Jul 11th, 2030
Otto had stirred her awake with the gentle sound of his preparations, marking the start of the day at exactly 5:00 AM. His agenda was set; he was to travel into town for a crucial engagement. The day’s mission involved navigating the nuanced diplomacy required in his talks with the Bürgermeister. The heart of their discussion would revolve around Mittenwald's position and its evolving relationship with the esteemed Tal der Ruhe, a matter growing in importance and delicacy. Sophice found herself undisturbed by the disruption. With Otto momentarily out of the equation, the day she had meticulously planned for—the day she would permanently eradicate that usurper of her rightful place—had finally arrived.
The grand bedroom on the second floor of the main manor, usually a sanctuary of tranquility and regal decor, was the starting point of her meticulously laid plan. The early hours were crucial. Sophice had discreetly involved two individuals in her plot, each playing a pivotal role. Seraphina, her maidservant, young at 13 but marked by unwavering loyalty and sly intelligence, was entrusted with a critical task. She was to deliver a poison-laced muffin to Pike, having spent recent weeks inflating his ego with pretended infatuations. The muffin, designed to induce nothing more than severe digestive distress, was key to temporarily removing Pike from the scene.
Then there was Brock, whose role was simpler yet no less crucial. Positioned near Pike, he was to heed Pike's inevitable plea for relief, taking up his guard post at Brenda's door as Pike succumbed to the muffin's effects, only to later abandon his post, leaving it unguarded. Brock was kept in the dark about the broader implications of his actions, aware only of his immediate task, and if he harbored any doubts, they were silently borne.
The intricate plan could not commence until Otto had departed, and Pike had to be neutralized before Brenda and Veronika awoke to the day’s potentialities. Thus, Sophice feigned sleep, a still figure in the early morning’s dim, ensuring nothing delayed Otto’s departure and set the stage for the day’s dark unfolding.
The past months, a facade of growing friendship with Brenda, taxed her nerves to their limits. The evidence was in her hands and mouth—the scars from her nails buried in her palms, the small bite marks on her tongue from biting back her venomous thoughts. Behind her back, Brenda and that towering figure, Veronika, mockingly dubbed her the doppelganger, as if she were the imitation. But Sophice was adamant; she was the original, and Brenda was nothing but an oversized thief of her rightful place. But after today, she would reclaim her life, her status, and Otto's true heart.
The sound of Otto attempting to close the door softly behind him marked his departure. It was rare for Otto to leave without forgetting something and returning briefly. Sophice waited in bed, but after ten minutes, she rose, deciding it was time to act.
She summoned Seraphina, who must have also been woken by Otto's movements. The girl appeared from her modest quarters almost instantly. In the still-dark morning, Seraphina attended to Sophice, dressing and feeding her with practiced speed. "Today is the day," Sophice whispered, a mix of resolve and excitement in her voice, barely suppressing a giggle at the gravity of their conspiracy. No further words were needed; both understood the magnitude of the day ahead.
Sophice's morning was tinged with a mix of anticipation and venom, her mood oscillating with the day's dark promise. She felt like celebrating and wanted to dress in a manner suited for such but not wanting to get ahead of herself, opted for a nearly stealth-like black corset. The garment that seemed as much a weapon as it was attire. The strenuous effort and cleverness Seraphina poured into tightening it mirrored the tension gripping Sophice's heart—a perfect blend of jubilation and malice for the task ahead.
"We must ensure Laird is at the ready and remains nearby," Sophice declared, her voice laced with a cold precision. Laird, the unwitting cog in her machinations, was essential yet blissfully ignorant of his role in the unfolding drama. His task was to unwittingly channel misinformation to Brenda, a role he was all too suited for, being somewhat of a buffoon. Coming from him, the fabricated tale of a water issue would seem innocuous, a ruse perfectly planted to draw out her prey.
With Otto away and Pike conveniently out of the picture, the responsibility to investigate would inevitably fall on Brenda or Veronika. Given the two critical points of failure—the pump house and the distribution junction—Sophice cynically mused that Brenda, ever the self-appointed guardian of their well-being, would likely divide their efforts. It was clear to Sophice that Veronika's formidable frame would never allow her access to the cramped quarters of the pump house. This detail was the linchpin in Sophice's plan, a strategic advantage she relished. The stage was set for her cunningly orchestrated confrontation, one that would not only humiliate Brenda but also reestablish Sophice's rightful place at the helm, wrenching back the control and recognition she felt had been usurped by Brenda's unwelcome dominance. This was more than just a physical trap; it was a battle for supremacy, with Sophice determined to emerge as the undisputed queen of her realm, vindicating her deep-seated resentments and reclaiming the affection and esteem she believed were rightfully hers.
