This Is What Revenge Looks Like
Chapter 3

Grace massaged her right wrist, which was aching from swinging the bottle earlier.

Maybe I should have wrapped a towel around my wrist or something before I beat him. I guess doing it for real is different, just as I thought.

She didn’t voice her brutal thoughts.

She was walking along the dark corridor when she suddenly stopped short and turned. Her reflection was visible in a dark window—long, curly golden hair, a small, slim face, perfectly harmonious and delicate features, and frail-looking light green eyes. She wasn’t exactly short, but perhaps because of her slim build, she looked smaller than she actually was.

The maids praised her for her beauty daily, but Grace had not liked the way she looked for a while. She had tried wearing thick makeup to make a stronger impression, but it had only made her look like a child clumsily mimicking adults.

She had grumbled that she wished she could make people go weak in the knees with just her gaze, and a teacher who taught her to hunt had laughed and said, “The way I see it, Lady Grace, you already have an amazing weapon.”

“A weapon? My looks are a weapon?”

“When you go after a target that is bigger than you, you’re not supposed to look powerful and strong. It’s the ones who are obviously that way who die first. You need to get them to relax their guard entirely, then strike them when their back is turned.”

Grace had made her beauty her weapon since that day. She acted the part of an innocent, naïve young noblewoman, wearing a docile look on her face and always being “demure.”

No matter what people said to discredit her, she ignored them like they were dogs barking at passersby. As a result, Duke Taylor and his wife considered her nothing more than a disposable pawn, and they had let her handle even the documents which required verification by the head of the family. While they had fallen completely asleep at the wheel, she had waited and gathered information.

She was about to walk again when a mocking voice came from the other end of the corridor. “Your husband is quite something.” It was Rosette Taylor, who resembled her mother to a tee. “The empress’s nephew, no less! I envy you, Grace.”

All revilement is but the barking of dogs, Grace repeated to herself, like a habit.

Rosette beamed at her. “So you’ll be the empress’s niece in law starting tomorrow, then!”

Grace wished she could throw a handful of ashes into that smiling face, but that would ruin everything. So she smiled slightly instead, jerking her head. “Thank you, Rosette.”

The graceful, languid tone seemed to carry sincere thanks, and it was Rosette who scowled. Grace always responded with a smile, even at points when she should rightfully be trembling with indignation. It was this side of her that drove Rosette wild every time.

The number of times she had wanted to chuck stones at that elegant face was as many as the grains of sand on the beach. Rosette moved right up to Grace and said fiercely, “That’s right. Smile like an idiot all your life. He is the perfect husband for you, so live with him. And I mean, live with him.”

Grace told herself, Actually, I just beat him with a wine bottle.

“Don’t ever come back here, Grace, not even when you’re dead. You don’t belong here, Grace. This is my home,” Rosette said, whispering quietly in turn as if mimicking Grace, then spun away.

Grace simply stood there, staring at the spot where Rosette had been standing.

It had become a habit to maintain equanimity on the outside, and even now, her expression was peaceful. The laugh that escaped her like a cough was closer to a simple smile than any indication of mockery. But there was a remark that sank into her like a hot knife, one that was impossible for her to stand.

“Your home?” Grace said, biting her lip and walking on.

Don’t be absurd. Everything in House Taylor, including its people, all the objects therein, down to the last drop of river water and fistful of wind...

“None of it belongs to you,” she muttered, so quietly that she might as well have been mouthing it.

The wind outside the windows drowned out her voice.

***

At around that time, an outsider arrived in the Duchy of Taylor.

This man’s dark hair was neat, despite the fact that he had ridden through the night, and his face exceedingly handsome, but there was a keen look about him, perhaps because of the harsh turn of his eyes. The gatekeeper was overwhelmed by the unusual presence this large-built man gave off and didn’t even dare to make eye contact. He let the man pass after only a brief look at his identification.

Another man who had come with the outsider muttered quietly, “What did you have to fake these papers for, anyway? You received a wedding invitation. Why not make use of it?” It was Joseph Lexton, his aide.

Walter Richmond, the outsider, grinned and produced a card from his pocket.

[The Most Noble Walter Richmond, the Duke of Richmond...

Respectfully yours, Grace Taylor.]

