CHAPTER15: FOUR-EYED WITCH (1)
After a night filled with regrettable events, Henrietta found herself back in her room, but she couldn't recall how she got there. Feeling ashamed of what had happened, she buried her face in her pillow and let out a scream of frustration.
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Three days later.
Henrietta, her once-pristine apron now a canvas of flour and chocolate, stood before her parents, her face a mixture of determination and frustration. The dining table bore witness to her culinary endeavor—a collection of muffins that defied all expectations.
"May I inquire about the dissatisfaction with the dessert? I rose at dawn to prepare this for you, yet you persistently dismiss it as unsatisfactory! Mr. Littleton deemed it quite acceptable and considerable to swallow." Henrietta stood across the table; her visage disheveled.
Her parents exchanged glances, bemused by the chaotic scene before them. Mr. Littleton's endorsement echoed in Rietta's mind—his taste buds finding merit where her efforts had fallen short.
The muffins, however, were a different story. Their misshapen forms sat like rebellious sculptures, each one a testament to her culinary struggle. Flour-dusted and chocolate-streaked, they defied convention. Henrietta's heart sank as she realized that her masterpiece, in all its grotesque glory, might not win over her parents' discerning palates.
At that moment, she wondered if perhaps Mr. Littleton's taste buds were as unconventional as her muffins. But for now, she stood her ground, floury face and all, awaiting their verdict.
Mr. Roward cleared his throat before speaking, "It's quite impressive that you've taken to waking up before the sun, I commend you for that. However, I mustn't always sugarcoat the truth. As an adult and a governess, the challenges you face can be difficult, especially when working with royal families." Henrietta's face fell after hearing her father's concern.
"But I want to try, Father. Moreover, I have spoken to the boy once about a year ago. He may be rude, but he should still have a sense of decency, right? He's just a child, what worse could he do?"
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Inside the Loughty's garden gazebo, a young boy, not more than the age of six, sat with a dead expression, staring blankly at Aster Heather, his tutor. The boy's dark hair swayed in the wind, and his chubby cheeks were pale. Mr. Heather knew all too well that this was the boy's way of showing his power - to reduce his victims to cowering in fear.
The table in the middle of the gazebo was dotted with a trolley of snacks and tea, but neither the boy nor Mr. Heather made a move to reach for them.
As one of the boy's regular teachers, Mr. Heather had been forced into the position of becoming his permanent teacher due to the brutal acts committed against his predecessors. His mandate was to teach the boy manners, etiquette, and political affairs - anything other than those topics would result in dire consequences - his neck being snapped.
"Your Grace, would you like to take a break?" Mr. Heather observed the toxic silence and felt a pang of fear. The young fellow knew that it was better to risk angering the child than to face the unsettling silence. After all, everyone in the estate knew that the boy was a silent killer. The boy's silence held more menace than any words.
Mr. Heather waited for an answer but received none. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes darting to the boy's expressionless face. The silence stretched on, and Mr. Heather began to wonder if he had overstepped his boundaries, or if the boy was simply toying with him. Either way, he knew that he was walking on thin ice.
"Shall I call for the guards? Do you need to ease yourself?" The tutor inquired, concern etching his features. The boy's response was as dry as the desert wind:
"Yes."
Without hesitation, Mr. Heather sprang from his chair, abandoning the suffocating room. The air seemed to breathe easier in his absence. The child left to his own devices, glanced around the room. His gaze fell upon a tiny lizard, its emerald scales glinting in the muted light. Irrationally, he snatched the reptile by its tail, its delicate body wriggling in protest.
The boy's teeth clenched as he rose from his small seat, condemnation etched into his features. He moved toward the refreshment table, where a porcelain cup of tea awaited Mr. Heather's return.
'Too loud,' he thought, 'such a nuisance.'
With precision, he pinched the lizard's belly, squeezing until a translucent liquid oozed from its underbelly.
After that, he flung the startled creature out of the gazebo, its trajectory a brief arc against the sky. Then, with a tissue, he wiped his hands clean, the residue of lizard essence clinging to his skin.
Returning to his seat, the boy resumed his dull facade, waiting for Mr. Heather's reappearance. But when the tutor returned, he was not alone.
Standing beside the tutor was Mr. Becket, his father's assistant—a man whose presence alone ignited a seething loathing within the little boy. The room seemed to hold its breath as their eyes met, a silent battle of wills playing out.
Ignoring the tension, the boy meticulously stretched his arms across the table, fingers curling around the delicate handle of his teacup. The porcelain felt cool against his skin, a stark contrast to the heated atmosphere.
"Your Grace," Mr. Becket's voice sliced through the air, his gaze suspiciously tracking the boy's every movement. "I heard you require a restroom. Is that so?"
The child's response was swift, fueled by frustration and indignation. "Mr. Heather," he cried out, "you were to call a guard, not some used puppet!"
Mr. Heather, the root cause of the boiling tension, cleared his throat. His voice wavered slightly as he spoke, caught between duty and fear. "Your Grace, I apologize for the inconvenience," he began, "but I had to notice Mr. Becket. Otherwise, you would be punished."
The boy's narrowed eyes bore into Mr. Heather's soul, his face a canvas of suppressed rage. "I don't need your fake concern," he spat, the words dripping with bitterness. "All you care about is the money you derive from treating a demoralized child. So do not cross the boundaries!"
Mr. Heather's shoulders sagged; weariness etched into his features. "Ah, yes. Your Grace," he murmured, bowing his head in defeat. "I am deeply remorseful for my mistake." He reached for his cup of tea, the liquid trembling slightly as he raised it to his lips.
Unbeknownst to him, a pair of almond-shaped eyes watched—the boy's gaze unwavering, the next move already calculated.
In an instant, the teacher's body stiffened, his ears ringing with an otherworldly resonance. A sharp pain pierced his chest, and in a cruel twist of fate, the cup he held slipped from his grasp, crashing to the floor in a cacophony of shards.
"Are you in perfect shape, Mr. Heather?" The boy's voice dripped with sarcasm, each syllable a calculated barb. Mr. Becket, standing nearby, sensed the gravity of the situation. The boy had orchestrated something far more sinister than his usual mere classroom prank.
"What did you do?" Mr. Becket's voice trembled as he knelt beside the unconscious teacher. The space seemed to close in, air thick with tension.
The child merely shrugged and rose to his feet, ready to leave. However, he paused at the entrance of the gazebo and issued a warning. "Tell your master that if he values his subordinates, he shouldn't waste his money," he spat out with venom, before departing without a backward glance.