The Villainess Does Not Want to Die

Chapter 42: Old Memories

“Marie, you were at the ball, weren’t you…? Ah.”

Raphael stopped mid-sentence, his gaze landing on my hand.

“I got hurt.”

Instead of fussing about taking me to a doctor or berating me for the injury, he grabbed my wrist and began dragging me somewhere.

As I stumbled along, I realized that my wrist hurt more from his grip than the gash on my hand.

This was definitely going to bruise.

“…Come with me.”

Raphael brought me to a group of knights who were gathered, laughing boisterously.

Since the ballroom was under the watch of the imperial guards, the knights had taken the opportunity to drink and enjoy themselves.

I had no idea which noble family these men belonged to, but Raphael strode over to them, exchanged a few words, and then, enraged by their drunken comments, started a fight.

They were too inebriated to fight back properly, and Raphael, who had clearly been learning diligently from Kesel, easily knocked them out with a few swift punches.

He returned carrying a bottle of alcohol.

“Show me your palm. We can’t let it get infected.”

I obediently extended my right hand.

Raphael frowned as he started picking out the remaining shards of glass embedded in it.

“Ow, that hurts. Be gentler, will you?”

“What kind of trouble did you cause this time? A ballroom is just a place for men and women to gather and dance.”

“There’s more to it than that, Sir Knight, but you wouldn’t understand.”

“Don’t call me ‘Sir.’ You’re far more important than I am.”

“My hand hurts, though. Return the pipe you took last time.”

Raphael hesitated briefly before pulling the pipe from his coat and handing it back to me.

Checking inside, I found that the tobacco leaves were still there.

I placed the pipe between my lips, my words muffled.

“Got a light?”

It wasn’t Raphael who responded but another man who handed me a matchstick from behind.

Turning to look, I saw Kesel.

Unlike when I first met him, his forehead looked slightly balder. Was he losing hair?

“Raphael, no matter how good you are in a fight, you can’t go around beating up knights from other houses. The gossip—”

“They called my lady a prostitute I’m keeping as a mistress. If you think you can handle the fallout, go ahead and stab me,” Raphael growled.

That was a bit much, even for drunken words.

If the knights outside thought that, surely the people inside the ballroom felt the same.

That explained why no one ever invited me to dance. The only offers I received were for reclining in the tea room.

Kesel, hearing Raphael’s explanation, nodded lightly.

“…Well, if that’s the case, there’s no issue.”

Raphael, having picked out the last shard, poured alcohol directly onto my hand.

I recoiled in shock, snatching my hand away and taking a puff of the pipe.

The tension in my body eased, the pounding in my head faded, and even the pain in my hand felt muted.

Only then did I extend my hand back to Raphael.

The alcohol stung fiercely as it touched my hand, the sharp scent wafting up.

My fingers trembled uncontrollably, though I felt no real sensation.

Maybe it was the alcohol numbing everything.

“Ugh.”

As the light-headedness began to settle in, leaving just a faint, tingling euphoria, Raphael suddenly lifted me without warning.

It felt as though I was being carried off like a nomad abducting a woman, slung over his shoulder.

Suppressing my embarrassment, I took another puff of smoke and exhaled before speaking.

“If someone sees us like this in the middle of the night, they might call the constables, thinking I’m being kidnapped.”

“Let them.”

“Are you angry?”

Raphael didn’t answer my question directly.

“Why did you get hurt?”

“Because a nasty young lady got hit on the head.”

I laughed as I spoke, and Raphael hoisted me onto a horse before climbing up behind me.

He didn’t urge the horse to gallop, so leaning against him was enough.

“Raphael.”

“What?”

“Let’s run away. Just bolt into the night, and if we accidentally get hit by a carriage or fall somewhere, it wouldn’t be such a bad way to go.”

“You said the same thing back at the orphanage.”

“Did I?”

“Yeah, the day you got beaten up by those kids. You muttered the same thing next to me.”

“Maybe it’s because nothing has changed.

Everyone calls me Marisela Vitelsbach, but I’m still Marie. Just like how you always call me Marie.”

Raphael seemed about to respond, but his horse suddenly jerked, causing him to curse and lightly smack its head. I burst out laughing at the sight.

“You haven’t changed either. You probably feel more familiar being called Raphael than Sir Raphael.”

“That’s… true.”

“No matter how happy we get, we’ll always be the miserable people who came from the slums.

