Chapter 8
Startled, Leona dropped to her knees without even realizing it. To think she might be kicked out of the castle after just one day, without even having seen her enemy’s face!
“Head Maid, please forgive me just this once. I was wrong…!”
“There was someone drinking with you, wasn’t there? Who was it? According to the guard on duty, there were three bottles of liquor. You wouldn’t have drunk that precious alcohol in secret all by yourself—there must have been a fellow culprit! Give me a name. Do that, and I’ll spare you from punishment.”
Hesse…
At that moment, his mournful voice echoed in her memory—how he had been drinking to send someone off, how he said he was sending them away from the roof.
What if she gave them Hesse’s name? He would be the one getting kicked out.
Leona shook her head.
“I can’t do that. It’s true I was treated to the drink, but if I give you his name, he’ll get kicked out instead.”
“Look who’s trying to defend whom right now!”
“Head Maid, please… just grant me forgiveness this once.”
Grace spoke firmly and stood up.
“Pack your bags this instant.”
Leona grabbed the hem of the head maid’s dress. She applied force, prepared to grab Grace’s legs and sweep the floor with her own body if Grace refused to grant her request.
“Will you let go?!”
“Please! Just give me one more chance. I beg of you.”
“Ha! If I give you another chance, are you going to sleep on the roof of the South Tower next time?”
“I won’t ever drink again. And I’ll never go up to the roof again, either.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes, I swear it on my name.”
They said she was dim, but seeing how she had caused an unprecedented disaster from day one, Grace shook her head, convinced the girl was a complete fool. Had she not been the younger sister of Louis, the physician, Grace would have fired her on the spot.
“Fine. However, I am reassigning your post.”
Leona turned eyes toward Grace that practically screamed she would do anything.
“Starting today, you are on floor-scrubbing duty.”
The harshest task was stoking the fires in the kitchen, but thinking that handing fire over to this nitwit might result in the entire castle going up in flames, Grace opted for the second harshest chore instead: floor scrubbing.
It was a job that required spending the whole day on one’s knees, scrubbing the floor relentlessly—a grueling task given only to maids who had grown too old to be accepted anywhere else.
It was the perfect role to make someone quit on their own.
Her delicate wrists would quickly grow sore, her fair hands would become stained with marble grime until the undersides of her nails turned pitch black, and her knees would wear down their cartilage, making it painful even to walk.
With a triumphant smirk, Grace led Leona to her new workstation while the other servants chuckled at the sight of the notorious troublemaker.
Having downed twelve bottles of strong liquor the previous night, Tristan was going about his official duties looking completely unscathed. After bringing him tea, Romero began the day’s briefing.
Standard reports followed: the border region was quiet, and the five territories were being managed smoothly by their respective governors.
“Was there anything unusual in the castle?”
When Tristan asked slyly, Romero waited as if eager for the cue, a look of restrained excitement on his face as he began speaking.
“There was quite a commotion this morning, Your Grace. A maid got drunk, fell asleep on the roof of the East Spire, and was dragged down by the soldiers.”
Tristan maintained his composure and feigned ignorance.
“And word has it she refused to name the person who drank with her to the very end. She was nearly fired, but the head maid reassigned her to floor scrubbing instead. She likely won’t last a few days before leaving.”
“What’s wrong with floor scrubbing?”
“It is one of the most grueling tasks in the castle. Laundry, floor scrubbing, and fire-stoking.”
“I see what you mean.”
“Indeed. In any case, the head maid was so furious this morning, calling her a thoughtless nitwit.”
Recalling the previous night, Tristan let out a soft chuckle.
‘Keep my presence here strictly quiet.’
Having held her in his arms until sunrise, Tristan had instructed the guard on duty as the soldier prepared to depart his shift before descending from the roof.
Thus, apart from that single guard on duty, no one in the entire castle knew that the heinous culprit who had shared a drink with her was none other than Grand Duke Tristan himself. And the party involved—the redhead herself—was undoubtedly ignorant of it as well.
After Romero finished his briefing, Tristan walked toward the training grounds, gazing absently at the floor beneath his feet. Realizing for the first time how grueling scrubbing this very floor could be, he intentionally turned his shoe over to glance at the sole.
