Harlotte had no inkling of the younger maid’s silent disappearance—he was no “Old Liu” next door, incapable of recognizing any of these maids’ faces; whether one more or one fewer, he simply could not tell.
Now he followed Head Maid Lilith down the grand staircase—the central stair of the three on the second floor, leading directly to the castle’s main entrance.
Flanking the first-floor entrance ran parallel corridors, each terminating in wings of outbuildings. To the left lay the back gate to the training grounds; to the right, the kitchens and reception rooms; straight ahead, the side door of the chapel. Other corridors led to places Harlotte had never ventured—glimpsed only in passing.
He had no desire to revisit known areas, so he bade Lilith first escort him to the servants’ quarters. Tonight was the full moon; by daybreak, he intended to gather all the clues he could.
Lilith nodded unconcernedly. “You are the young master. Wherever you wish to go, you may.” Indeed, the entire castle lay at Harlotte Kodanis’s command.
They passed through the right-hand corridor and left the castle’s inner sanctum—its symmetrical twenty-four rooms—to enter the collective dormitory of the maids, nearest the outer stairs.
Beyond the castle’s refined interior, the corridor was stark. No decorative tapestries adorned the walls; instead, two rows of densely spaced bronze hooks were nailed into the plaster.
On the left hooks hung the maids’ dark-gray coarse linen aprons, each neckline worn to fuzziness, edges fraying into soft, bleached wisps, yet spotless. They were freshly laundered, still damp.
On the right, the guards’ tunics and leather jerkins hung just as wet.
One might expect disorder here, but to Harlotte’s surprise, every garment was arranged with military precision: apron pleats all faced the same way; the points of polished leather boots aligned toward the corridor’s end; even gloves sat with knuckles equidistant. Though each item bore obvious wear, they stood as if positioned by invisible hands.
As he and Lilith walked past, a sudden breeze caused the aprons and jerkins—just beyond his direct line of sight—to stir, as though countless souls watched him with restless curiosity.
A chill crept over him. He glanced back, but saw nothing; the clothes hung motionless once more.
Perhaps the dampness stole the warmth from the air? Harlotte mused, pausing briefly before following Lilith into the dormitory.
Inside, the sparsely furnished room held six oak bedframes in a row. The boards were thick planks, still bearing planer gouges—untouched by sandpaper, rough to the touch.
Each bed bore a coarse hemp-sheet patched in places: two or three uneven squares of cloth in varying shades, stitches lopsided, some threads dangling. Clearly mended by the maids themselves.
Low-born maids could never expect palace待遇; their hardship made itself plain here.
Beside each bed stood a palm-sized wooden locker, its door unvarnished, pale wood exposed. A charred iron wire burned the maid’s initial into the surface—“Mǎ,” “Lù,” “Bèi,” “Lì”—the script uneven, edges blurred, as if the burner’s hand trembled.
So this is a dormitory of another world? Harlotte thought, struck by its resemblance to a university hall.
He prowled the room, eyes sweeping bedboard seams, cabinet corners, even the backs of door hooks. The maids had survived here not by mere obedience; they must follow hidden rules. Yet after two circuits, he found only tatters.
Indeed, I’m no detective—Dice Maiden, this task must fall to you! he thought. Instantly he heard the clatter of a die tumbling in his mind. In its crystal core glowed the word Investigation, and as it settled, the result shone: a three—extremely difficult success! Twenty-sided Die of Investigation (rolled a 3)
Guided by Fate’s whim, his gaze fell upon the lone mirror in the room.
It was a half-height standing mirror, its brass frame mottled with dark red rust, flakes revealing gleaming metal beneath. Beside it leaned a wooden basin half-filled with clear water, dust motes drifting on its surface. A bleached towel hung over the rim, its corners threadbare—used by the maids to wipe hands and faces.
Harlotte seated himself, leaning close to study the glass. He had already inspected its edges, corners, and back—yet found no peculiarity. But if the Dice Maiden drew his eyes here, this mirror must conceal something.
He exhaled onto the glass; his warm breath met the cool surface, forming a veil of white fog. As the mist spread, a few shallow grooves emerged on the mirror’s face. They etched the rule directly onto the glass—hiding in plain sight is the surest concealment.
He blew again, deepening the condensation until the script grew legible. What intrigued him most was the handwriting: he recognized it instantly—his cheap old mother’s scrawl.
Calmly, he fogged the mirror a third time, determined to memorize the words.
But before he could read further, footsteps sounded in the corridor—not the muffled thuds of servant’s cloth-soled shoes, nor the heavy clank of armored guards, but a crisp “tac, tac, tac” from rigid soles. Slow, measured, advancing toward the dormitory.
A surge of panic seized him, the corridor’s tension suffocating. Without turning, he called to the doorway, “Lilith? Who approaches?”