Well, maybe it’s just me. You’re living each day happily and diligently, aren’t you?”

I clutched the pipe, drawing in another puff of smoke.

Usually, its sharp yet sweet flavor was comforting, but now it felt slightly unpleasant.

If I could somehow remember my mother strangling me or the Proxy Manager dying with a knife in his gut as beautiful, fleeting memories, maybe I could live as carefree as Raphael.

Though, I doubt even Raphael could do that.

But just a little anxiety or stress would cause nausea to rise, dragging back all the misfortunes I’d experienced, playing them like a vivid movie in my mind.

More vivid than hallucinations or whispers.

Some might call it post-traumatic stress disorder and suggest managing it, but to me, it felt more like a tattoo carved into my soul.

Even though my body was intact now, the sensation of my mangled hand from back then lingered as vividly as ever.

“Could I make you happy?” Raphael asked.

“Is that a confession?”

Raphael chuckled softly.

“Do you think I’d be flustered by something like that? When we were kids, you’d always tease me the same way.”

“Did I?”

“You did. After I drove off the kids bullying you and tried to act cool by saying I’d protect you, you asked, ‘Is that a confession?’”

Ah, I remember that.

As we continued riding, the sound of a fast-approaching carriage broke the silence, its wheels rattling against the road.

The carriage overtook us and blocked our path.

Raphael, visibly tense, rested his hand on his sword, watching the carriage warily.

After a moment, someone stepped out.

It was Olivia.

Even in the dim light of the moonlit street, her golden hair shimmered brilliantly.

Beside her stood a man wearing pince-nez glasses, his expression slightly irritable.

“Olivia, didn’t I tell you to go dance with your partner?”

“But you hurt your hand because of me… I couldn’t just ignore that. I pretended to leave, but I couldn’t let it go!”

“Once I get back to the estate, the physician will see me tomorrow morning—”

“So I brought a skilled physician instead! He used to work for the imperial family.”

The bespectacled man bowed politely as Olivia spoke.

Looking at the height of the ground, I hesitated to dismount.

“Raphael, help me down.”

“Can they be trusted?”

“If I were to be kidnapped, you could just draw your sword and kill them all,” I said with a smirk.

The man frowned, clearly displeased by my words.

“It would be wise to refrain from casually mentioning murder, especially when your reputation is already… less than stellar,” he said pointedly.

“My reputation isn’t something that’ll improve, no matter what I do. If you’ve come to treat me, just do your job.”

“Despite your origins, you have quite the knack for speaking like someone of your status,” he muttered irritably.

Caught between us, Olivia glanced nervously at Raphael, who seemed completely entranced by her beauty.

It was amusing.

I could understand, though. If I were an ordinary man, I’d probably spend hours just admiring her too. She looked as though God had poured all His effort into creating her.

In any case, the man treated my hand and sniffed sharply, like a dog catching a scent, before lecturing me.

“You should refrain from using that pipe. It’s highly addictive.”

Ignoring him, I turned to Olivia.

“Olivia, don’t worry about me. Take the carriage back to the ballroom and dance with this talented physician. Treating the rude and uncouth lady’s hand deserves at least that much as a reward.”

“Ah, y-yes, of course…!”

An adult stuttering wasn’t exactly a flattering sight.

Leaving them behind, I approached Raphael, who was still on his horse.

Too short to climb up myself, I looked up and called to him.

“Raphael.”

No response.

When I glanced at his face, he was still staring at Olivia, utterly entranced.

“Raphael, help me up.”

“

…Ah, uh, sure.”

Finally snapping out of it, he grabbed my hand and helped me onto the horse.

The horse began to trot slowly.

“She’s really pretty, isn’t she?”

“…Yeah.”

“Don’t you want to talk to her? I can set you two up if you want.”

Raphael responded with an oddly out-of-place comment.

“She reminds me of you.”

“Me? Like Olivia?”

“If we’d grown up in proper households instead of the slums, we might’ve shone as brightly as her.

Maybe not me, but you definitely would’ve. Just a thought I had.”

It probably stemmed from something we’d said when charity workers came to the slums.

Compared to our ragged selves, they had looked like an entirely different species, so clean and pristine.

“…….”

I didn’t reply.

It felt too hypocritical to dismiss his wistful thoughts now, after all we’d reminisced about.

Sometimes, being too kind is its own curse.