afternoon.

"Is she dead?"

This time, he accidentally ripped a corner of a page. "My Lady?!"

"She's dead, Lizzie knows. Lizzie can't see her."

He opened his mouth and closed it. He bowed, the deepest ones she had seen from him. "Apologies my lady. I couldn't answer your question. How about asking the duke?'

"He's busy."

"...Well then, I can ask him for you. I can tell him things that you want to." The words slipped out of his mouth before he knew it. He cradled his neck and gulped. Anything related to the duchess was a death flag, not even the two young masters mentioned her name in front of the duke.