Chapter 2

The morning begins early for a maid of the Royal Palace.

While listening to the cheerful crowing of a rooster echo through her cramped but clean dormitory room, Elma sat up in her bed with a start.

It was a time of day when the morning sun had yet to cast its first light.

The room was so dim that someone unaccustomed to it would have struggled even to climb out of bed, but Elma—who was supposed to be starting her first day of service today—neatly went about her preparations with a businesslike air.

She slipped her arms into the sleeves of the provided maid uniform, donned a clean apron, pulled on long black socks, and stepped into polished leather shoes.

Her shoulder-length black hair was twisted into a neat bun, and she finished the look by attaching a headdress known as a brim.

Peering into the small, government-issue mirror, Elma tilted her head for a moment. Eventually, she pulled a set of tools out of the fabric bag—the only personal item she had brought to the castle.

She meticulously painted and drew things onto her face and, after perusing a pair of thick-rimmed glasses to put on, stared into the mirror once more.

Reflected there was an ordinary girl, neither particularly beautiful nor ugly.

Her skin was smooth, as befitting a fifteen-year-old, but it lacked color and looked rather dull.

Due to the presence of the glasses, it was hard to even distinguish the color of her eyes, and her thin lips were pale and somewhat gloomy.

As for her clothes, while they looked clean, they seemed ill-fitting and drab, giving off a strong impression of being utterly plain.

And yet, after staring intently at her own unremarkable appearance, she gave a satisfied nod.

“Good.”

Only her voice was startlingly beautiful.

Next, while tidying her bed, she absentmindedly gazed out the window.

She was on the top floor of the four-story dormitory.

As expected of a palace that gathered the pinnacle of the Luten Kingdom’s architectural techniques, even the maids’ quarters were permitted to be high-rise structures.

The view from such a height—a sight a commoner would normally never have the chance to see—was both a dream and a point of pride for the girls who aspired to serve the palace. However, Elma, who was supposed to have been a member of the lowest class until yesterday, merely cast a cold, bored look toward the horizon.

“I have to go up and down this every day…”

Rather, her murmur held only a hint of annoyance, or perhaps simple exhaustion.

Behind her glasses, her eyes became like those of a dead fish. She spent a moment staring at the ground while muttering “I want to go home…” before finally sighing as if giving up and stepping away from the window.

Just as she was about to leave the room, the wooden door swung open before she could reach for the handle.

She looked up silently as a figure loomed over her.

The person, who was wearing the same maid uniform as Elma, spat out these words the moment she opened her mouth:

“My! What a shabby little black rat we have here.”

With neatly tied blonde hair and upturned, light-green eyes, she was quite a beautiful girl.

She looked to be about the same age as Elma, or perhaps a year older.

After calmly assessing the situation, Elma concluded that this was likely a senior.

In addition, she assumed “black rat” was a mockery of her black hair and impoverished appearance, but since she couldn’t rule out the physical possibility of an actual rat being present, she let her gaze sweep the floor just in case.

Seeing this, the other girl raised a mocking eyebrow.

“Oh, you aren’t even self-aware? I’m talking about you, Elma the ‘No-Name.’ Let me tell you, no matter how much the Head Maid, Viscountess Graz, sponsors you, you are nothing but ‘Elma’ at the end of the day. You’re likely the only maid in the entire palace who doesn’t even have a surname.”

Flashing a cat-like grin, the girl placed her hands on her hips and introduced herself.

“I am Irene. Daughter of the Baron Neumann family. As the Stair Master¹ of the East Wing’s fourth floor, I’ve come to greet you—the newcomer—and assign you today’s work.”

“I see.”

The maid dormitory consisted of the West Wing, where older women including married ones and widows lived, and the East Wing, where unmarried girls under eighteen resided. Furthermore, each of the four floors had an appointed representative.

It seemed Irene was the representative of the East Wing’s fourth floor—the Stair Master.

Irene seemed to hold a fair amount of authority as the daughter of a Baron; her attitude was overbearing, and her intent to bully the newcomer was written all over her face.

However, since there was something almost refreshing about the sheer guts it took to raid a dormitory room alone so early in the morning, Elma didn’t take a combative stance and instead nodded meekly.

But apparently, that didn’t sit well with Irene.

She fluttered her long eyelashes as she looked Elma up and down, then let out a sharp snort.

“You’re quite the unfriendly one. Your face and your expressions are so plain. The position of a Royal Palace maid is supposed to be the pinnacle and the most difficult hurdle of bridal training, yet having someone like you around will drag down the prestige of our entire group.”

“I see.”

