Self-Aware Villainess

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/31381298.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: Gen, Multi
Fandom: Original Work
Character: Original Characters
Additional Tags: Reincarnation, Fantasy, Intrigue, Politics, grey morality, Magic,
Historical, Trope Inversion, Social Commentary, Class Differences,
Nobility
Language: English
Collections: Tempus et Spatium (Time and Space), These fics are the air I breathe,
oh stars~!（＾Ｏ＾☆♪
Stats: Published: 2021-05-18 Words: 5,779 Chapters: 1/?

Self-Aware Villainess
by Reavv

Summary

Lady Hemlock Datura is engaged to the Crown Prince of the Kingdom Velara, and she's
sacrificed enough blood—mostly not her own—to get there. Which makes it all the more
infuriating when she suddenly wakes up with very vague memories of living on earth, some
sort of unfinished video game wiki page system, and enough common sense to know she'd
rather not either be the antagonist or the protagonist to a reverse harem story, thanks.

She might not know how the story is going to go exactly, but she's also not going to let
herself get pushed around by a narrative that thinks wealth is denoted by how many ribbons
and bows your dress has.

Notes

I may have spent the past three weeks consumed by reading web novels and comics, and
desperately needed to get it out of my system so I could continue writing my other projects.
This is my first time publishing original fiction, and I've actually made notes and an outline
for once, so hopeful you all enjoy.

As usual, my writing server on ( Discord )

General notice for this story: it will be dealing with a lot of the Reincarnated Villainess
tropes—and not always in a positive way. The characters are, I've been told, not very
sympathetic. The society they live in also kind of sucks, which is on purpose—the vaguely
European historical fantasy that these stories are usually placed in is rift with imperialism
and discrimination, and since this is meta-hidden-as-fiction project, it will show up here
 too.

These character's viewpoints and experiences do not match my own as an author. I think
this is especially important to keep in mind for an original fiction story.

Many thanks to my Beta Tsurai as always! (sorry I always forget to include you in these
notes lol)

Lady Hemlock Datura had a particularly strange habit for a young Duke’s daughter, especially one
noted to be as haughty and spoiled as she was. It was the one habit that made her tantrums, her
rudeness, and her cruelty, almost bearable to the servants working in the Datura manor.

This habit was a quarterly cull of her belongings, the profits of which she generously donated to the
staff, particularly her favourites. Pleasing her by running personal errands or keeping an eye on
gossip in town, particularly gossip on other noble ladies her age, would net a servant a tidy little
sum.

This, however, was not altruistic charity on her part. Although Lady Hemlock might have been
petty and immature, she possessed a keen sense for people; she knew that by giving up the profits
to the staff she not only would gain an excuse for newer and better clothing and accessories, but she
would gain the loyalty of the household even when they might hate her.

And at twenty years of age, there were many in the house that did hate her.

This, however, was not unusual for a noble’s house. Many of the aristocracy were just as petty and
greedy as she was, and the most a servant could ask for was a steady wage and indifference from
the majority of their employers. One could always leave, of course, to greener pastures, but without
a letter of recommendation it would be hard to get hired into another noble’s household.

And working in a noble’s house was still much better than working in the King’s castle, wherein
the current monarch, King Velaran, was known for his lust not only in women and wine, but in
blood. The Tyrant King, who had united the broken fiefdoms of Velara, was now old enough to
have grandchildren, but still, his appetites have not waned. His family and supporters were not
much better, turning the court into a spiderweb of intrigue, murder, and betrayal.

Many of the Datura estate’s staff counted themselves lucky that they only had to deal with one
fickle Lady, and one who would—for her own benefit—be so generous.

Perhaps that is why the incident, as she will later call it, goes completely unnoticed.

For one sunny day, in the midst of yet another lavish tea party, the Lady Hemlock met with her
fiancé the Crown Prince Edward, and, after yet another argument between the two, quite
beautifully fainted into the arms of one of the maids. This was a favourite trick of hers—used upon
her family, her fiancé, and naïve merchants in the city. The sight of their young Lady falling
backwards thus was regular and unremarkable to the staff and the party goers, and was much
forgotten by the end of the night. The Crown Prince, aside from a snide remark on her poor
manners and rudeness, departed straight after.