"Quickly, girl, fetch the muffin, ready Brock, and employ your charms on Pike. Once Brock is stationed, covertly excuse him, knock on my door as you pass, and then conceal yourself in the closet by the pump house entrance to await my signal," Sophice reiterated, her instructions almost unnecessary. Over the past month, she had drilled Seraphina in their plan so thoroughly that the young servant could likely execute her tasks with her eyes closed. Nonetheless, Sophice's tone conveyed urgency, reinforcing the critical nature of each step. This was not merely a set of tasks but a ballet of precision and deceit, with Seraphina as one of its principal dancers, poised to tip the scales in Sophice's favor.
Seraphina's morning transformed into a whirlwind of mischief and subterfuge as she set about orchestrating Sophice's devious plan with a level of precision that would have made any stage director proud.
She knew the day would likely end with Miss Brenda's demise, but her young mind didn't quite grasp the gravity of such events. To her, the elite seemed almost less than real, like characters in a story rather than flesh-and-blood individuals. She was all too eager to play a role in taking one down. Even her loyalty to her lady, Sophice, was conditional; should Sophice cease to be useful or falter in her position, Seraphina's allegiance could swiftly change.
First on her agenda was preparing Brock for his unwitting role in their drama, a task she approached with a mix of seriousness and underlying amusement.
She found Brock loitering in the courtyard, blissfully unaware of the pivotal role he was about to play. With a conspiratorial whisper, she briefed him on his mission, embellishing the truth just enough to ensure his cooperation. "Brock, my mistress wants me to play nice with Pike. I think it's part of her getting in good with Miss Myers. But the way he looks at me makes me nervous. Can you stay nearby out of sight and then join us once our interaction is underway?" her voice laced with urgency.
"Hover near the anteway and wait for my signal," a note of pleading in her voice. Brock, with a nod that conveyed his willingness to play the hero, albeit a confused one, agreed to hide out of sight until called upon.
With Brock momentarily sidelined, Seraphina turned her attention to the centerpiece of their plot—the muffin. Armed with the poison-laced pastry, she approached Pike, who was blissfully unaware of the tumultuous morning that awaited him. Her performance was flawless; with a shy smile and fluttering eyelashes, she offered the muffin to Pike, who accepted it with a chuckle and a hearty "Thank you, lass."
No sooner had Pike taken his first bite than the clockwork of Sophice's plan ticked forward. Seraphina said, "Tastes good, doesn't it?"
With internal relief, she saw that Brock had caught his cue and was approaching.
"I'm not used to this much company before dawn," Pike commented, his voice low to not wake his charges.
Sera watched as Pike's ever less subtle signs of distress grew.
"Are you okay?" she inquired.
"Brock, have you ever been a relay before?" Pike asked in rushed tones.
"For Tonannager for a few days... it didn't go well."
Pike looked around desperately, clearly considered asking the girl for a moment before answering, "You'll do fine. I'll be back before they even wake up. Just stand here at the door. You know the job at least." To his credit, Pike waited for a nod before running off down the hall and around the corner.
Sera counted to ten slowly then patted Brock on the shoulder and said, "You did perfectly. You can go about your work now. I'll watch the door."
Brock was clearly confused, but it was not his station to question her, and so he wandered off briskly.
Seraphina couldn't help but marvel at the seamless execution of their plan. With the relay dismantled before the first light of dawn, she dashed to give Sophice the agreed-upon knock on her door, a signal that Phase One was complete.
Her final maneuver was to nestle herself into the shadows of a closet near the pump house entrance—a snug nook unlike any other in the mansion's sprawling wings. This corner, marked by its diminutive corridor flanked by closets and capped with the half-height door to the pump house, was unique. Even for Seraphina, small as she was, the squeeze between the shelving and the door felt like threading a needle. Sophice, despite the murmurs of her daintiness, wouldn’t have stood a chance. As Seraphina’s pulse steadied, matching the rhythm of her quiet hideout, discomfort gave way to focused anticipation. Hidden from view, she became a whisper in the walls, ready to spring the final note in Sophice’s symphony of vengeance. Though just a contingency at this point, she was no less vital to the plan.