At the thought of the redhead scrubbing away somewhere in the castle, his amusement softened into a touch of pity.
If she was the type to scrub laundry until blisters formed on her fingertips, she was probably throwing herself into this work without trying to slack off either. By nightfall, her knees would hurt so much it’d feel like they were wearing away.
Even so, this woman was as dangerous as an enemy soldier.
He had held her in his sleep while drunk, but from a certain point onward, it had been quite an ordeal.
At dawn’s early light, when the moon had hidden itself away, her small body—feeling the chill—had repeatedly burrowed into his chest, wrapping her arms around him.
The soft skin pressed against him could be felt vividly through his thin linen blouse. For a man who had never held a woman in his arms under the pretext of having a fiancée, Leona’s warm, soft body felt unfamiliar and intensely provocative.
When he tried to move to create distance, she let out pained whimpers as if refusing to be separated, making it impossible for him to coldly push her away.
To think the first place he ever held a woman was atop a roof…
Therefore, the hardship that dangerous redhead was enduring should remain a challenge for her to overcome in her own life.
Having regained his composure, he strapped on his sacred sword and stepped into the training grounds.
Unaware that he had entered, the soldiers had gathered around, placing bets.
“Whoever gets to dance with the redhead at the village festival this week takes all this money!”
“Hey, no way it’s gonna be you!”
“All married men, butt out!”
Miguel, the captain of the guard, finally spotted Tristan and came rushing over.
“Your Grace. You’ve arrived.”
“What bet?”
Taken aback, Captain Miguel stumbled over his words.
“It’s nothing, Your Grace.”
“I asked what it is.”
When Tristan spoke firmly, Miguel let out a nervous chuckle before continuing.
“The soldiers were placing bets regarding the maid who slept on the roof this morning. Whomever gets to dance with her at the festival in town this week wins.”
Tristan placed his hand behind his back—a gesture he typically made when he was extremely displeased. Noticing this, Miguel’s expression instantly stiffened.
“Your discipline has grown slack.”
Resting his hand on his sacred sword, Tristan turned toward the soldiers.
“To think the army of Stark is giggling over a single maid since first thing in the morning.”
As the stern reprimand fell upon them, the soldiers lined up with frozen expressions.
“Attach ropes to the castle wall. If even a single one of you falls today, the entire unit will run all the way down to the bottom of the cliff and back!”
With a grim expression, Miguel approached and said cautiously, “Your Grace, given the weather, scaling the wall right now is—”
“It would be best if you went first.”
Soon, ropes were hung along the castle wall. The soldiers had to grip the rough ropes and climb up the wall. The problem was that they weren’t allowed to use gloves.
Since one wouldn’t wear gloves during actual combat, it made sense, but this particular drill was usually reserved only for formal training sessions.
Tristan grabbed a rope first. Possessing natural physical strength, he easily scaled the wall using the rope. Blood began to bead on the palms of the soldiers’ hands from the friction against the rough rope.
The soldiers who reached the top of the wall were horrified. Tristan was already climbing back down the wall.
“What is wrong with His Grace today?”
“I don’t know. What’s gotten into him? He seems to have energy to burn.”
“He needs to hurry up and marry the Princess. Otherwise, we’re all going to die.”
Grumbling, the soldiers followed him back down. Compared to Tristan, who lightly dropped onto the ground, the soldiers landed with the skin on their palms completely raw and chafed.
“A new physician has arrived, so this served as good training to test his skills at the same time.”
With those parting words, he turned around, and the soldiers slumped onto the ground one by one.
Romero was always by Tristan’s side. Tristan handed his sacred sword and outer coat to Romero.
“I will take a short walk. Bring these to my room.”
After a moment’s thought, he turned his steps toward the northern wing of the castle.
Far off at the end of the hallway, a woman came into view—a woman with her curly red hair braided, wearing a white kerchief, diligently scrubbing the floor.
Her sleeves rolled up high, she pressed her hands together to vigorously push the cloth across the floor, crawling along on her knees.
Even as Tristan approached, she was so focused that she didn’t seem to hear his footsteps.
Her pale nape and small, round ear were exposed to his view.
In an instant, Tristan felt a sudden impulse to press his lips against her neck.