Later, Hemlock won’t even remember what the argument was about. No doubt something to do
with the Crown Prince’s lack of affection towards her, or his hesitancy to go through with the
marriage. Although both old enough now that they should, by all rights, already have married, the
Prince had for years kept Hemlock at arm's length, citing a desire for a long engagement. An
engagement he made quite obvious he was not fond of.

Hemlock, on the other hand, did quite desire it. Not necessarily out of love for the Prince—
although he was handsome and quite skilled—but out of greed. What better result, for the spoiled
young Lady, than becoming Queen of the kingdom itself? She had spent quite a lot of energy,
sweat, tears, and even blood to become his fiancée, plotting and scheming her way through the
ranks of candidates. It was not an easy thing, requiring the full weight of her family’s influence
behind her.

That’s why, when she woke up just a few minutes after her fainting spell, recovering in her
favourite sitting room with a maid quietly waiting by the door, she quietly cursed and threw her
hairpin on the floor in frustration, causing the maid to jump.

For Lady Hemlock Datura woke from her fit with more memories than she fell with, and those
memories quite explosively reacted with disgust at the idea of marrying the Crown Prince, throne
or not.

“Fuck,” she mutters once again, biting at the skin of her thumb and ignoring the maid’s nervous
look. She’s not quite sure what the maid is afraid of—a little pacing and swearing wasn’t going to
kill anyone, although it might end up killing the rug under her feet.

“Fucking. Shitass. Fucker,” she snaps, to the beat of her heels slamming against the rug.

She knuckles at her head, attempting to wave away both the pain, the memories, and the vague
after-image of the sudden visual hallucinations that caused her to faint in the first place. Although
she certainly would have faked a fit anyways, to get back at her cold fish of a fiancé, for once in
her life it had been from genuine shock.

“You,” she calls to the maid, who jumps slightly before curtseying silently. “Get me a hand mirror.
And a headache tonic.”

The maid scurries off, looking relieved to have a job to do. Hemlock ignores the vague sense of
unease at the treatment and flings herself back down onto the fainting couch. Twenty years of toil
and scheming, for what? To wake up one day with the knowledge that it will be all useless?

She groans, leaning her head on the back of the divan. What a load of crap. Not only has she
suddenly, for no reason, unlocked a whole lifetime’s worth of memories out of the blue, but all she
gets out of it is the knowledge that her whole life is screwed.

An hour ago she was just a spoiled Lady, concerned by the latest fashion and the political schemes
necessary to advance her marriage, and now she’s that exact same Lady, but with twenty more
blurry years of experience in a completely different world.

“Can’t even do a reincarnation story properly,” she complains, throwing an arm over her eyes. “I
can’t remember any details.”

She doesn’t even remember her old name, although she knows she had one. Instead, she has vague
ideas of what her previous likes and dislikes were, and useless knowledge of things that won’t ever
be of use to her now. What does it matter that there once was a planet called Earth, if she now lives
on Solum?
All that these memories give her is a headache and confusion. If her parents were to find out she
suddenly believes herself to have once been a completely different person on an alien planet,
they’ll most likely send her out to the countryside to be locked up in shame.

The sound of the door opening cuts through her thoughts.

“My Lady?” the maid calls quietly, placing a tray with the requested mirror and tonic on the table
next to the divan.

Hemlock tries to remember if she knows the maid’s name, if she’s ever even learned it, before
sighing and downing the headache tonic, waiting a moment or two with her eyes closed before
attempting to pick up the mirror.

A quick glance reassures her that at least her face has not changed—sharp jaw framed by
vigorously tamed silver hair, hawk-like black eyes glaring out of a permanent sneer.

What has changed is the translucent silver box overlaid over her face, illogical readable even in a
mirror. A bit of squinting has the mirrored letters flipping again, seeming to react to either her
intent or her focus.

[Lady Hemlock Datura. Level 3. Villain.

One of three children of Duke Cassava Datura, Lady Hemlock is the prideful and greedy fiance to
the Crown Prince. She has vowed to become Queen at any cost, even if it means resorting to
murder.

Learn more about Lady Hemlock by progressing the relationship.]

“What a joke,” she snorts, dropping the mirror back down. Only level three? A villain? Not to
mention the unflattering description that’s brief to the point of insult.

