The next morning, Enid still woke up right as the sun crested the horizon.

  She got herself together fast like always, made a cup of coffee to wake up properly, then sat in the sitting room, soaking in the early light while quietly waiting for Esme to wake up.

  It was a rest day, Esme had no classes, so Enid let her sleep in.

  Because that afternoon tea later was not going to be some easy little “sip and chat.”

  Among nobles, afternoon tea was more like an informal social event. It was smaller than a proper banquet, sure, but the rules were still there, every last one.

  Thank goodness Esme was a duke’s daughter. With her personality, Enid figured she might not even make it through the greeting part if she had to face that kind of crowd alone.

  Closer to noon, Enid heard movement from the bedroom.

  Esme was up.

  Enid eased the door open and saw Esme sitting on the bed, half asleep, rubbing her eyes. She was still foggy, like her mind had not fully caught up with the world yet.

  Enid decided it was time to wake her up for real.

  She gently drew the curtains and opened the window, letting warm sunlight and a clean morning breeze sweep the darkness out of the room.

  Then Enid sat beside Esme, pulled out a comb like it was second nature, and started taming Esme’s messy hair.

  Esme still could not fight off the pull of going back to sleep. She tipped sideways and flopped right into Enid’s arms.

  Curled against her, Esme felt like a drowsy little kitten. Enid could not bring herself to jostle her awake, so she kept combing, slow and gentle.

  Every now and then she would poke Esme’s soft cheek with a fingertip, and watching Esme bury her face deeper into Enid’s chest was almost painfully adorable. It warmed something in Enid that she had not realized was tired.

  Then, out of nowhere, a memory flashed through Enid’s mind. A scene almost like this one, her combing someone’s hair while holding them close.

  But it was too blurred to grasp. No time, no details, no face.

  Still, it explained why her hands knew exactly what to do. It had to be another piece of her life the curse had stolen.

  “Whatever. Remembering anything at all is a good sign. It means the curse is easing,” Enid thought.

  Maybe her touch was simply too practiced, too soothing.

  Esme, still half dreaming, made a tiny, sweet sound of contentment.

  And then, sleepy and slurred, she murmured, “Mm… Mom…”

  Enid’s hand stalled for a heartbeat, then kept moving, just as gentle as before.

  Enid could guess what it was. Esme must have been dreaming of her birth mother and, without meaning to, had mistaken Enid for her.

  Before, when Enid had tried to guide Esme the right way, she had looked into Esme’s family background.

  Esme de Leroy was the fourth child of House Leroy. When she was born, her mother died, supposedly from complications after a difficult labor.

  The Duke of Leroy, who had loved his wife more than life itself, broke under it. He fell ill and never truly recovered. From then on, the family’s affairs were held together mostly by the eldest son, barely enough to keep up appearances.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  And innocent Esme became the target.

  Her father hated her. He called her a “bad omen,” the one responsible for taking his wife away.

  So Esme grew up without a mother, and on top of that she had to live under her father’s disgust and hostility. Even the servants treated her like something unfortunate, either looking down on her or keeping their distance.

  It only got worse as Esme got older.

  The more she resembled his wife, the deeper the duke’s hatred sank, and the more unstable he became.

  In the end, that hatred tipped into something fully unhinged.

  When Esme had just turned seven, he grabbed her by the throat, trying to strangle her, ranting through clenched teeth, “You killed my wife!”

  If the butler had not heard the commotion and stopped him in time, Esme might have died that day.

  Esme survived, thanks to immediate treatment, but the incident shattered something inside her.

  Once the duke realized what he had done, he collapsed to the floor.

  He stayed there for a long time. And when he saw his youngest daughter being carried out, and the eldest son’s face twisted with despair and disappointment, he finally broke and sobbed into the ground.

  The duke did love Esme.

  The moment his wife had named their youngest child Esme, meaning love, he had loved her.

  But the duke also hated Esme.

  He knew she was innocent, he did.

  Still, he could not forget that moment, his wife soaked in blood, weak in his arms, her eyes closing for the last time.

  Despair. Grief. Fear.

  Everything ugly and heavy tore through what he could endure.

  And then he snapped.

  The duke knew, on some level, that he might have gone mad.

  He did not want to hate Esme. She was the child his wife had brought into the world with her life.

  But every time he slept, he saw it again, his wife drenched in blood, slipping away from him. And the same thought kept creeping in, sharper each time.

  If they had not decided to have a fourth child.

  If Esme had never been born.

  Would his wife still be alive?

  Once that idea took root, it would not leave. As Esme grew, his episodes only got worse.

  And in the end, he lost control, and the tragedy happened.

  After that day, the duke locked himself inside the room that had once belonged to him and his wife.

  He never came out again.

  Esme became even more timid, anxious, and painfully sensitive. She started avoiding everyone, and she was left with a brutal aftermath. Whenever she got nervous, she could not breathe, until she blacked out.

  Her eldest brother still cared about her, but her sister and her other brother were full of disgust.

  At first, even though her eldest brother did not believe Esme was to blame for their mother’s death, a small distance still formed in him.

  After the incident, the family affairs swallowed him whole, and he did not notice how quickly Esme was changing. By the time he finally did, it was already too late.

  The little sister who barely spoke before stopped speaking at all.

  She kept everyone at arm’s length, even the nanny and the butler who had raised her.

  Only then did her eldest brother realize the sister who used to cling to him had sealed her heart shut, refusing to let anyone peek inside.

  He tried everything he could think of. Nothing worked.

  So he made the decision to send fifteen year old Esme to Stahill Comprehensive Magic Academy, and at her request, placed her in the Natural Studies division.

  He worried, of course. Esme had grown up with private tutors inside the estate, and he knew she might struggle at the academy.

  But he had no better answer.

  He convinced himself that throwing her into a crowded environment and forcing change was the only way forward.

  It was a flawed method. Still, it was hard to blame him entirely.

  Because Esme’s mother had been his mother too, and when she died, he had only been ten.

  Then his father spiraled, and the weight of reality dropped onto shoulders that were not done growing.

  He learned early how vicious the noble world could be, how quickly blood and power could turn ugly. The world shaped him into a cold, ruthless heir.

  So when problems came, he reached for direct solutions, not gentle ones.

  That was how he became the name people whispered about, the Iron Duke of House Leroy.

  He did care about Esme.

  But Esme was afraid of him.

  Afraid of how much he resembled their terrifying father, only colder, only harder.

  Esme’s first semester was miserable.

  Her extreme social anxiety made her avoid anywhere crowded. More than once, professors publicly scolded her for missing class.

  If Enid had never come to the academy.

  If Esme had never found the courage to step into her classroom.

  Enid did not want to think about it. She did not dare.

  But thankfully, reality had been kinder than that.

  Even after living so long, Enid still could not let go of her sympathy, and her tenderness, for short lived lives like Esme’s.

  Maybe it was because she understood, in her own way.

  Maybe it was because she too was a daughter abandoned by the great Mother of Nature, and that was why she could not look away from a child like Esme.

  Enid kept combing Esme’s hair, quiet and steady.

  Just for today, she would be Esme’s mom.

  If it made Esme feel even a little better.

  If it softened that ache inside Enid, the ache of being left behind.

  If…

  If it helped those blurred memories come back into focus.