Chapter 10: Puppet
After the noble gathering ended, as Veronica stepped into her mother Lavelle’s private parlor, the glaring light from the crystal chandelier made her instinctively squint.
The air was filled with a fragrance of bitter orange blossom and cedarwood, which was her mother’s favorite incense, yet it always reminded Veronica of the white flowers at funerals.
“Kneel.”
This voice was one Veronica had heard for twenty years; her knees had formed a conditioned reflex, responding before her thoughts could catch up.
Her knees automatically dropped to the cold marble floor, an immediate bone-chilling sensation following.
The light purple hem of her dress spread out like a crushed dried flower.
This was a method her mother often employed—she had intentionally had the carpet removed, leaving only the cold stone surface that reflected silhouettes.
It was meant to let her feel the pain more acutely.
The voice of her mother emerged from the shadows:
“I gave you three days to prepare and provided you with the best singer in the capital…”
Veronica could smell the sweet bitterness of absinthe in her mother’s breath:
“And yet you can’t even handle a wild girl raised in a military camp?”
Her mother’s long fingers reached out from the shadows, pinching Veronica’s chin.
Veronica was forced to lift her face, seeing that familiar expression on her mother’s beautifully made-up face.
It was as if she was evaluating a defective product.
“Do you know?” Her mother’s tone suddenly turned gentle, as if soothing a child to sleep. “On the day you were born, the midwife said you were as beautiful as a porcelain doll.”
“I wondered at the time, what should such a perfect vessel hold?”
Veronica held her breath; she was too familiar with this game—
Her mother always loved to revisit what she called her “nurturing grace” before punishment.
Veronica was pulled by her hair to the full-length mirror, her mother’s scorching breath spraying against her ear:
“Look at that face!”
“How many gold coins did I spend on doctors to adjust your nose? Hm?”
“How many gold coins did I spend raising you? Hiring the best dancing teachers and buying the most expensive perfumes!”
The noblewoman reflected in the mirror had dilated pupils, her mouth twitching: “You’re even worse than a bastard!”
A strange maid stepped out from behind the screen in the parlor, her hands trembling slightly as she held a silver tray.
On the tray lay a slender ivory ruler, and her mother released Veronica’s chin to pick up the ruler and gently tapped it against her palm.
Veronica’s fingertips trembled slightly.
“Mother, I…”
“Shut up!”
“Losers don’t deserve to argue!”
Her mother’s red lips curled slightly, signaling the maid to withdraw.
The first strike fell, and Veronica bit down on her tongue.
The ruler landed precisely on her left scapula, a spot that could inflict greater pain than areas cushioned by fat or muscle, maximizing the suffering of the punished.
“Just this once, I’ll go easy on you.”
The second strike hit her right shoulder, the force causing Veronica to sway.
“Just this once, I’ll punish your foolishness.”
When the third strike landed squarely on her spine, Veronica tasted the metallic tang of blood in her mouth.
But she maintained her perfect kneeling posture, stifling even the slightest sob.
This was something her mother had taught her from a young age: to remain silent like a doll in the face of pain.
It must be said that her mother’s control over force was excellent; it was one of her proud inventions.
It could inflict torment upon Veronica without leaving irreparable scars.
But this was not due to maternal love, but rather a quality essential for a mature broker—
The appearance of the product must be well protected.
The only difference in treating Veronica and handling goods was that one was called sale, while the other was called marriage.
“The last strike,” the ruler lifted her chin, “was for not even being able to hold a fan steady in front of that wild girl!”
How did her mother know that detail?
Veronica’s pupils suddenly constricted.
So her mother had been observing her from the shadows the entire time.
The realization sent a chill deeper than the ruler ever could through Veronica.
It turned out she had always lived in her mother’s cage, where even a moment of freedom was merely an illusion.
Veronica had begun to adapt to the pain, so that in the end, it only left behind a chilling numbness.
Veronica recalled being locked in the study all night when she was seven for misremembering the lineage of a noble family.
The moonlight was just as cold, the pages of the book stained with her tears.
Her mother’s force had reached its limit, and Veronica finally could not suppress a whimper.
Yet her mother had already turned toward the window, the moonlight outlining her graceful figure, as if she were a different person from just moments before.
“Starting tomorrow, increase your military history classes by two hours each day.”
Her mother’s voice regained its past elegance as she recalled Lena’s performance earlier that day, speaking to herself as she looked out the window:
“This might become the new hobby of the nobles.”
“And then there’s Lena’s fiancé…”
Her dark red nails tapped against the window frame, as if her mother had suddenly remembered something, revealing a terrifying smile.
“Come here.”
Her mother’s command felt like a noose tightening around her neck.
Veronica moved her legs mechanically, her mother stood before the dressing mirror, her dark red nails skimming over her daughter’s exposed shoulder line.
“Pull the neckline down a little more.”
Her mother’s icy fingers abruptly jerked open Veronica’s collar, the pearl buttons falling to the ground:
“What do you think that wild girl Lena uses to charm men?”
Veronica looked at her own body in the mirror; the dress her mother had personally selected for her that morning was now pooled on the floor.
She recalled how her mother had scrutinized her when she first got her period at twelve, then had smiled satisfactorily and said:
“You finally have a bit of use.”
Her mother suddenly pinched her chin, forcing her to turn toward the vanity.
The perfume in the crystal bottle shimmered in an eerie peach color; it was the “virgin honey” she had bought from an Eastern merchant last week.
“Apply it behind your ears, and here,” her nail traced the dip below her collarbone, “if that country squire touches you, let him touch these places.”
“Mother, maybe we can…” Veronica’s voice was no louder than a whisper.
“What can we do?”
Her mother suddenly yanked Veronica’s hair tight, the pain shooting through her scalp made her vision explode in white light.
“…I will do it.” Veronica heard herself say, her voice sounding as if it came from a faraway place.
“Now that sounds like something.”
Her mother finally smiled, shoving a small silver vial into Veronica’s hand:
“Pour this into his tea; it will make him lose his senses.”
Reid was also a grown man, and when a grown man loses his senses in front of a woman, Veronica didn’t even need to think about what would happen.
Though she had already realized at twelve that this was her fate.
But when she was actually placed on the shelf by her mother’s own hands, she found she wasn’t as composed as she had imagined.
“Remember,” her mother neatly arranged her hair one last time, her nails scraping across her scalp, “if you fail…”
She abruptly pulled her hair tighter, whispering in Veronica’s ear: “I will give you to the finance minister’s nephew who enjoys peeling people’s nails.”
“You know, he has had his eyes on you for a long time.”
Her mother left, shutting off the lights in the parlor as she exited, as if forgetting that another person was in the room.
Once the door closed, Veronica stood bathed in moonlight.
She mechanically stroked her body, where the red marks left by her mother’s ruler still lingered.
The floor-length mirror reflected her pale face and the skin on her chest, which had been stained peach pink by the perfume.
The nightingale’s call echoed outside, and Veronica suddenly recalled how Lena had danced with a sword in the salon today.
So free, so dazzling.
She looked down at the silver vial in her hand, suddenly curious about what would happen if she poured it into her mother’s nightly absinthe…
But in the end, Veronica carefully tucked the vial away.
Just like the past twenty years, she neatly tucked away all the humiliation, continuing to play her mother’s most perfect puppet.
In the moonlight, the plucked pearl button lay quietly on the ground, like a drop of tears that would never dry.