“Progressing the relationship? Do I need to write a diary and practice self-care or something?”

She doesn’t much care if the maid hears her—let her think her words are about the Crown Prince’s
insults.

She leans forward and massages at her temples. Even Edward had more information in his
description, what little she saw before she fainted. She doesn’t remember the full page, but his for
sure had ‘Love Interest’ instead of ‘Villain’.

Her new memories might be blurry, but she remembers liking stories like this. A young lady,
reincarnated into the body of a fantasy character, gifted with beauty and wealth and power,
overcoming obstacles to eventually fall in love with a charming man.

Well, to be clear, she liked the stories that took that trope and then made the character the girl
reincarnates into the villainess, with the original cast of characters either becoming bewitched or
punished for their misdeeds. Usually she spent the whole time cursing at her computer screen
because the villainess would still fall in love in really cringe-worthy ways, but at least she might
stab a person or two before that.

And now she’s said villainess.

Except she’s pretty sure she’s never read whatever book this is based off of. Possibly she doesn’t
have enough information to tell, but she can say for certain she doesn’t recognise the name
Hemlock from any of the series she’d read. Edward, on the other hand, was so common of a prince
name he could be any dozen male leads.

“Gross,” she mutters, wrinkling her nose. Suddenly all of his flaws make sense—his disdain for
women, his arrogance, his immaturity—all things that a suitable heroine would calm and fix with
her love. No doubt this is the sort of story where the villainess was originally supposed to attempt
to get between their blooming relationship and end up ruined at the end.

Pathetic, she can’t help but think. What sort of self-respecting villain is so desperate for a little brat
of a prince that she would give up all her power and reputation? Actually, never mind who the
prince is, doing any of that for any marriage is just a waste.

If you’re going to be ambitious, make sure the end result is worth it.

She groans again, before pushing herself off the divan and quickly tugging her clothing back into
place, smoothing out wherever it might have wrinkled.

What a mess. If she believes the memories and the—she can’t help but think of it as a game screen,
even if it’s just a limited wiki for now—there’s a good chance she’s in danger unless she changes
something, and soon. Although it would make things simple enough if she could just annul her
engagement and get away from the main characters, she can’t do that. Her family has put a lot of
the line for this engagement, and it would be a punishable offense for her to be the one breaking it
off.

Also, she probably shouldn’t even if she could. Until she knows which of the types of tropes she’s
now living, there’s a good chance that the more she attempts to distance herself from the main
characters, the more they’ll show up.

It would be better to have more information first, and confirm exactly what is happening. If she’s
not suddenly gone mad out of frustration with her annoyance of a fiancé, then it would be good to
know the limitations of her situation first.

“My Lady?”

She blinks.

“It’s almost time for super,” the maid says, apologetically. “The Lord and Lady will be here soon.
Should I help you change?”

Hemlock looks down at her wrinkled—and slightly too elaborate for her current tastes—dress and
twitches. A quick check with her memories of her current wardrobe reveals a god awful
preoccupation with bows and frills. Just an hour ago that would be just the style she prefers,
considering the sign of wealth they represent. And yet, although these new memories of her are
weaker than her normal self, it appears she has not walked away without changes.

Not just her taste in fashion, or her attitude towards marriage, or her sudden craving for red meat.
She can feel fundamental things shifting, even as she goes through the motions.

“Ugh,” she sneers, tugging at the silk. “Yes, I really should. Actually, can you get the head maid to
meet me in my room? I think it’s about time I refreshed my wardrobe. The fall fashion requires a
slimmer silhouette.”

“Of course, my Lady.”

Hemlock strides past the bowed head of the still-unnamed maid, mind already occupied with the
many different pieces she’ll have to move around to adjust her plans now. A good way to start
would be to search among the staff for someone able to run a few more discrete errands, and since
she’s had a sudden change of taste, what better way than to use the money from selling her lace and
frills than to bribe someone?

Passing the elaborately decorated halls of the estate gives her a strange sense of vertigo. These are
the walls she’s always lived within, but they seem oddly distasteful now. Gaudy and kitsch, more
money than sense. Although not starving, she has the vague sense-memory of her other life having
to scrimp for any luxury even half as expensive as just the wallpaper itself.

