My Step-Daughters Are The Villainesses

For the first time that evening, her anger toward Ulrich had been joined by a thin, unpleasant thread of unease.

Astrid watched Ulrich leave the pillar and move toward the far side of the ballroom, where the dancing couples thinned near a row of tall windows.

He did not hurry.

That annoyed her more than it should have.

A moment earlier he had sent a terrified violinist away with secret instructions and an expression so grave that even she, despite not understanding what he was doing, had felt a small chill. Now he walked with a glass of wine in one hand, apparently content to inspect the celebration as though nothing unusual had occurred.

Astrid narrowed her eyes.

He was hiding something.

No one sent musicians to spy on other musicians because they cared about the quality of a royal performance. Ulrich might have been arrogant enough to criticize the Crown Prince in public, but even he could not be so mad as to consider a missed note an offense worth investigating.

There had to be another reason.

She gathered her skirt and followed him.

Ulrich noticed within three steps.

He did not look back at first. He simply continued through the flow of guests, drifting between a group of older nobles discussing military contracts and two young ladies whispering before stopping upon spotting Ulrich. Astrid remained behind him. Not close enough to appear as though she were pursuing him, she told herself, but not far enough to lose sight of him either.

He took another sip from his glass.

Astrid followed.

He stopped beside a carved marble column and looked toward the royal dais.

Astrid stopped behind another column.

Ulrich lowered the glass from his mouth.

She could see the side of his face. His expression had not changed, but his eyes had gone stern in the way they did whenever he was losing patience.

Astrid considered turning around.

Then she remembered his dismissive voice.

"Neither the son nor the daughter can be redeemed."

Her cheeks warmed again.

No. She would not run off just because Count Rubenhart had looked annoyed. He did not own this place! This was the capital.

He did not get to insult her family, make strange plans around the princess’s celebration, and expect her to politely pretend she had noticed nothing.

Ulrich began walking again.

Astrid followed.

This time, he led her past the long tables where the palace servants had arranged crystal bowls of sugared berries, pale cakes filled with cream, glazed pears, and silver pitchers of wine. The scent of honey, roasted almonds, and warm pastry filled this side of the room. A young lord reached for a glass at the same moment Ulrich passed him. The count did not slow, but the young man nearly dropped the drink when he recognized who had brushed by.

Astrid watched Ulrich stop near the western windows.

Beyond the glass, the palace gardens lay under the night sky. Lanterns burned along the stone paths, their flames trembling whenever the wind crossed the open terraces. The dark silhouettes of trimmed hedges and marble statues stretched between the lights. Guards moved along the outer walls in pairs, their spears catching a dull reflection beneath the moon.

Ulrich stood with his back partly turned to the room.

Astrid waited several paces behind him.

He spoke without looking at her.

"Are you planning to continue this for the rest of the evening?"

Astrid stiffened.

"I do not know what you mean."

Ulrich turned his head.

His red eyes rested on her with open disbelief.

"You have followed me across half the ballroom, around the refreshment tables, and now to the windows." He raised his glass slightly. "If you are attempting discretion, Lady Astrid, your efforts are tragic."

Astrid folded her arms.

"I was not following you."

"....."

"I was walking."

"In the exact direction I walked."

"This is a ballroom. People walk."

"Most people manage it without standing behind the same person for ten minutes."

Astrid’s face flushed.

"I—I only wanted to know what you were doing," she snapped.

Ulrich’s gaze moved briefly to the dance floor before returning to her.

"What I am doing?"

"Yes."

"And why should I explain myself to you?"

"Because you are acting suspiciously."

For the first time, he showed a hint of amusement. It did not soften his face. If anything, it made him appear more irritating.

"Suspiciously."

"Yes."

"A strong accusation from someone who has been stalking me through a royal event."

"I was not stalking you!"

"No?" Ulrich asked. "Perhaps Duke Gravenberg’s daughter has a different word for it."

Astrid opened her mouth, prepared to give him an answer sharp enough to remove that look from his face.

Nothing came out.

Ulrich took another small drink from the wine.

"You sent that musician to spy on the others," she said at last. "Why?"

"That is not what I told him to do."

Astrid stared.

"It clearly was."

"I told him to listen to music."

"You told him to find musicians who should not be there."

"Yes."

"That is spying."

"No. Spying requires secrets." Ulrich glanced toward the nearest quartet, where a cellist and three string players performed beside the wall. "If a musician cannot play, that is hardly secret. It is merely embarrassing."

Astrid’s eyes narrowed.

"You expect me to believe you are investigating them because they might be bad at music?"

"I expect nothing from you."

"That is not an answer."

"It is the only one you deserve," he retorted curtly.

Astrid stepped closer, lowering her voice.

"Count Rubenhart, this is Princess Camellia’s celebration. If you have found some reason to suspect people in the palace, you cannot simply involve a frightened performer and refuse to explain yourself."

Ulrich looked at her for a long moment.

The music shifted into another piece, slower than the previous waltz. Several couples withdrew from the center of the ballroom, while others stepped forward to take their place. In the distance, Camellia continued speaking with a family from the southern marches, her smile composed, her guards near enough to reach her within a few strides.

Astrid followed Ulrich’s gaze.

