Sierra sat in her room, staring at the delicate lines of her new right hand. It had regrown thanks to Jean's painstaking efforts, but it still felt strange—numb and unresponsive, like it didn't belong to her. She flexed her fingers experimentally, managing only a slight twitch. Her left hand, by contrast, had grown steady and precise, but it wasn't her dominant hand.
Jean had assured her that with time and effort, her right hand would not only regain its former strength but also surpass it. Sierra wasn't in a rush. The fact that her limb had regrown at all felt like a miracle.
"Young Miss, tea is ready," came a soft voice.
Sierra turned to see Aning, her newly assigned close maid. The young girl had a calm demeanor and soft eyes, a contrast to the chaos Sierra had come to associate with this household.
Aning placed the tea tray on the table. "Shall I pour for you?"
Sierra hesitated, then shook her head. "I'll do it myself."
She reached for the teapot with her left hand, her movements deliberate but clumsy. Aning remained silent, watching without comment. Sierra appreciated her restraint—no pity, no unnecessary help unless asked.
"Do you want to add sugar or honey?"
"Is there... milk?" Sierra looked around the tray.
"I'll take some from kitchen," Aning hurriedly took off her apron.
"No need! Just add sugar, please." Sierra stopped her from going.
"Alright," Aning didn't insist. She took a note in her mind to ready for some milk at the next tea time.
The atmosphere in the mansion was somber. It had been ten days since the tragedy that claimed so many lives, and the halls seemed emptier, quieter. Servants moved about their duties in hushed tones, their expressions subdued.
Sierra observed the changes with a detached air. The death toll was high, and though she hadn't been close to anyone, she couldn't ignore the weight of loss that hung over the household.
"Young Miss," Aning called hesitantly as they walked through the corridors when going to the study room, "do you… think things will return to normal?"
"Normal?" Sierra repeated. "What does that even mean here?"
Yeah, right. Aning remembered that it seemed her missy didn't have any close maid before her. The maids and servants who died didn't have any connection to her Missy. Aning didn't reply, and Sierra didn't press her. After taking Sierra to the study room, Aning went back to prepare medicinal bath.
In the study room, Sierra sat with her maid tutor, a stern woman who had been assigned to teach her to read and improve her handwriting with her left hand. The tutor had a rigid posture and an air of nervousness, her hands twitching every so often as if resisting the urge to correct Sierra's grip.
"It's not easy to switch dominant hand. You are doing good," she said.
Sierra: "I try doing everything... as much as I can with my left hand. It felt weird at first, but still manageable."
Sometime later there was a commotion. The tutor maid went out to look what it was about. Then she came back, looking rather excited.
"Something happen?" Sierra asked.
"Yes, Miss. Lady... I think Milady the Duches will be in labor."
"Oh," Sierra took her focus back to her writing.
"Young Miss, shouldn't you go?"
"Where?" Sierra tilted her head, genuinely confused.
"Your little sibling is about to be born. Aren't you curious? It might be a little young master or a little young miss. You're going to be a big sister!" The new maid tutor's excitement was palpable.
Sierra's expression didn't change. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but you won't have the chance to be the little master's tutor. You'll just be stuck with me until I can read on my own."
"I... I didn't mean it that way," the maid stammered, clearly flustered. "But it's nice to have a happy event. So many people have died lately. We need some joy to comfort everyone."
"There won't be any joy for months to come," Sierra murmured, almost to herself. "Maybe not even for years."
Her head began to ache. She rubbed her temple, her thoughts a chaotic swirl. She wasn't the villainess Sierra in the novel—the one who had ruthlessly controlled the Broissco family. She didn't understand the rules of this world, nor was she sure she could master magic the way the villainess Sierra had.
The idea of attending the magic academy, where the main protagonists were destined to meet and bond, didn't appeal to her in the slightest. She felt no connection to that path.
Jean's words echoed in her mind: "Sierra, no matter what your parents thought of you, you are still a child of Duke Broissco. You rank above every soul in Brias, second only to your parents. If anyone dares to disrespect you, you have the right to punish them—or even take their life."