It doesn’t take her long to find herself standing in front of her wardrobe, maids scurrying about like
well-trained mice, packing away dresses and hats and shoes. She can’t get rid of it all, of course,
since it will take time to order a new set of clothes, but the majority of the more elaborate and
bothersome pieces are quickly ushered away.

“My Lady, should you not keep at least a few of this style? The jewel tones beautifully compliment
your hair,” the head maid asks, holding up a garishly bright dress full of more embellishments than
silk.

“They might be in style for the season, but they’re much too inelegant to last,” Hemlock replies,
shifting through her boxes of jewelry. At least jewels and accessories can be more easily adjusted
or styled, and can be gifted to other Ladies as gifts. The dresses might as well be burnt.

“Our Lady is wise,” the head maid agrees, voice just a bit too saccharine to be real. “Would you
like the invoice of the sale sent to your office?”

Hemlock holds up a necklace full of opal and hums in thought. Usually she lets the butler in charge
of finance deal with the invoices of her sales, and, aside from making sure the cut he takes isn’t too
outrageous, doesn’t much care if he embezzled her for it. He knew just as well as she did that if the
cut given to the rest of the house wasn’t fair enough, the resentment would fall on his head, not
hers.

“Yes,” she decides, dropping the jewels back into their box. “I have a small purchase I would like
to make out of a portion of the profits. Have one of the lower servants—a kitchen maid or stable
boy, or whoever—meet me in my office.”

“...Of course, my Lady.”

She waves away the opals and their box and sits back down at her vanity mirror, glancing at the
bustle behind her as she unpins her hair. Since the overlay didn’t show up when she looked at any
of the maids, does that mean it only shows up for ‘important’ characters? If so, that might be
troublesome—it would be more convenient for her if she could easily find out information just
from a glance, even for the fodder characters.

Thinking back to the tea party before she fainted, however, she vaguely remembers there being
more than one overlay, not just hers and Edwards. Although the guest list was as exclusive as the
fiance to the Crown Prince deserves, the chances of all those people being important to the original
story are slim. In that case, what difference is there between the staff and those that triggered the
hallucinations?

“...Head maid,” she calls, waving the middle aged woman over. “Have letters be sent out to all the
guests to apologise for the fuss today. And...”

“Yes, my Lady?”
“What’s your name?”

One of the maids knocks one of the boxes over, shock visible in her eyes even as she hurriedly
bends down to pick up the spilled silk. The others stand frozen for a moment, before a sharp glare
has them moving again.

“It’s Sophia, my Lady,” the head maid replies, evenly.

Hemlock taps a finger on the vanity top and watches through the mirror as an overlay slowly
brightens into existence in front of Sophia.

[Sophia. Level 1. Peon.

The head maid of the Datura estate has worked in noble households for fifteen years, proving
herself worthy by having a keen sense of composure and a practical mindset.

Learn more about Sophia by progressing the relationship.]

A peon, hmm? Only level one, too. Although she has no idea what the level refers to—importance
to the story? Influence? Money? She would expect that her own level in that case would be higher.

“Is there anything else my Lady requires?” Sophia asks, waiting patiently as Hemlock stares
intently at the mirror.

Normally this would be when she orders for a before-dinner drink or delicacy, but both of those
sound much too exhausting at this point in time. She really just wants the maids out of her room so
she can worry about her sudden life-changing circumstances in peace, and prepare to face her
parents.

“That will be all,” she says, waving them off.

The noise of the maids shuffling the last of the boxes out soon fades, and Hemlock waits a moment
before she sighs. There’s a long stretch of silence as she’s left alone, the fading light from her
window casting the room in burnished gold, thoughts a jumbled mix of confusion.

“Fuck,” she curses once again, placing her head in her hands. She doesn’t think she can wave this
all off as simply a loss of sanity, but the other option is almost more unbelievable.

Even the little she remembers from Earth is too strange to believe she’s made it up on the spot, and
she’s pretty sure delusions don’t work that way either. If she’d suddenly thought her family was
demons or the prince a fish in disguise, that would make more sense. Memories of footage of outer
space, internet forums and communities, and cities bigger than small countries are too strange for
even her to imagine.