Her irritation sharpened.

"Does this have something to do with Her Highness?"

"No."

"You are lying."

He ignored that remark.

"You have been watching her all evening."

"I have been watching the room."

"You spoke to her privately."

"She spoke to me."

"You danced with those witches in front of everyone and told Her Highness Camellia to look after them."

"Once again," Ulrich said, narrowing his eyes, "she approached me."

He really wondered where the hell she was going with this investigation. Unfortunately, he had no choice but to keep her company; otherwise, she would gather too much attention if he refused and moved away, as she would definitely follow him around.

Astrid leaned closer.

"You are trying to get close to her."

Ulrich stared at her.

The reaction was so still that Astrid almost believed she had said something truly important.

Then he let out a quiet breath through his nose.

"Lady Astrid."

"What?"

"Your imagination has become a threat to public safety."

Her eyes widened.

"You deny it?"

"I have no reason to deny a thought so stupid."

She widened her eyes before gritting her teeth. "Y—you are insulting me again!"

"I am correcting you."

Astrid’s hands clenched at her sides.

"You think you can speak to me however you wish because you are a count."

"I speak to you this way because you continue giving me reasons to."

"Y—You are just an arrogant man!"

"That observation has taken you far too long."

Astrid’s temper rose hotly in her throat. She wanted to say something cruel. She wanted to remind him that House Gravenberg possessed more influence than Rubenhart in the capital, that her father sat in councils where Ulrich’s name was discussed, that she was not some frightened servant he could silence with one look.

Yet when she looked up at him, the words lost their force.

Ulrich did not appear concerned with winning their argument. He had already shifted his attention past her shoulder, watching the movement around the musicians stationed near the west wall.

Astrid turned slightly.

The late violinist had reached the first quartet.

He stood at a respectful distance while they played, holding his instrument at his side. He seemed to be speaking to one of the performers between passages, perhaps asking about the music or offering himself as a substitute. From here, he looked harmless. Nervous, certainly, but harmless.

Ulrich watched him with a concentration that made Astrid uneasy.

"What are you actually looking for?" She asked, quieter this time, still trying to get answers.

Ulrich’s expression remained unreadable.

He glanced down at the wine in his hand. He had barely drunk from it. The pale liquid reflected the chandeliers above, gold trembling across its surface.

"Why do you care?" he asked in the end.

A broad question about whatever she was attempting to do for the past five minutes.

Astrid’s lips parted.

"Why do I care? B—Because this is Princess Camellia’s birthday."

"That is not an answer."

Astrid hesitated before answering with a puffed-out chest.

"I care because Her Highness Camellia is my friend," Astrid said. "Because you have been behaving strangely around her. Because you are sending people to investigate others in the palace."

Ulrich’s eyes shifted back to her.

At least that answer sounded honest.

The late violinist moved away from the first quartet and approached another.

Ulrich’s attention followed.

Astrid noticed the change in his posture. His shoulders had remained relaxed during their argument, but now he held the wineglass lower at his side and watched without blinking.

The second group stood closer to the royal dais.

A harpist played near the rear while three strings carried the main melody. The violinist sent by Ulrich paused near one of the performers, a narrow-faced man with ash-blond hair and a black half-mask covering the left side of his face. The mask was decorative and not really unusual in such an event, perhaps part of some fashion Astrid did not recognize. It curved around his cheekbone and tied behind his head with silver cord.

The man played well enough from where Astrid stood.

Or at least he seemed to.

Astrid looked at Ulrich.

"Do you know him?"

Ulrich didn’t answer.

Astrid opened her mouth to speak again, but the late violinist abruptly moved away from the quartet. He did not approach Ulrich. Instead, he crossed toward the musicians near the eastern side of the ballroom, forcing himself to smile whenever another performer looked at him.

Ulrich’s gaze remained on the masked man.

The player’s bow moved across the strings with controlled, even strokes. His posture was correct. His clothing matched the others. Nothing about him stood out except the mask that didn’t much hide his face either, hardly suspicious once again.

Astrid frowned.

"Perhaps he is simply hiding a scar," she said.

"Perhaps," he muttered under his breath unconsciously.

"You are not going to accuse someone because of a mask, are you?"

Ulrich glanced at her.

"Silence."

Astrid glared at him.

He was truly unbeatable in that. Every time she thought she had cornered him, he gave her an answer designed only to make her feel foolish. She could not decide whether he truly believed himself above everyone else or whether he simply enjoyed provoking people until they lost their patience.

Perhaps both.

Before she could decide whether throwing a glass of wine at Count Rubenhart would create a scandal large enough to satisfy her, the late violinist appeared at the far edge of the corridor.

He was moving quickly.

Too quickly for a man merely searching for an empty place in a quartet.

His face had gone pale. He held his violin case against his ribs, and his eyes searched the room until they found Ulrich near the windows. The musician began weaving through the guests toward them.

Ulrich’s expression changed.

The irritation Astrid had drawn from him disappeared. His gaze became sharp and fixed, and he took one step away from the window to meet the approaching man.

Astrid’s anger cooled as well, very curious about what was going on here.

The musician reached them, breathing hard enough that his chest rose visibly beneath his formal coat.

"My lord," he said. "I found one."

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