Déjà Vu

“Sigh. Still as delicious as ever.”

Ewan sat at the vast, empty dining table, elegantly wielding his knife and fork as he enjoyed his dinner. The ducal estate’s chef had, as always, delivered a culinary experience of the highest, most decadent order.

“If you find it so delicious, Young Master, then you shouldn’t simply forget to eat.”

Anne, standing silently behind him, couldn’t help but chide him gently. “If the Master or Lady were to find out, I would be the one to be punished for neglecting you.”

“My apologies, Anne,” Ewan said with an easy, apologetic smile. “I’ll be more mindful in the future.”

“This is not something that should be settled with mere words.” Anne leaned forward, her movements a portrait of grace as she placed a shimmering crystal wine glass on the table. “Would the Young Master care for a drink? This is a treasured red wine from Count Locke’s private collection. It is said that his winery can only produce one hundred bottles a year. It is a treasure that even he himself is reluctant to drink, and its price on the market has been driven up to a staggering two hundred thousand émile a bottle.”

“I…”

Ewan was about to accept. It was a fine wine he could never have dreamed of affording in his past life. But then he remembered his plans for after dinner. Drinking would cloud his memory. He forced himself to resist the siren song of the vintage.

“Never mind. I won’t have any.”

The hand Anne was holding the wine bottle with froze for a fraction of a second.

“…Then what would the Young Master like to drink?”

“Coffee, please.” Coffee would help him stay sharp. It was a terrible pairing with dinner, but he didn’t want to bring any drinks into the library.

“…Coffee.”

“Is something wrong?” Ewan noticed she was acting strangely, not moving with her usual swift efficiency.

“My sincerest apologies, Young Master, but for certain reasons, your only beverage options for this evening are red wine or black tea.”

“Hm?”

He felt a strange, prickling sensation at the back of his neck. He’d heard that line before. But he couldn’t quite place it, and simply asked, “Why?”

“Due to the negligence of another maid, the bag of coffee beans was chewed open by a rat,” Anne replied, her voice perfectly even. “I imagine the Young Master would not wish to drink coffee that has been gnawed on by vermin.”

“…I would not,” Ewan nodded, a sense of unease growing in his gut. “Then I’ll have black tea.”

“Very well.” Anne bowed and turned to leave.

“Wait.”

Ewan stopped her, the pieces clicking into place in his mind. “Anne, are you making it yourself?”

“Hm? Young Master, am I not your maid?”

“But you’re the Head Maid now. A small task like making tea…”

“Even though I am the Head Maid, I am still the Young Master’s personal maid. It is only natural that I prepare your tea myself.”

“Is that so…” Ewan frowned, his heart beginning to pound. “Then go ahead.”

“Yes, Young Master.” Anne nodded. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“…” Watching her retreating back, Ewan couldn’t help but stroke his chin, a confused murmur escaping his lips. “Something feels really strange. It’s like a powerful sense of déjà vu.” But he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was.

“I must just be tired,” he laughed at himself. “As if Anne would ever do anything to harm me.”

…

A short while later, Anne returned with the tea.

“Thank you.” He took the cup, preparing to take a sip. But the moment he raised it, he froze.

He looked down at the tea. Then he looked up at Anne’s perfectly placid, expressionless face.

“Anne.”

“Yes, Young Master. Is there anything else?”

“This black tea is very, very red.”

“But isn’t black tea supposed to be red?”

“The black tea I’ve had before was always a light, amber red. This is crimson.”

“It is likely due to the difference in the tea leaves,” Anne explained, her voice as smooth as silk. “Much like how oranges from the North Donnell region are smaller but sweeter than those from the Southsea territory. Black tea from different regions can have slight variations in color.”

“…In that case.” Ewan held the teacup out to her, his eyes locking onto hers, his voice now cold and hard. “Why don’t you drink first?”

“…” Anne looked at the teacup, her face a blank canvas. She was so still that if it weren’t for the faint floral scent that wafted from her, he would have thought he was speaking to a beautiful, life-like statue.

After a long, tense silence, she finally took the cup.

“Does the Young Master suspect me?”

“No,” Ewan lied smoothly. “I just think you’ve been working hard all day and deserve a cup of tea to rest.”

“You are so kind, Young Master.”

Anne slowly brought the cup to her lips. Ewan’s gaze was fixed on her like a hawk, ready to pounce on any strange movement, waiting for her to drink the entire thing.

“Sigh.”

But in the end, she did not drink.

Instead, she let out a soft, almost sad sigh. “Young Master,” she said quietly, “since when did you become so vigilant?”

“So there is something wrong with it!”

Ewan leaped from his chair, his hands on his hips as he sneered, a triumphant look on his face. “You put something in the tea, didn’t you? Hmph, did you really think you could fool me with such same old, tired trick? How naive!”

“Old?” Anne tilted her head, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. “Does that mean you have used this same trick on someone else, Young Master?”

“Cough, cough, that’s not important!” Ewan coughed dryly, his expression immediately turning deadly serious. “What’s important is, why did you drug my tea? And why did you betray me, Anne?”

She was his personal maid, with him since he was eight years old. In the original novel, and in this life, she should have been the one person he could trust implicitly. He simply couldn’t understand!

“I have never betrayed you, Young Master.”

Anne looked down at the teacup, at her own placid reflection in the crimson liquid. But only she knew that beneath that calm surface, a darkness and a desire she could no longer suppress was churning like a maelstrom, threatening to overflow.

“I am merely… putting everything back on the right track.”

“The right track?” Ewan frowned, not understanding.

“I don’t care what your intentions are, but since you’ve failed, then—”

“Failed?”

Anne suddenly looked up, a slow, chilling smile spreading across her face. “Young Master, whatever gave you that impression?”

“Eh?”

Ewan froze, not just because of her words, but because of the expression on her usually prim and proper face. It was a look he had never seen before, something almost ferocious. She was smiling, but behind her deep, dark eyes, it was as if some terrible monster was breaking free, staring at him with the same greedy, possessive hunger a dragon has for treasure.

CRACK.

A crisp, sharp sound pulled Ewan back to reality. He stared, his eyes wide with disbelief, as Anne—with her slender, pale, delicate hands, hands that had only ever folded his clothes and served his tea—suddenly, with a violent clench, crushed the ceramic teacup in her grasp into fine, glittering powder.

No, not pieces. Dust.

Ewan watched in horror as a fine, crystalline powder, mixed with the red tea, trickled out from between her fingers.

“You forced me to do this, you know, my dear Young Master—”

She began to walk toward him, step by deliberate step.

“This is bad.”

A chill, colder than any ice, shot up from the soles of Ewan’s feet to the top of his head.

Is that the kind of grip a normal maid is supposed to have?!

But he only had time for that one, single, panicked thought before he heard the sound of something slicing through the air from behind him.

And then his vision went black.