Maybe she’s been poisoned, or the target of a spell. If so, she doesn’t think this was the outcome
expected, or at least she hopes not.

“Unless this is all an attempt to get me to break off the engagement,” she mumbles, massaging at
her temples. “No, even if it is, it’s about time I gave in to that anyways.”

She leans back and sprawls her legs out, one arm over the back of the chair. With no one to witness
it, there’s no reason she can’t be comfortable—and unlike Lady Hemlock Datura, whoever she was
before on Earth was much less concerned with good manners. Not just because the culture at the
time cared less about such things, but because it would take too much effort to do so.
“Ah, at least I haven’t changed completely,” she sighs. “Although this is just crying out for an
identity crisis. What am I? Lady Hemlock? This Earth person? A fusion of them both?”

A fusion seems more likely, from what she can tell herself. She has all the memories of Hemlock,
and many of her mannerisms still, but with the added knowledge of this other person, along with
much of their personality and tastes.

Does this mean that Lady Hemlock is dead? What makes a person them?

“Ugh.”

She pulls herself up and finishes touching up her makeup. Philosophising uselessly is a waste of
energy and will only give her a headache. She’s not one, in either life, to brood over things, and
certainly not when there’s more immediate things to worry about instead.

For example: dinner with the parents.

The Datura family is a powerful, rich Dukedom, led by the severe and strict head of house Duke
Cassava Datura and the viper-like socialite Lady Arnica Datura. Although her elder brother Dwale
is the heir to the family, because of his work at court, he’s rarely home. As such, it is just
Hemlock, her parents, and her younger sister Calla—who, she notes, glancing over as she takes a
seat, has once again snuck a romance novel under the table.

“I heard you had an incident in the gardens,” he mother says, after the appetisers have been served.
Her voice is perfectly pleasant, but Hemlock can’t help the shudder that goes down her back
anyways. She skims over the overlay screen that shimmers into view as she thinks about her reply.

[Lady Arnica Datura. Level 12. Minor Villain.

The youngest princess of the Black Marsh Kingdom, Lady Arnica was a fosterling of the Velara
courts from a young age. Ostracised for her origins and accused of sorcery, the Lady none-the-less
flourished in the dangerous waters of the court and eventually found herself a suitably influential
husband. The whispers of her magic have now long faded; those most critical of her and her family
all mysteriously dead or ruined.

Learn more about Lady Arnica by progressing the relationship.]

Nothing mysterious about that, Hemlock thinks to herself. What could be better as a mother to a
villain than a murderously bitter puppetmaster?

“I was feeling slightly under the weather. I think my dress might have been laced too tight,” she
says, forcing herself to follow the motions of etiquette like she normally would.

Her mother puts on a concerned face and leans forward.

“Oh dear. Was that why you decided so suddenly to refresh your wardrobe? Do let me know if you
would like any advice on the current trends.”

Lady Arnica is one of the leading Ladies in the social sphere, subtly influencing the court’s power
dynamic and alliances through an iron grip on the rumour mill. She had, at one point, been
instrumental in securing Hemlock’s engagement to Crown Prince Edward.

If this were a game, Hemlock full heartedly believes that her mother would have been one of the
final bosses.

“No need,” she answers, affecting an air of indifference. Weakness on this battlefield is a death
sentence. “I have come to realise that a Crown Princess should not be the one following trends, and
should instead be the one making them. Who better to determine the good taste of the court than
their future Queen?”

Not that she much wants to be Queen now.

“That’s my daughter,” Lady Arnica agrees, a small, enigmatic smile on her face. “Have your new
wardrobe requirements sent to my favourite boutique. I’ll personally see to it that by the end of the
month, you’ll be the envy of the court.”

The insinuation, of course, that Hemlock isn’t currently the envy of the court. She might be the
Queen-to-be, but considering all the incidents between the Crown Prince and her, the gossip
surrounding her usually has little to do with her beauty or style.

Not that she’s the Velara standard of beauty in the first place.

“Thank you, mother,” she replies with a smile.

For now, at least, their goals are aligned. She’s already aware that that won’t last for long—her
sudden lack of desire to be Queen or marry will throw a wrench into an ambitious mother’s plans,
and unless Hemlock is extremely careful, it’s likely she could end up fighting a war of reputation
against someone very much out of her league.

