บท 12: Mornings With Lost Fun

"Morning, girls," he greets with a smile, almost menacing. Upon noticing Jalen's empty seat, his expression immediately contorts into a dark one. It isn't exactly his whole face which changes, exactly, rather the look in his eyes which flicker with annoyance. His smile remains, growing into a grin as if he's trying to force himself to stay calm.

"Have any of you seen your brother?" he clenches his jaw, interlocking his fingers over the table. Everyone shakes their head, none speaking up to shatter the tense atmosphere.

At the climax of the tension, the heavy door flings open and Jalen comes strolling in, ruffling his hair with his hand sluggishly. The Duke watches with a hard, intense stare, enough to kill a grown man. Jalen shoots a glimpse at the table, lazily fidgeting with his messy collar before slumping into the chair.

"Good morning," he says, finding it sufficient to dissipate the unwavering tension.

"You know that it is rude to keep Father waiting," Roseann lectures. Myra, reminded of the previous night's dinner, turns her head very slightly to the wall she's backfacing, noticing that Jalen's ball which had been pinned against it is now removed.

Squinting, she realises that there are no remaining traces, not a crack in the wall from the impact or a dent in the wallpaper. Upon feeling a chill run down her spine, she turns back stiffly, finding Roseann glaring at her from behind the fan.

"It's not like any of you are better, especially Myra who couldn't spare the time to show up for lunch," she mutters under her breath.

"I never permitted you to speak about your sister that way," the Duke warns fairly, staring condescendingly at his older daughter. Roseann fans her face even harder, perhaps hoping to hide her disgruntled expression.

Myra clutches onto the fabric of her dress. With not another word exchanged, breakfast begins and Myra can only distract herself with the overly-sweet syrup on the pancakes and over-ripe fruits.

Just in time for the Duke to rest his cutlery against the table, Myra swallows the food in her mouth and speaks up, "Father, I have a request to make."

The Duke looks at her, and once she's convinced she has his attention, continues cautiously, "I was wondering if you'd permit me to visit the town today. I have some business I'd like to tend to."

"You have no reason. Anything you require may be done by the servants or even Frederick. I have assigned several handmaidens to you for this reason," he dismisses completely, barely sparing a second of thought to Myra's words.

Myra clenches her hands, put off by the rejection.

"But Father—I'd like to go into town to hear any rumours about tomorrow's festivities. It's definitely the talk of the town by now and I think it'd help me to know what people think of my recovery!" she argues and Roseann snickers, a little too loudly at that. The Duke deadpans, almost making a look of distaste.

"It is not a noble daughter's duty to go snooping for rumours," he spits. "I ask that you stay home and focus on your recovery. After all, Marquess Ares is coming to visit you and he offered to help you train. That's all the exercise you'll need," he reassures, to which Myra's mood darkens and her pout deepens into a scowl. The Duke makes an expression of affection at this, rubbing her head with his gloved hands.

"You must focus on your duties today. Prohibiting you is for your safety and to ensure that you are in tip-top shape for tomorrow. You may be dismissed," he instructs with a tone of finality, excusing himself from the table.

Roseann peers out to ensure that the Duke's gone before guffawing. The siblings shoot her weird looks, wondering if she's lost it. Jalen, completely disinterested, roughly steps out of the chair and leaves it screeching when it slides backwards. Mariene stays for a second longer, glancing between her older sisters.

"You're going to need a better reason than that if you expect to be let out," Roseann chortles, mentioning between breaths. "You know how strict he is about this kind of thing, more so with you because he's protective. Ha, I couldn't imagine being you," she stands, readily sashaying away as if she didn't spend two minutes belittling her younger sister.

"You have the gall to insult me despite having no merit of your own," Myra glares, flouncing over to Roseann. She pauses for a second longer to make an almost threatening expression, something more dangerous than rage dancing in her eyes.

Shoving past her older sister, giving no respect at all, Myra steps into the hallway, edging Frederick to lead her to the appropriate room for her to complete her work. Meanwhile, Roseann stands at the door, face flushed with anger, utterly embarrassed.

"What are you looking at?!" she screams at Mariene, flinging her arm away, her fan no longer covering the ticking rage on her face. Mariene deadpans, showing no care for her sister's wrath. She pauses next to Roseann, the same way Myra did, glaring venomously, eyes more lethal than her sister's with the lack of care in her cold stare.

"You always get angry over fires you start yourself," she scoffs, a mocking lilt to her tone before looking Roseann up and down judgmentally, leaving her with the hollow sounds of her distancing footsteps.

Roseann, jaw clenched, slams her hand fan against the ground, stamping her food hard against the marble. Handmaidens rush by her side, those who were meant to clean the table after breakfast, trying to calm their agitated lady.

Myra, meanwhile, ignores Frederick's attempts at making sure she's alright by averting her gaze elsewhere, trying to focus on important matters at hand, rather than Roseann who's so carelessly fragile with her anger. Frederick, deciding prying an answer out of Myra won't be appropriate or possible, for that matter, leads her to a room connected to the library.

It's a wide one, much smaller than her father's, but decorated just as well. On the walls are large scrolls with water-colour paintings of sceneries, her family's emblem hung between two windows behind her desk. The floor is carpeted in red, easily mistakable for blood in the dark.

"Your work is on the desk. Do ring the bell on the table and I'll have the completed paperwork taken to the Duke's office," Frederick excuses and that's when Myra realises that the single stack of papers on the desk isn't all the work she has to do. When she crouches, she spots heaps of books and information, right at her feet.

Frederick closes the door behind him and Myra flinches, gaping at the heaps of work. Slumping into the chair, she smacks a palm against her forehead in disappointment, realising that the section of work she has just for the morning is going to leave her brain-dead for the rest of the day. Reluctantly, she forces herself to sit up, sliding the papers towards her.

Myra presses her fingers down against it, reading the words which may as well be fineprint with squinted eyes, noticing how they're declarations of ownership, high-class nonsense which Myra's far from understanding.