The elegant script seemed very fitting with the name of the sender.

“Well, I have my doubts on whether this is a real wedding invitation,” Walter said.

“Well, it’s an invitation, and it’s inviting you to a wedding, so I’d say it is,” Joseph replied.

Walter shrugged and put the invitation away. Then he glanced up at the castle of Duke Taylor, which was steeped in darkness, muttering, “Brides don’t send wedding invitations.”

Joseph fell silent.

“And she says to me that, by attending...” Walter continued, blinking slowly, “I will receive the sharpest blade of all to aid in the protection of my secret. Would you still call that a wedding invitation?”

Joseph raked at the back of his head as if he couldn’t make sense of it, and Walter rubbed his chin with his fingertips, lost in thought.

The sharpest blade with which to protect my secret. I wonder what that is? Walter wondered. What does this woman have on me?

***

Early morning the next day, the vast doors of the chapel located within the duke’s castle were thrown wide open. Silver-white drapes symbolizing the divine packed the walls of the chapel, and lilies, which stood for purity and love, were placed in bouquets everywhere.

Servants moved busily about, finalizing the preparations for the perfect wedding, and priests sent by the Temple were already giving a service prior to the wedding that was to happen soon.

The distinguished guests invited to the event were also occupied with adorning themselves. This was a wedding at the historic Taylor Castle, no less! And the bridegroom-to-be was none other than the son of the influential House Jaxen, which was incidentally the same house that had produced Empress Hetviga. Many were bubbling with excitement at the wedding that would soon be taking place.

But this was not a happy moment for everyone.

“Can I not even trust you to serve my son properly?” came the shrill voice of Countess Jaxen.

The deputy steward spun from the impact of her palm on his cheek. This did not seem to satisfy her anger, since she slapped him again.

“Forgive me, my lady,” said the man.

The countess turned, fuming, toward her son, at which point her anger vanished and was replaced by a flood of pity. “Look at his handsome face! There are bruises on it! And today, of all days!”

There was a dark bruise over one of Jack’s eyes and several more on his forehead. A physician had quickly brought over some ointment to ease the swelling and the bruising, but the glossy ointment only made the bruises stand out more. In addition, Jack seemed to be suffering from a hangover, which was a first in his book. The headache was killing him.

“I don’t even... What even happened to you?” asked the countess, looking like she wanted to cry.

Jack was just as frustrated as she was. As was usually the case when he drank, he had no memory of what had happened. He spoke gruffly, as if finding her concern annoying. “It’s none of your business.”

The countess studied the bruises carefully and murmured, “Those bruises... It’s almost as if someone... took a bottle to you or something.”

“I told you it’s none of your business!” Jackson shouted.

Count Jaxen, who had been sitting on a sofa, hollered angrily, “How do you expect us not to care? You are supposed to walk into that chapel this morning! From the looks of it, he probably fell onto a table while drunk! Maybe there was a wine bottle waiting for him to fall on it. That idiot!”

He glared at his son’s face, then got to his feet.

“Well, there’s no use trying to hide it now! It’s time. Stop applying that damned ointment and get ready! And you, woman! Stop dawdling in here and get back out there!”

Jack furrowed his brow at this father’s pitiless delivery and scowled, while the countess chewed her lip and grew upset.

“They’re supposed to be a duke’s house, but they can’t even manage their castle properly, it seems! How could they leave a guest as important as my son to sustain such a major injury to his face? And what of that girl? We are House Jaxen, for heaven’s sake! Her future parents-in-law are here, but she hasn’t even shown her face once!”

She fanned herself to blow away the heat from her face and followed her husband out of the room.

“The first thing I’m going to do when we get back home is to teach that clueless girl the Jaxen ways!” The countess reiterated several times what a great house Jaxen was, for having produced an empress, no less, as she headed to the chapel.

She carried herself with such airs that even the other noblewoman who had been walking to the chapel shied away from her. But when she had arrived in front of the long gallery leading to the chapel, her fearless steps were swayed.

The guests who had been gathered in groups, chatting about the wedding that was about to happen, and even Duke Taylor, his wife, their daughter Rosette, and son William all turned to face the same direction.

Crossing the gallery that led directly into the chapel, and standing as a timeless witness of the venerable history of House Taylor, was the bride.