In that confined space, amid cobwebs and shadows, Seraphina discovered an unexpected peace. Here, in the heart of anticipation, she envisioned the intricate dance they had choreographed, playing out beyond her secluded vantage. The stage was meticulously prepared, every actor unwittingly aligned, awaiting only the cue for the curtain to rise on this climax of cunning and betrayal. This was Seraphina’s moment—a delicate yet decisive touch that could tilt the scales. With a blend of sly humor and youthful daring, she savored her role in this elaborate play of power, fully aware that the day's events would weave them all into a tale told with both incredulity and admiration for years to come.
Meanwhile, the plot unfolded like ripples on a pond. Sophice’s movements were as precise as they were stealthy, a shadow flitting through the hall, across the darkened courtyard, and into the wings, where a seldom-used trapdoor awaited her descent. Beneath the manor, a root cellar, cool and earthy, stretched before her, its floor a sea of potatoes. She moved with care, a ghost among the tubers, her every step calculated to disturb as few as possible.
At the cellar's far end, a circuit breaker panel hung on the wall, a gateway to her machinations. With practiced fingers, Sophice flipped two switches. The first plunged the room into darkness—a minor inconvenience she hoped wouldn’t ripple too far beyond these walls. The second breaker was her true target: pump #3 in the pump house, now silenced by her will. This act, simple yet potent, was a linchpin in the day’s dark ballet.
Navigating the pitch-black cellar with only memory and touch as her guides, Sophice retraced her steps, her passage marked by the softest whispers of crushed potatoes underfoot. Emerging from the cellar's embrace, she slipped back through the manor’s corridors, a specter returning to her chamber. There, in the solitude of her room, Sophice awaited the unfolding of the day’s events, a storm brewed from her tempestuous heart.
Unaware of the machinations in motion, Brenda’s room was silent, bathed in ignorant bliss.
As the day stretched its arms wider, Brenda found herself syncing with the rhythm of the sun, its rise now her natural wake-up call. This morning, however, it wasn’t just the sunlight that greeted her; it was Veronika’s watchful presence, an unusual silhouette against the dawn’s light.
“Have you been awake for long?” Brenda murmured, still half-ensconced in sleep’s embrace.
“Some ruckus in the hall yanked me from sleep. Tried to figure it out, but it all simmered down before I got anywhere,” Veronika responded, her voice carrying a mix of curiosity and leftover sleep.
A sharp rap at the door interrupted the morning’s tranquility, an irregular pattern that didn’t match any prearranged signal.
“Pike?” Brenda queried, her voice steady.
“It’s Laird, milady. My apologies for addressing you directly, but there’s no one at the door, milady,” came the reply, imbued with a hint of urgency.
At the initial knock, Veronika had risen, her instincts on alert. Now, with the revelation of an unattended door, her posture shifted to one of full vigilance.
“Where is Pike, and what do you need to inform us about?” Brenda pressed, her concern audible.
“I’m sorry, milady, I’m not sure where Pike is. And, I regret to inform you that there seems to be an issue with the water supply; it’s not flowing properly.”
“Cold water or no water at all?”
“None at all, I’m afraid, milady.”
“Would you mind standing in as a relay until we ascertain what’s happened to Pike?” Brenda’s request was met with a silent, decisive shake of Veronika’s head.
Puzzled, Brenda approached Veronika, whispering, “Why?”
“If he’s involved in whatever this is, placing him at our door is likely part of their intention,” Veronika murmured back, her voice a low rumble of suspicion.
“Who? What purpose?” Brenda paused, mulling over Veronika’s sharp instincts. After a moment of consideration, she raised her voice, projecting through the door, “Never mind, Laird. You’re dismissed.”
Their morning, once serene, was now tinged with a sense of unease, the previously calm air charged with questions and suspicions. However, Brenda, no stranger to perilous situations, found it difficult to categorize these concerns as immediate threats. Instead, she was drawn towards resolving the practical issue at hand: the water problem. Heading to the bathroom to verify Laird’s claim, she was greeted by a brief gush of water from the tap before it ceased altogether.