“Well, whatever. That’s exactly why we’ll have to whip you into shape. Are we clear? Starting today, you will follow my orders and carry out your assigned duties to the letter.”

“I see.”

Exasperated by Elma, who had done nothing but utter “I see” for a while now, Irene thrust a piece of paper toward her.

“Here, little black rat. This is your work for today.”

The high-quality paper, which appeared to be official supply, was covered in lines of text with almost no margins left.

As Elma stared intently at it, a smirk played on the corner of Irene’s lips.

“Can you even read? I’ll read it aloud for you just once. I’m not saying it twice, so make sure you memorize it the first time. First, before the sixth bell rings, you go to the chicken coop—”

Irene began rattling off a massive list of tasks at high speed.

If Elma were a member of the lower class who lacked a surname—and thus, presumably, the ability to read—this volume of information would undoubtedly have made her scream.

Furthermore, the contents were far too harsh for a newcomer who wouldn’t even know where anything was in the palace; they included things like delivering eggs, bringing supplies to the stables, tending the East Garden, delivering letters to the Knights, and even preparing tea for a Consort.

“After you finish dinner at the canteen at the edge of the kitchen, you still have the cleaning of the Cathedral and organizing the returned books in the library, and then—”

“Excuse me.”

“By the way, being late for any of these jobs is strictly forbidden. Up to three times, you’ll only lose a meal, but your reputation will plummet instantly, so keep that in mind. Now then, after the library—”

“Excuse me.”

“What? You’re so noisy. This isn’t bullying, you know? Regardless of whether you’re sponsored by Viscountess Graz or if you’re the woman who was directly spoken to by Prince Lucas, we believe in meritocracy and won’t be coddling you. I’m not pushing my work onto you; this is simply a normal workload, after all.”

That was a blatant lie.

Elma knitted her brows slightly.

“Is it also… ‘normal’ for a newcomer to prepare tea for the former Consort, Juliana?”

Juliana was the woman who had served the late King Werner as a side-consort until last month.

Following Werner’s passing—an event that happened to be the very reason Elma was here—she had left the inner palace and was now living a secluded life in a suite within the palace’s Great Cathedral.

No matter how much she was a “former” consort, her social standing was far too high for a newcomer to be handling her tea.

When Elma tilted her head, Irene’s eyes visibly darted around.

“…W-Well, that might be a little unusual, but what’s so strange about a maid serving tea? A maid brews the tea and remains close to her master’s heart. That’s a perfectly natural thing. Right?”

“…Natural.”

“Y-Yes, exactly. Besides, since you haven’t been assigned a specific master to serve yet, it’s only natural that you would happen to encounter someone who is particu—I mean, someone of noble birth. Whether the person is of high or low status, if you are ordered to brew tea, you do so solemnly. That is how a maid should be—no, it’s her natural, normal state.”

“…Normal.”

Irene’s argument was nothing more than a desperate excuse, but Elma suddenly looked up and gave a quiet nod.

“I understand.”

“I mean, honestly, if it were me, I’d want no part of serving tea to former Consort Juliana—wait, what did you say?”

Irene, who had been rambling desperately, did a double-take in shock.

But Elma simply repeated herself flatly.

“I said, I understand.”

“Are… Are you serious…?”

“Yes. If that is what is ‘normal.’”

“Normal… R-Right. Yes, it’s perfectly normal.”

Though taken aback, Irene told herself the same thing internally.

That’s right, a maid brewing tea and a newcomer following a senior’s orders is perfectly normal. It’s obvious. The fact that former Consort Juliana’s standards for tea are freakishly high, that several maids have been fired because she didn’t like the way they brewed it, and that the workload to be finished before then is insanely high… well, those might be points worth noting, but they aren’t exactly ‘abnormal.’

While Irene was soothing herself with this utterly broken logic, the expressionless newcomer slipped right past her.

“Wh-Where do you think you’re going!?”

“It seems there isn’t much time, so I thought I would begin my duties immediately. Just to be sure, as long as the written tasks are performed perfectly, I assume it doesn’t matter if the order of operations is shifted slightly?”

“Ha… you talk big for someone who didn’t even take notes.”

“Oh. I’ve memorized everything, so please feel free to discard the memo. Or perhaps reuse it as scrap paper.”

Irene was stunned.

“—Huh?”

But Elma merely gave a deadpan nod toward the hallway, where the fresh morning sunlight was beginning to pour in.

“The air is so clear in the morning. So… is this what freedom tastes like?”

“…Huh?”

Irene stood there with a look on her face like a pigeon that had been hit by a pea-shooter.