Chapter 208: Unexpected Guest.
"And why was this in my grape?" Henry shot the fallen girl a cold, dead-eyed stare. He hadn’t even risen from his seat. He simply looked down at her, as one might look at a bug that had dared to crawl onto one’s picnic blanket. The chilling disinterest in his gaze was worse than any rage.
The fanning had stopped completely now. The other three servants stood like beautiful, terrified statues, their faces pale, eyes wide with fright. Not one of them dared to move, to help their fallen companion, to even breathe too loudly, lest they attract the icy beam of his wrath onto themselves.
That would’ve been the case if not because.
"My Lord, if I may..." A lone voice, thin but brave, erged admisst the tense silence. It was the servant who had been massaging his shoulders, she had kind eyes and a stubborn streak of compassion that was currently warring with her instinct for self-preservation.
Henry’s head turned slowly, his gaze shifting from the crumpled form of the maid on the floor, to the who had been massaging him. His expression was one of mild, curious annoyance, as if a piece of furniture had decided to speak. Sothing he was sure she knew not to do yet still did.
Having already brought up the courage to co this far, the words now tumbling out in a desperate rush, the maid decided to go on. "You originally instructed to get the grapes for you, my lord, but later on you had tend to your stiff shoulders instead. She," Anya gestured weakly toward the maid on the floor, who was trying to push herself up, "she had no idea you asked for there to be no seeds in your grapes. It was simply a harmless mistake, I’m sure she wasn’t trying to cause an oversight—ARGH!"
The maids attempted defense ended in a sharp, piercing cry of agony. Henry hadn’t moved a muscle, but the air around Anya’s hands, which had just been working on his shoulders, suddenly crystallized. A frigid layer of glittering, blue-white ice shot from his shoulders, snaking over her wrists and encasing her fingers in an instant, burning-cold prison.
The pain was frigid, a flash-freeze that felt like her skin was being torn off. She stumbled back, clutching her frozen, immobilized hands to her chest, her breath coming in ragged, panicked gasps, tears of shock and pain springing to her eyes.
"Are you labeling this as my fault?" Henry said softly, his tone sounding dangerous. He finally stood up from his seat, all the maids unconditionally inched away from him yet non truly dared to run less they attracted his rage.
Henry turned to face Anya, who was now as pale as the marble beneath her feet, her face a mask of terror as if she’d seen a ghost. "You think I’m that incapable of giving clear instructions? That the failure of my servants is anything but their own stupidity?"
"O-Of course not, my lord!" Anya tried to say, but the words choked in her throat, becoming a whimper as his glacial glare seed to sap the very warmth from her bones.
In Henry’s vision, the world took on a familiar, paranoid hue. He saw them then, not just the three terrified girls, but faint, whispering silhouettes that seed to hover just behind their shoulders. Phantom figures only he could see, their features blurred but their intent clear.
They were pointing at him, murmuring to each other in hushed, scornful tones.
’ Look at the incompetent young lord.’ they seed to say.
’ See how he’s incompetence is being shown.’
’ To think one who dares to yearn for the discounts title can’t even keep his subordinates in check.’
’ I told you lady Victoria was a far better fit.’
’ This fool has no chance of becoming the rightful heir.’
’ He lets his servants ss up and then throws a tantrum. What a weak, pathetic fool.’
His head swiveled rhythmically, jerkily, towards the two servants who had been fanning him, and they were now trembling so violently the peacock feathers in their hands quivered like aspen leaves. "You two think I’m incapable, too, don’t you?" he asked, his eyes squinting at them with hints of irritation.
"You stand there and you judge . You whisper about how unfair I am, how cruel."
" You even dare to laugh at when my back is turned."
"N-No, my lord, we would never—" said one of them, her voice a terrified squeak.
"We were only fanning you, we heard nothing, we think nothing!" Beth babbled, her eyes pleading.
But their explanations only fed the fire in Henry’s mind. He saw the phantom silhouettes nod in agreent with the girls’ denials, their silent laughter growing. His anger, which was already cold and sharp, began to boil over into sothing hotter, more volatile. His hand twitched, the air around his fingertips beginning to shimr with a dangerous chill.
"So this is how you plan on wasting your precious ti."
The new voice was like a bucket of cold water thrown on a smoldering fire. It was smooth, cultured, and carried a weight of absolute authority that even Henry’s madness had to acknowledge. It cut through the rising tension and the phantom whispers, anchoring him, montarily, back to reality.
Henry turned, his furious gaze landing on the man now walking leisurely across the patio towards him. It was his younger brother, Charles. Charles moved with an easy, confident stride, his hands tucked into the pockets of his impeccably tailored trousers. He wore a light linen shirt, open at the collar, and his expression was one of mild, amused disappointnt, as if he’d caught a child drawing on the walls.
"What brings you here..." Henry questioned, his voice still thick with the irritation from the interrupted scene, though it had lost so of its lethal edge.
Charles didn’t reply imdiately. Instead, he walked past Henry as if the so called future lord of the manor were rely a piece of the scenery.
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