“Well, Veronika, it seems we have a choice between the pump house and the junction station. Should we investigate them together or split up?” Brenda mused, turning to face her companion.
Veronika, ever cautious, voiced her concerns. “I know you find such considerations fanciful, but if there were indeed a plot to separate us, it would be obvious that I wouldn’t be heading to the pump house. I suspect foul play there.”
“How could anyone attempt an assault in the pump house? It’s hardly spacious enough for me alone,” Brenda countered, unable to envision the scenario Veronika suggested.
“A bomb set by a certain individual we both know well?” Veronika proposed, hinting at Sophice’s potential involvement.
Brenda couldn’t help but laugh at the suggestion. “Blowing up our water supply doesn’t seem like a move she’d make, considering it would disrupt her own conveniences as well,” she remarked, dismissing the idea of such drastic action being part of their adversary’s plan.
“We joke about it, but I don’t think you truly comprehend how much she despises you,” Veronika began, her tone shifting to a more serious register.
“She’s a bit jealous, sure. 'Hell hath no fury,' and all that,” Brenda responded, attempting to lighten the mood.
Veronika pressed on, “Consider it from her perspective. Really try. Here she is, attached to the Manor’s ruler. Yes, he has a thing for you, but you were supposed to be gone. She could cope with the fact that she reminded him of you. But then, you return. He offers himself to you, saying he’s been holding the castle for you. What do you do? You reject him but keep him close for the occasional intimacy. You decline the title, giving it to him, and by extension, her, both shadowed by your refusal. You don’t even have the decency to outright kill her. Then, by restoring the power, you ascend to an almost saintly status. Now, she can’t even criticize you behind your back,” Veronika explained in one long breath, finally pausing for a deep inhale.
“You have my undivided attention,” Brenda replied, all traces of humor gone from her voice.
Their conversation, a blend of strategy and skepticism, underscored the complexities of navigating their current predicament. With each possibility they considered, the balance between caution and action became more delicate, highlighting the need for a careful approach in uncovering the truth behind the day’s anomalies.
Brenda took a brief moment to equip herself with practical attire, opting for sturdy work jeans paired with a resilient denim shirt. Her preparations were swift, a testament to her readiness to confront the day’s challenges head-on. Stepping into the corridor, she encountered Sophice, who seemed intent on intercepting her path.
“I was just on my way to inform you about the water situation,” Sophice began, attempting to inject a helpful tone into her voice.
“I’m already aware. I was heading to the pump house myself,” Brenda responded, her focus undeterred.
“Would you mind if I joined you? I’m not well-versed in plumbing, but there might be tight spaces I could navigate that you couldn’t,” Sophice offered, surprising Brenda with her knowledge of the pump house.
“I find it curious that you’re even familiar with it,” Brenda remarked, skepticism threading her words.
Sophice sighed, a gesture seemingly filled with resignation. "Once upon a time, this was my domain. I made it my business to know every millimeter of this place. My assistant is even tinier than I am, though I'm not certain of her current whereabouts. You could enlist her help if you prefer."
Brenda weighed Sophice's proposal for a moment. "Having an extra pair of hands might not be a bad idea. But if you're coming along, you'll need to keep pace. I won't wait for a wardrobe change."
"I assure you, working in a corset won't be an issue for me," Sophice declared, her tone laced with a sharp determination.
As they stepped into the courtyard, Brenda was immediately struck by the morning's humidity, a precursor to the day's escalating heat. She knew the conditions would soon become stifling. Together, they navigated through the wings, making their way to the doorway that led to the pump house corridor, the next stage of their unplanned collaboration. The air was thick with the day's burgeoning discomfort, yet Brenda remained resolute, prepared to face whatever the pump house might reveal, with or without Sophice's dubious assistance.
In the dimly lit hallway, they moved toward the unassuming half-height door at the corridor's end. Sophice couldn’t help but cast a fleeting glance at the closet door they passed, a subtle acknowledgment of the unseen part of their plan. Beyond this door, the passage sloped downwards, its ceiling looming at a mere 1 1/4 meters. Sophice, though required to stoop, could manage a somewhat dignified approach. Brenda, on the other hand, faced the prospect of advancing on hands and knees.
