Dylan de Beaumon, the adopted daughter of a Duke, recalls the memories of her past-life after hitting her head. Upon realizing she was a villainess character in a novel, she decides to use her intellectual giftedness to get a good career and run awa...
That night, Dylan fell ill and was bedridden with feverish chills and a sore throat. The pale girl with slender limbs sighed, shaking gently as she reached for the hot astragalus tea that Mina had prepared. She struggled to swallow the warm drink before letting her head fall heavily on the pillow behind her.
"Here milady," Mina said with a somber voice, taking the porcelain teacup from her hands. "I'll help you drink if you want to, okay? Milady might find it difficult to do by herself."
"It's okay," Dylan said with an empty smile. "Doctor Peregrine said my body just wasn't used to physical activity yet."
'It's also because the Duke keeps calling me by my dead father's name.'
"Still," Mina said, placing the teacup down on Dylan's beside dresser with careful hands. "Why does milady have to do it if it's making her sick? Isn't there another way?"
"If I want to be able to go to the academy, I have to keep exercising to build my strength." Dylan spoke as she watched the scenery beyond her bedroom window with a blank expression—a look she often wore. "It'll get easier with time," she whispered.
Dylan had never understood what it mean when people said that a villain is made and not born—until she regained her memories of her past-life. They were simply people who suffered as victims at some point in their lives, and that suffering compelled them to commit acts of cruelty and immorality.
An orphaned child, who grew up with only a mother, ended up having to bury the one person she had in her life—with her own hands. The Duke, who she thought saved her, harboured unresolved grief towards her father's death and subconsciously pushed her to act as his replacement. It was a twisted game of playing family.
Despite this, Dylan still loved the Duke like he was her real father. She knew more than anyone that sometimes the people we love most manage to drive us completely crazy. The resentment and hate she felt towards him went hand-in-hand with the love she felt for him. It was conflicting.
'I wonder how the Duke felt when Dylan died in the novel.'
"You should rest," Mina said softly, tucking Dylan in with her warm blankets. "Since you have tomorrow off, we can go into town to buy things you need for school."
Dylan nodded, allowing her worries to dissolve into the back of her mind. She shut her heavy eyelids and allowed herself to slip away into a state of sleep—the only place she was able to escape from her twisted reality.
***
The next day, the market was buzzing with life. Several commoners were swarming about in crowds. The aroma of several different food booths hung tauntingly in the air as vendors called out at passing customers amongst the ruckus.
Dylan closed her eyes and tried to drown out the nightmares of her past that haunted her. The people here were her kin. She lived her most painful life amongst similar streets as a commoner. In a way, she still saw herself as one. Her noble title was nothing more than something that could be discarded later on.
"Milady," Mina called with a nervous expression, drawing the carriage curtains shut. "Why don't we head to a street that's frequented by aristocrats? I fear there may not be any suitable shops for milady here."
Dylan shook her head, listening to the steady sound of the horses' hooves against the stone road. They had taken a carriage with no family crest in order to avoid drawing excess attention. The Duke also ordered his knights to follow her from afar, giving Dylan enough space to shop freely.
Dylan rarely went out because of her health. When she needed clothes or items, the Duke would bring designers and merchants directly to his manor. Today was an exception, since her body had to slowly grow accustomed to venturing beyond the Duke's property.
"There's something here I want to see," she told Mina.
The hill was bright in the light. Dylan shaded her eyes from the sun and watched the way the grass fluttered freely, the sight of it all pulling at her soul. The hill gave Dylan her first real sense of how a home should feel, because atop the hill was the resting place of the only person she ever considered home. Her mother.
"I'm just going to visit my mother's grave," she told Mina, her eyes lingering on the sight of the familiar hill. "I want to be alone."
"I understand, milady," Mina said. "I'll wait for you here."
Her mother's grave was marked by a wooden cross, nailed together clumsily and half-decaying with age. Dylan kneeled in front of it, feeling strangely melancholic. This place was where her troubles all began.
'I wonder if you would be proud of who I've become. I've grown to be just like the man who deserted us.'
"I want to go back," she whispered to herself, lightly caressing the cross' wood with a gloved hand. "I want to see your face again."
The wind sang a sorrowful song. It was the same tune it sang the day the girl with golden hair buried her own mother. It took her four years—four years to gather the strength to see the place her pain stemmed from.
"D, Dylan?" a voice called out from behind her. "Is that really you?"
Dylan turned her head towards the familiar voice, her golden hair fluttering in the sunlight as she did. "It's been a while, mister. Thank you for taking care of my mother's grave in my stead."
He was the only person who helped her when her mother died. He even gave Dylan a place on his land to bury her mother. Despite this, Dylan had never learned the old man's name.
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