“Will you get me a new dress too, mother?” her sister’s voice pipes up, glancing between them.

Where Hemlock is sharp, angled and silver-coloured, a blade long cooled from the forge, her sister
still retains some heat from the fires. Pale blond, amber eyed, dark skin flush with the touch of sun.
She’s heard, from the servants gossip, that they’re compared to the sun and moon.

Her attitude too, is much brighter and warmer than Hemlock’s own. The perfect innocent little
sister to contrast the cruel villainess, no doubt. She imagines, for just a moment, that it is her sister
that is the heroine of the original novel and cringes.

No. Absolutely not. She refuses to let her sister get wrapped up in inane romance plots with
horrible men. As much as Calla sighs about being swept away on a white horse by a handsome
prince, if that were to happen in real life, Hemlock might have to embrace her villainess roots and
actually commit murder.

She checks her sister’s overlay just to be sure.

[Lady Calla Datura. Level 1. Side Character.

The youngest daughter of the Datura family, Lady Calla is a bright and cheerful young girl more
interested in books than high society. If only she knew what dark secrets lurk hidden in her house.

Learn more about Lady Calla by progressing the relationship.]

That’s all? She feels somewhat cheated—the overlays might not have given her much in terms of
information so far, but she should theoretically know more about a sister close to her age than her
enigmatic mother. But then again, maybe it only gives as much as a reader would know at the start.

She tunes out her mother and sister’s conversation on what sort of shopping to do—Calla no doubt
wants to be able to go out and buy more books and is just using the idea of a new dress as an
excuse—and checks the last of her family at the table.

[Duke Cassava Datura. Level 14. Minor Villain.

Duke Cassava Datura was one of the King’s most decorated nobles during the Kingdom’s
founding, despite his young age at the time. Taking over the family from an ailing father, he was
able to build the Datura name up into one of the most influential families through a close
connection with the crown.

Learn more about Duke Cassava by progressing the relationship.]

Nothing useful there either. Not even a small mention about her father’s personality or current
business—not that she knows much more either. He works in the castle on some council or other.

“...I heard Lady Longfellow is planning on an evening gathering to celebrate the unveiling of a
new product,” her mother says, catching Hemlock’s attention again. The Longfellows are a
nouveau riche merchant family that deals mostly in luxuries. Although socialising with merchants
might seem crass to some nobles, there’s something to be said for friends with deep pockets.

“Perhaps I should take a look,” Hemlock replies, picking up her glass with a thoughtful air.
“Weren’t they the ones who’ve recently gotten quite close with the Crown Prince? It would only be
good manners, as his fiancé, if I were to say hello too.”

And see if she can snatch whatever deals or contract Edward is trying to weasel out of them. If she
snips away at the strings to his power, eventually she’ll have enough power to move him where
she wants.

That being: out of her life.

“That would be prudent,” her mother replies, a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes on her lips.

After the stilted dinner, she heads back to her room and collapses on her bed, arm flung over her
eyes. Her headache is back, and thinking about all the upcoming work doesn’t make it any better.

If only she knew more. If she had woken up in a game or a book she’d read she would have the
relief of prior knowledge, but as it is, she can only wait to react to the situations coming. She is not,
and never has been, a reactive person.

The idea of not being able to plan properly bothers her almost more than anything else in the
situation.

“My lady?” a voice calls from outside the door, and she groans before rolling off the bed onto her
feet. It wouldn’t do to appear weak, even in front of the maids.

“Come in,” she calls, sitting daintily at one of the chairs, hands clasped over a knee.

A nervous head pops through the door, the face of one of the kitchen maids stark against the dark
wood.

“You called, my lady?”

Hemlock beacons the girl in and frowns a bit at the timidity. On one hand, a more timid minion
will be less likely to argue back about her orders, but on the other hand, they’ll be more likely to
get pressured into revealing things from outside sources.

She’ll have to be careful about this.

“What’s your name?” Hemlock asks, affecting disinterest.

“Dalla, my lady,” the girl replies with an awkward curtsy.

Hemlock hums, and glances her over again as the overlay generates. Average body and face, with
only a smattering of freckles to differentiate her from any other maid. She’s probably not used to
getting singled out for anything.