"Would it offend you if I suggested you lead the way?" Brenda inquired, her tone lightly teasing, attempting to infuse a bit of humor into the tense implications.
Sophice responded with a genuine chuckle, appreciating the jest. "Actually, I'd be more offended if you didn’t insist," she retorted, embracing the task with a semblance of camaraderie. With a shared moment of levity between them, Sophice ducked into the constricted hallway, leading the way into the thankfully short cramped passage that lay ahead.
Just a couple of elongated meters further, Sophice emerged into a marginally taller space, where she could finally stand upright, albeit with minimal clearance. This cramped chamber, bisected by the ground level, was cluttered with an intricate network of pipes and rafters, presenting a labyrinth of potential hazards. Here, Brenda found herself in a slight crouch, navigating the tight confines largely by careful touch.
Brenda delved deeper into the cramped space to inspect the pressure gauges, her focus on the task at hand.
Sophice, with a grin that could only be described as villainous, announced, "You do realize this is a trap?" It was the signal for Seraphina to lock them in.
Instead, the air was shattered by a tremendous crash and the thud of a body hitting the floor.
"I told you," Veronika's voice boomed from the far end of the tunnel.
In response, Sophice drew a slender sword hidden within her corset, retreating into an area cramped with pipes above and below.
"Nice trick," Brenda retorted, drawing Adlerkralle with a confident flick.
"Is Seraphina dead?" Sophice called out, concern lacing her taunt.
"Could well be. Didn't check, but she hit the wall hard, then the ceiling. The fall didn't look gentle. Oh, and there's a fair amount of blood."
"Mini-me is armed with a sword," Brenda added, apprising the Berg.
"I'm on my way," Veronika declared.
"How?" The question hung in the air, a testament to the complexity of their predicament.
"Normally, I'd say snap that twig. But she knows she's dead whether you do it or she manages to get out of there. And you should always be careful with cornered animals," the Berg advised Brenda, her voice echoing slightly in the cramped space, underlining the precariousness of their situation.
The Berg, with a solemn resolve, thrust her weapon through the body on the floor, ensuring that any potential misery was abbreviated and to preclude the possibility of the fallen adversary causing further issues from behind. She then turned her attention to the narrow passage ahead. The gap wasn't impossibly small, but it was dauntingly tight—navigable only with a strategic tilt of her shoulders and a forceful push from her feet. The imperative of her lady's need propelled her, lending a singular focus to her movements as she prepared to make her way through the constricted space.
She stripped off her leather shirt down to bare shoulders and silently cursed herself for not having the foresight to bring butter. Glancing around, she spotted the pools of red and black blood still sourcing from the ragdoll body on the floor. She scooped up handfuls of the fluid and liberally coated her shoulders. It wasn't fat, but it was better than nothing. She checked her width with arms up and arms down. Keeping her arms at her sides would make them useless, but her shoulders did seem minutely slimmer that way, and it looked like every millimeter was going to count. She then stuck her head into the passageway, wiggling her shoulders past the entrance, which she nearly filled completely.
The hurdle seemed about the length of her body minus her head, possibly shorter. Now inside, it appeared straightforward enough, with the biggest obstacle being the door frame at the end that stole precious millimeters. Wiggling forward millimeter by millimeter, she could now see into the pump house. Her lady stood in what could loosely be described as the free space, in an on-guard fencing posture, holding her beloved long knife as a sword. She positioned herself between the nearly hidden figure of Sophice among the pipes and Veronika herself—a standoff until she could break free.
Once in the room, she would be on hands and knees, which didn't leave many fighting options. But even the need to split one's focus can often be a decisive disadvantage in battle. It seemed that rushing her, possibly in the slowest rush ever, forcing Sophice to impale her, would disarm Sophice, allowing Brenda to take her down. If she angled herself correctly, judging by the size of the blade, she might emerge with a wound a doctor could patch up.
Sophice maneuvered into a tighter spot behind the main pump assembly, a move that puzzled Brenda. It seemed to offer no strategic advantage, leading only to the other side of the room, and by hiding, Sophice gained nothing but gave them time to position themselves. Yet, she was now out of sight, a fact Brenda found disconcerting. Suddenly, a flash from Sophice's needle-like sword caught the light above the pump, striking a very old incandescent bulb. As the far end of the room plunged into darkness amid the sound of shattering glass, part of Brenda's mind marveled at the sight of such an antiquated light source. Then, the unmistakable odor of an electrical fire filled the air, reminiscent of the occasional exploding transistor, as remnants of the bulb's filament made contact with the atmosphere.
