Chapter 236: The Baron’s Question
Chapter 235: The Baron’s Question
Lyria’s POV
Baron Redwick adjusted his spectacles before speaking. It was a small gesture, one I had seen him perform a dozen times before, but there was something different about it now—a hesitation, perhaps, or a gathering of courage. His fingers lingered on the frame longer than necessary, and when he lowered his hand, he did not meet my eyes immediately.
"Your Highness," he said, "forgive me for asking this. I am quite confused about something, and I find that I cannot let the matter rest."
I kept my smile in place, though something cold had begun to settle in my chest.
"You may a-ask," I said. "I cannot p-promise that I shall answer, but you m-may ask."
He nodded slowly.
Then he leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice as though he were about to share a secret.
"Do you know how to read?"
I felt the air leave my lungs, felt my heart stumble in its rhythm, felt the smile on my face become something I had to actively maintain rather than something that came naturally.
"Why w-would you ask s-something like that?" I asked him.
"It has been bothering me for a while now," he said. "The first time I saw you, you were holding a primer. A child’s primer. And when I asked, you told me that your mistress had requested it."
I hated where this was heading. I could feel the shape of it forming, could see the conclusion he was marching toward with each careful word.
But I said nothing.
I simply waited.
"I know the primer was not for your mistress," he continued. "I suspect the primer was for you. I suspect you were learning to read."
My smile faltered as I reached for my teacup. The porcelain was warm against my fingers, and I wrapped my hands around it as though it might anchor me.
"I d-do not understand why you w-would think such a thing," I said. "Just because you s-saw me with a primer does not m-mean I do not know how to r-read."
"That is true," he said. "It does not. But the day of the poetry competition—when you read the poems aloud—something was unnatural about it."
I took a sip of tea. The warmth did not reach the cold in my chest. It did nothing to help with the ache I now felt.
"Some people may not have noticed..."
I set the cup down sharply as a dark chuckle escaped me before I could stop it, interrupting him.
"Some p-people may n-not have noticed," I said, "but you n-noticed. Is t-that it?"
He nodded.
"Yes."
"B-because you are a s-scholar?" I asked him. "One so r-renowned that everyone kn-knows y-your name? Y-you notice things that o-others overlook."
He tilted his head slightly.
"Perhaps that is it," he said. "Or perhaps it is something else entirely."
I stared at him.
Inside, my thoughts were spiralling. If he had noticed, had others noticed as well? I thought I had done exceptionally well. No one had said anything about my reading except him, but what if the others had noticed it? What if I had made a fool of myself?
The questions piled atop one another, suffocating in their urgency, and I pushed them down with effort.
"You d-do realize," I said carefully, "t-that I have a s-speech d-defect, right? Perhaps that was w-why it s-sounded that way to y-you?"
He did not hesitate.
"I know it is not the speech defect."
I was quiet.
Something rose within me then—something hot and sharp and dangerous.
Anger.
Not the cold, controlled fury I had learned to hide behind, but something rawer, something that threatened to crack the composure I had maintained for so long.
Anger at him for knowing.
Anger at him for being right.
Anger at the fact that I could do nothing about any of it except continue to endure—continue to take the disgrace, the abuse, the endless, grinding cruelty of people who saw me as nothing.
Anger at the fact that I was helpless.
"D-do tell, my lord, w-what reward w-would y-you like?" I asked.
He blinked.
"I beg your pardon?"
"What r-reward would y-you like to receive?" I repeated. "Now that you have a-apparently d-discovered my d-deepest, darkest secret. What shall I g-give you as a r-reward?"
His eyes widened behind his spectacles.
"That is not what—"
"You look s-shocked," I said, cutting him off. "Is that not what you w-wanted? Since you are the first to kn-know, perhaps you deserve something s-special."
He shook his head.
"Your Highness, that is not what I meant at all—"
"Then what d-did you mean?" I asked. "Did you not ask me to c-clarify your s-suspicions? T-that is what you wanted to kn-know, is it n-not?"
He opened his mouth, but no words came.
I used the opportunity and continued.
"You wanted to kn-know if I can read. You w-wanted confirmation. W-well, here it is."
I drew a breath.
"Yes. I c-cannot read. I cannot r-read because I was n-never taught. I was never given lessons. I was n-never permitted to sit in a room w-with a t-tutor w-with the other children of noble birth. I was n-never even given the chance to try."
My voice was steady, but something in it had shifted. The carefully maintained politeness had fallen away, replaced by something harder.
"So t-there it is. The t-truth. You have it n-now."
He stared at me, and I smiled, though there was no warmth in it.
"B-bravo, m-my lord," I said. "You h-have won the r-race."
I rose from my seat after that.
The chair scraped against the stone floor, the sound sharp. The maids standing at attention near the table exchanged glances but said nothing.
"I s-shall s-see myself out," I said.
And then I bowed and walked away, fighting the tears that threatened to pour out.
I was tired.
I hated this.
I hated everything.
I just needed to rest.
I just...
I wanted my mother and Patricia.