[Dalla. Level 1. Side character.

Orphaned at a young age, Dalla was taken in by the Datura family and named by their youngest
child. Originally treated as something of a playmate, she eventually grew old enough to work in the
kitchens, and was quickly forgotten in favour of more suitable friendships. Bitter and envious, her
greed is only controlled by her fear.

Learn more about Dalla by progressing the relationship.]

Hemlock raises an eye. Perhaps the girl will be more useful than she thought.

“I have something I need bought in town, and the rest of the maids are going to be busy with my
new wardrobe,” she says, standing and walking towards her vanity. “If you go in their place, and
are properly discreet about it, I’ll be sure to reward you handsomely.”

She digs out the opal necklace and lets it dangle from her finger, while the other hand picks up the
letter she’d originally written for a different occasion. Plans change, but at least not all her
preparations are going to waste.

“What do you say?”

The girl’s eyes track the jewelry with a predatory air, even as her hands fidget together.

“I—I’m of course at my lady’s command.”

Hemlock moves closer, stepping up next to the girl and draping the necklace across her shoulder—
she jumps, of course, like a startled little rabbit. But still her eyes do not move from tracking the
shine of the gem.

“It matches your complexion quite well,” Hemlock muses, comparing the shade of the stone to
Dalla’s skin. She forces her own face to stay pleasant and smiling, even as her voice lowers and
harshens. “Take care to ward away any insects to keep it as such—they’re bad for your health.”

“Y—Yes!”

The girl swallows, face now white as a sheet. Hemlock can’t tell if she understands the threat
entirely, or just recognises that there was a threat issued. Ah, well, it doesn’t matter much to
Hemlock—if the girl has no common sense then she’ll be more easily-maneuvered anyways, and
losing her to her own greed won’t be much of a loss.

She’ll just make sure to cut her loose before she ends up spilling secrets she shouldn’t.

“Perfect. In that case, there’s a shop by the name of the Gilded Garden down in the merchant’s
quarter. Give the shopkeep this letter and gold—it’s counted out precisely for the amount you’ll
need, so don’t bother attempting to haggle or skimp. Don’t ask questions, and don’t dawdle.”

She places the necklace and letter in the girl’s hands before turning away.

“Yes, my lady,” Dalla says, hurriedly curtsying, voice edging into hysterical exuberance.

Hemlock waits for the sound of the door closing again before she throws herself back onto the bed.

Well, at least one of them will be happy tonight.

The Gilded Garden is a semi-legal shop that deals mostly in being a middleman between even less
legal suppliers and their customers. Although the front of the shop is a luxury store, and some of
their business does indeed come about naturally, most of their success lies in the discrete services it
provides.

Hemlock has used their services often and quite freely in the past. Whether it’s information on the
Crown Prince’s movements, or the hiring of bandits to harass a particularly annoying rival’s
carriage, or the buying of banned or outlawed goods—she is a staunch supporter.

Normally she would send the head maid out on an errand such as this, but the head maid is no
doubt loyal to her mother, and until her own base is more stable she would rather her mother not
know exactly what she’s up to.

The letter she had previously prepared was another monthly request on information on Edward’s
social circle. That request hasn’t changed, and she would have probably sent it as normal if it
weren’t for the fact that she slipped something a little extra in it this time—a small little request to
buy a poison called Arcanium.

Odorless, tasteless, fast acting. Less of a chemical poison and more of a magic one, practically
undetectable unless you know to look for it—the price to buy it will be steep, but worth it.
Although non-lethal at low dosages, the symptoms can be particularly deliberating.

At one point it might have been a last resort gamble to dealing with any particular rival or obstacle,
but now…

Now she’ll be buying it for herself.

If she were to suddenly take ill, well, it would be quite logical for her to go and stay in the
countryside for a little while to recuperate, away from her family and the stress of the capital. As
much of a scandal as it might be, for her to miss the height of the social season, she can just as well
—and perhaps in some ways better—handle her obligations through letters.

And while the villainous Lady Datura is recovering in the countryside, away from prying eyes,
who knows who might step into her shoes?

Being in the centre of the capital is great for quick, detailed information on the subtleties of things,
but can sometimes hide the larger movement and trends. She would hate to miss the forest for the
trees.

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