Straining her ears, Brenda tried to pinpoint Sophice's position in the newfound darkness, but Sophice remained silent, while Veronika's progress generated considerable noise.
Glancing back, Brenda saw Veronika, her head now in the room, looking decidedly stuck at the shoulders.
"If you turn to help me and it gets you killed, I'll kill you again. Watch your own back; we're not in any hurry," Veronika managed to say, her voice strained, betraying her difficulty in breathing.
An old memory fluttered to the surface of Brenda's mind, a remnant from when she was just 5 or 6 years old. Behind the pump assembly, the water intake pipes snaked through a hole in the wall at ground level. It had been a snug fit even for her as a child, but Sophice, at barely 145 cm and slender, with hardly any curves to speak of, might just manage to squeeze through with enough determination.
"Veronika, didn't you mention that Little Miss seemed to be getting smaller lately?" Brenda recalled, a theory beginning to form.
"Yeah, that was me. I figured she's been practically starving herself, maybe trying to catch Otto's eye," Veronika's voice came, strained and punctuated by frequent grunts and groans, the effort of her predicament evident.
It was the only explanation that made Sophice's plan remotely plausible. She must have tested her ability to fit through that narrow escape and then shed weight until success was assured. Likely, she'd consumed next to nothing in the past day to ensure her passage, and her choice of a corset, baring her shoulders, suddenly made chilling sense. That was why she had intended for Brenda to be locked in with her.
A grunt from Veronika redirected Brenda's attention just in time to see the needle-like sword slicing through the air towards her. It embedded itself in her shoulder with a thud.
"God damn it," Brenda exclaimed, her anger more at her lapse in attention than the wound itself. She quickly extracted the blade from the shallow wound and flung it into a distant corner of the room.
"Sorry for distracting you, milady," Veronika wheezed, now with fresh blood marking her shoulders as they scraped against the doorway's edges, possibly down to the bone.
"Don't you dare worry about me. She has an escape route, and I'm going after her," Brenda declared with determination.
Navigating over the pipes, Brenda headed towards the sliver of outdoor light that beckoned, marking Sophice's escape route—a path as desperate as it was cunning. Behind her, the sound of Veronika's efforts redoubled.
Now, on the darker side of the room, Brenda's eyes quickly adjusted to the dimness. Sophice was almost through the wall, with only her lower legs visible. The squeeze for Brenda to get behind the pump assembly was tight; she couldn't move as swiftly as she wanted. By the time Brenda reached her, only the heels of Sophice's feet were visible, not enough to grab onto. Yet, Brenda delivered a hearty, deep slash to both through her ballet flats with Adlerkralle. She derived cold comfort from the screams that followed as Sophice broke free.
Wasting no time with either taunts or recriminations, Brenda moved as swiftly as she could through the maze and back to Veronika. The silence that greeted her was terrifying. Still stuck exactly where she left her, with what looked like bone fused to the frame, Veronika was unconscious. It took effort for Brenda to determine she was barely breathing, with blood trickling out of her mouth. Brenda patted her head, arranged her hair, then slumped to the dirt floor beneath her and cried.
Sophice, enduring a gauntlet of pain with each step, navigated the intricate layout of the wings—a painful testament to her unwavering determination. Forced to walk, then crawl on her agonizing feet, she cursed the manor's design for its needless complexity. Her route took her around the outside of the wing to its central entrance, only to lead her back inside to the starting point by the pump house, a cruel loop that magnified her suffering. She then looked around for the padlock and found it where it had landed during her maid's melee with Veronika. Padlocking the pump house door required her to bend the Berg's feet slightly into the shaft—they did not react at all to her ministrations.
With the door finally secured, Sophice couldn't resist a venomous parting shot. "Have fun starving to death, bitch," she hissed, though her words echoed back in the empty corridor, void of the satisfaction of a retort. Turning her attention back to the motionless body of her servant, she contemplated her next moves, her thoughts a dark reflection of her journey—a path marked by pain, betrayal, and relentless pursuit of revenge, all endured on feet sliced to the bone, making each step a testament to her twisted resolve.
