Chapter 5
471words
She set up a massive cauldron outside the orphanage, claiming to distribute charity porridge on the Countess's behalf.
The rich aroma of meat soup wafted for miles, drawing vagrants and beggars from across town.
"Drink up, drink up." Anna stood on a raised platform, ruby necklace gleaming ominously in the shadows. "This is the Countess's blessing upon you all."
She smiled like a saint, but I caught the cold calculation in her eyes.
She scanned the crowd like a farmer appraising livestock.
I pushed through the crowd and scooped up a spoonful, bringing it to my nose.
The meat was common pork, but beneath the spices lurked the unmistakable scent of belladonna and hallucinogenic mushrooms.
Anyone drinking this would become disoriented and compliant—perfect for leading away like sheep.
She was here to procure fresh supplies for the castle.
"Well, well. Little sister wants a taste?" Anna looked down at me with contempt. "Kneel and beg, and I might reward you with a bowl."
I studied her smug face and flicked my wrist.
*SPLASH!*
I overturned the entire cauldron of scalding soup onto the ground.
The crowd gasped in unison.
Anna screamed and leapt back, but not before droplets splashed her skirt, burning holes where the corrosive herbs made contact.
"This soup is poisoned!" I shouted, pointing at the bubbling black earth. "That's datura—a hallucinogen! She's drugging you to sell you off!"
The vagrants might be poor, but they weren't fools.
Seeing the corroded grass, their expressions darkened.
"Liar! You're just jealous!" Anna shrieked, jabbing her finger at me. "This is the Countess's secret recipe!"
"Secret recipe?" I sneered, crushing a mushroom stem under my boot. "Keep your poisons for yourself. After all, only such things can maintain your 'beauty' now, right?"
The crowd stirred, murmuring angrily. Some began picking up stones.
Under the coachman's protection, Anna fled in disgrace, scurrying away like the rat she was.
Anna ran back to the castle, sobbing and whining about my interference.
She expected the Countess to defend her and punish her "ungrateful" sister.
But three days passed in complete silence.
Instead, my informant Carmilla—infiltrating as head maid in the castle—sent me a message.
"Anna was punished," Carmilla's coded letter read. "The Countess was furious about the ruined dress and lack of new 'ingredients.'"
The paper's corner bore a bloodstain—Carmilla's deliberate signal.
"As punishment, she was locked in the dungeon without food for three days. The Countess claimed it would 'purge impurities' and make her blood more pure."
Even as she grew dizzy with hunger in that dark dungeon, Anna comforted herself: this was merely aristocratic training, like wearing a corset—all to make her more perfect for the ball.
I burned the letter, watching flames devour the words.
Fool.
In a slaughterhouse, this process has a name: "aging."