Sierra's lips curled into a bitter smile. "The Duchess will probably die from the miscarriage," she mused aloud. "So what will be the Duke's cause of death, I wonder?"
"Y-Young Miss?" the maid's face turned pale as she stared at Sierra in horror.
"Is that treason?" Sierra asked flatly, her tone devoid of emotion. "Don't tell anyone, okay? If you do, I'll say you taught me such thoughts. We'd both be executed together. I'm tired. You can go now."
The maid fled the room, her hurried steps echoing down the hall.
Sierra watched her leave, then let out a faint chuckle. She remembered how those dead maids had treated her before the disaster—ignoring her, treating her like air. Some had even run for their own lives during the chaos, leaving her to fend for herself.
Would she had saved them if she has the power back then? Probably not, she decided, the answer was no.
"I really am cruel," she muttered. "Maybe that's why I'm the villainess. What am I supposed to do? I hate this world. If I could, I'd destroy it."
Her mind drifted to memories of her sister, then her missing big brother.
"Uno… would he be as kind as Second Sister? If I found him early, maybe we'd become family. Between me and Bee, who's the little sister? As long as I don't fall in love with her boyfriend, there's no reason for us to be enemies."
She sighed and lay back on her bed. "Second Sis, I'll try my best to be a good Sierra. For you."
***
In the middle of the night, another commotion broke out in the mansion. Sierra woke to the sound of hurried footsteps and muffled voices. Curiosity piqued, she slipped out of bed and followed the noises.
Whispers spread quickly—"The Duchess is unwell," "The baby came too early."
The maids were scurrying about, their faces pale with panic. Sierra followed the commotion, her steps calm despite the chaos around her. She soon found herself outside her parents' room, where three men stood guard.
She immediately recognized Butler Andy, the one who managed the household. Her eyes then shifted to the man standing beside him. His face was strikingly handsome, far more so than her previous life's mother's boyfriend. Yet, the rigid tension in his expression made him look unapproachable, almost intimidating.
Before she could observe further, the man noticed her presence. "What are you doing here?" he asked, his deep voice firm.
Sierra stared back at him without fear, her tone nonchalant. "Nothing."
Butler Andy stepped forward hastily, his voice carrying a note of urgency. "Young Miss, the Duchess is currently giving birth. It's not appropriate for children to be around such matters—especially with the sight of blood."
"I've seen enough blood already," Sierra replied flatly. "A little more won't make me cry."
Her response left Butler Andy momentarily speechless.
"Go back to sleep," the Duke commanded, his tone curt and final.
Sierra met his gaze for a moment, then turned on her heel without protest.
As she walked away, she muttered under her breath, "At least he recognized me. He's less trashy than I thought."
Butler Andy's eyes widened in shock, but he quickly masked it.
The Duke, however, remained silent. Whether he heard her or not, his expression betrayed nothing.
"She's very rude. She didn't even greet her father," the man standing next to the Duke remarked, his tone laced with disapproval.
Before anyone could respond, the door to the room creaked open, and a midwife emerged. Her face was pale, her clothes stained with blood, and her hands trembled as she clasped them together.
"My Lord," she began hesitantly, her voice barely above a whisper.
The Duke's sharp gaze fell on her. "Speak," he commanded.
The midwife swallowed hard, her words faltering as she forced them out. "The little young master... he was born too early, his body was too weak. We... we couldn't save him."
The air grew heavy with her words, the silence that followed almost deafening.
"And my wife?" the Duke asked, his voice cutting through the stillness like a blade.
"She fainted, My Lord," the midwife replied, her tone pleading. "For now, she is stable. I... I am deeply sorry, My Lord. Please, grant us your mercy!"
She fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face as she begged for forgiveness. The other servants who had assisted her quickly followed suit, bowing their heads and trembling as they echoed her plea.
The Duke's expression remained unreadable, but his tone was ice-cold. "Do not let my wife see you again."
Without another word, he turned and entered the room, leaving the midwife and the other servants behind, still kneeling on the floor.