Tal der Ruhe was stirring to life, but the annex remained deserted. Only an event like her sabotage would drag someone down here.
The bloodstain on the ceiling was a silent witness, painting a vivid picture of the brief but brutal skirmish. The Berg, whose towering stature might have barely allowed her to stand upright in the cramped corridor, had executed a surprise maneuver with devastating precision. She had stealthily approached Seraphina from behind as the latter was engaged in securing the padlock on the door. With a swift, powerful motion, the Berg slammed Seraphina's body against the wall, then hoisted her upwards with such force that her head cracked against the ceiling, only to drop her lifeless form to the ground in the same spot. To ensure there was no chance of recovery or further interference, the Berg then delivered a conclusive stab, an action that, while possibly superfluous, sealed Seraphina's fate unequivocally.
The urgency to restore the pump's operation overshadowed the grim task of dealing with the lifeless form.
The journey to reverse her actions was daunting: a trek along the length of the wing, through the silent courtyard, into the manor, across another courtyard, and into the opposite wing. The climb that awaited her was less staircase, more ladder, a vertical challenge that led to the potato-strewn cellar concealing the critical circuit breaker. The convoluted and overlapping path Sophice was compelled to traverse, exacerbated by her own excruciating agony, had one unintended benefit: the bloody footprints she left behind formed a confusing tapestry on the ground. This intricate pattern of pain, marked by the bloody evidence of her passage, rendered the determination of her destinations and intentions a puzzle.
Her meticulous plotting had never accounted for her own incapacitation. The oversight was a bitter pill, exacerbating the pain with each step she contemplated. With a growl of frustration, Sophice summoned her resolve. The prospect of navigating the manor's expanse on feet raw and bleeding was a torment she had no choice but to endure. Bracing herself for the ordeal, she embarked on the painful odyssey, each step a testament to the lengths she would go to salvage her dominion over Tal der Ruhe.
Sophice's taunt echoed in Brenda's mind, pulling her back from the edge of despair. Standing to inspect Veronika's now still and cooling body, a wave of deep dismay swept over her, threatening to engulf her spirit. She knew there would be time for mourning later; the immediate imperative was to exact vengeance on Sophice. Brenda forcibly compartmentalized her grief, sat down, closed her eyes, and mapped out her situation with grim clarity. There was no feasible way to follow the path Sophice had barely managed. Veronika's body, a symbol of Brenda's loss and a barrier in its own right, blocked the only passage. Beyond that obstacle lay a padlocked door and a seldom-used annex, ventured into only when water issues arose.
With a tired heart, she hauled herself to her feet. Brenda approached the pump and, in a gesture reminiscent of a scene from an old Frankenstein movie, flipped the antique wall lever. A hush fell over the room as the machinery that had long faded into the background of her consciousness ceased its hum, plunging the space into an eerie silence.
Resigned to waiting, Brenda returned to Veronika's side to keep vigil. The stillness of the room enveloped her as she explored, in the dark corners of her mind, various methods of exacting a slow, torturous retribution on Sophice before delivering the final blow. Each imagined scenario served as cold comfort, a temporary balm for the raw wound Sophice's betrayal had inflicted upon her heart.
Otto would have to deliver the killing blow. Politically, it was the only solution. And the emotional pain of Sophice being killed by her lover would be priceless. Otto's pain she would mitigate later, somehow.
Alone in the half-lit room, Brenda settled on the dirt floor, surrounded by the earthy scents of moss and mold. As the hours stretched on, four in total, the solitude gnawed at her, evoking memories of her feral existence in the Alps, a primal state that now seemed to whisper at the edges of her consciousness. It was during this introspective moment that she detected stirrings in the adjacent annex. Voices floated in, questioning the whereabouts of the key to their dilemma.
Impatient and fueled by a mixture of anger and urgency, Brenda couldn't hold back any longer. "Just break the damn thing open!" she bellowed with all her might, her voice echoing through the confines of her prison.
"Doctor Myers?" came a cautious inquiry from beyond the barrier. Brenda, having long abandoned the effort to correct anyone's address towards her, seized the moment to issue her commands, though she was momentarily stumped at the omission of Sophice's surname from her memory.
"Yes, it's me, and you're vastly underestimating the gravity of the situation. Before you even consider extricating me, dispatch your most astute and nimble to hunt down the treacherous Sophice," Brenda demanded, the urgency of her voice piercing the muffled barriers between them.
"Milady, who is responsible for this maid's death?" a different voice interjected, hinting at the unfolding chaos beyond her sight.
"I'll divulge everything once I'm free. For now, as your provisional monarch, I command you to apprehend Sophice and suspend her by her ankles from the ancient oak in the eastern courtyard," Brenda declared, her authority unmistakable even in her constrained circumstances.
Confusion was palpable in the ensuing silence, broken only by Brenda's exasperated shout. "Have you all forgotten how to obey an order?" Her frustration mounted, her command slicing through the hesitation. "There's a murderer among us, potentially fleeing, yet possibly still hiding in her quarters. She's marked her path with blood; she won't be difficult to track. Capture her and ensure she's dangling from the elm, ankles bound. Can anyone acknowledge my order?"
A tense pause ensued, stretching into a near eternity before a new, decisive voice cut through the uncertainty. "Men have been dispatched. Did she slay her maid as well?"
"She aimed to end my life, and as a result, Veronika du'Sunil lies dead," Brenda announced, allowing the listeners to draw their own, albeit incorrect, connections. No direct death had been orchestrated by Sophice's hands, yet the weight of implication hung heavy in the air.
Murmurs of disbelief mingled with a perverse sense of admiration for Sophice's daring feat rippled through the unseen crowd. Brenda's directive, while harsh, was met with a burgeoning resolve among those gathered.
"She's wedged in here, between you and me, so find a winch or devise a solution. For the moment, I'm relatively at ease here. Focus on the logistics and update me the instant you have her secured," Brenda instructed, her tone a blend of command and resignation. In the shadowy confines of her temporary tomb, she awaited news of Sophice's capture, her thoughts a tumult of strategy, grief, and vengeance, all converging on the singular focus of retribution.
It was late afternoon by the time Brenda found solitude in her room again. The day had unfolded with a relentless stream of inquiries, each probing, bordering on the edge of interrogation, as different figures drifted in and out of her space. Attempts by some to take a seat on Veronika's bed were met with Brenda's silence, a clear deterrent to such intrusions. The bed, now a poignant reminder of her loss, stood as a silent testament to Veronika, and Brenda was not yet ready to relinquish that piece of her friend's presence.
After enduring two more hours of questions and providing as many answers as she could muster, including insights from Pike that shed light on some previously dark corners of the day's events, Brenda found herself alone with her thoughts as the day began to wane. The sun's descent behind the towering Alps signaled the approaching end of daylight, yet Brenda felt no closer to peace.
In a private moment with Pike, Brenda made it clear that no one was to interact with or offer any assistance to Sophice.
"Miss, with all due respect, I don't think I should leave your door unguarded until we've secured a replacement," Pike cautiously suggested, mindful of the current vulnerability in their security.
Brenda's response was laced with her characteristic dry wit, "If I were to die tonight, I believe I could live with it."
Pike nodded, understanding the gravity of her words, "I'll make sure the word gets out and then return to guard your door. And milady, I'm truly sorry for what happened this morning."
"It wasn't your fault. She managed to deceive us all—except for Veronika," Brenda said, acknowledging their collective oversight and Veronika's foresight.
From the window of her room, she observed the grim spectacle of Sophice suspended from the ancient oak in the eastern courtyard. The blue tint of Sophice's ankles, a stark contrast against the darkening sky, served as a visual confirmation of her fate. The once frantic movements had ceased; now, only the occasional twitch betrayed any sign of life. Brenda searched within herself for a hint of empathy for the woman who had caused so much turmoil but found her well of sympathy dry. The pain Sophice endured, the blood rushing to her head in that unnatural position, seemed a fitting recompense for her actions.
In the midst of this somber vigil, Brenda had dispatched messengers to Mittenwald with news for Otto. The silence that followed their departure hung heavily in the air, leaving Brenda to anticipate his arrival with a sense of uncertainty. Despite her efforts to predict his reaction, Otto's response to the day's tragic and tumultuous events remained an enigma. Brenda could only wait, watch, and wonder, as the shadows grew longer and the echoes of the day's violence lingered in the cooling air.