The morning sun slipped through the curtains, resting gently against her closed eyes. For a moment, she didn't move. Then, slowly, her lashes trembled open. Her eyes drifted toward the window, catching the golden orb of the sun as it crested over the horizon.
"The sun is up?"
She whispered to the empty room. There was no warmth in her voice.
She was 'Evelyne Rosethorn,' the sole daughter—and the sole survivor—of the Rosethorn name. Since the illness took her parents when she was only twelve, the weight of a declining estate and the vultures of the political world had rested entirely on her young shoulders. She had traded her childhood for ledgers, and her laughter for the cold iron of governance.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her feet hovering over the cold floor. She paused, bracing herself for the exhaustion of another day. But before she could stand...
Knock!
"My Lady, it's me, Lucien," a voice called from behind the heavy oak. "I've brought your morning tea."
Evelyne's brow furrowed instantly. The name alone brought a headache.
Her previous butler, a man who had served the Rosethorns for decades, had retired due to his failing health. Out of loyalty, she had accepted his final request: to hire his nephew, Lucien, as his successor. She had expected a man of the same caliber.
She was wrong.
Lucien was the definition of chaos. He couldn't brew a simple cup of Earl Grey without scorching the leaves. He tripped over his own shadow. His idea of "etiquette" was a vague suggestion rather than a rule. He was a stain on the reputation of a noble house that was already struggling to stay afloat.
'How could Uncle recommend such a disaster?'
Knock!
"My Lady? Are you awake or not?"
Evelyne hadn't given her permission, yet she heard the hinges groan. The door creaked open just an inch—enough for a single, wandering eye to peer through the gap. Lucien froze as he found himself staring directly into the icy, emerald gaze of his mistress.
The door slammed shut with a startled thud.
Knock!
"My Lady... may I come in?" he asked, his voice now sheepish.
Evelyne sighed, rubbing her temples. "Is there even a point in asking now? Since you've already confirmed my state with your own eyes, I assume my permission is a mere formality you've decided to ignore."
"Ah... well, you see, the tea was getting cold, and I thought—"
"Enter, Lucien," she interrupted, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "Before you find a way to set the hallway on fire."
The door opened again, and in stepped the man who held the most prestigious position in the household—and looked entirely out of place doing it. He carried the silver tray with the grace of a newborn calf on ice.
Evelyne watched him, her eyes narrowing.
He carried a silver tray in his hand, walking toward the side table with a gait that was neither elegant nor steady. Soon, he reached the bed and placed the tray down with a clatter that made Evelyne wince.
Then, he poured a cup. The liquid splashed slightly, a few amber droplets staining the pristine white lace of the doily.
"My Lady," he said, holding out the cup with both of his hands.
Evelyne looked at him, her expression hardening. His hands were thrust forward, but his head was pointed straight down at his boots.
He was attempting to perform a formal bow while simultaneously offering the tea—a physical impossibility that resulted in him looking more like a folding chair than a servant.
'Seriously?'
She thought, a wave of irritation washing over her. She reached out and grabbed the cup, her fingers brushing against the porcelain.
"Lucien," she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous level of calm. "In what kingdom is it considered proper etiquette to present a beverage while staring at one's own toes? Do you fear the tea will jump out and attack you if you look at it?"
"I was merely... showing respect, My Lady," he stammered, finally straightening up.
Evelyne didn't answer. She took a tentative sip, bracing herself for the usual taste of over-steeped, bitter leaves. But as the liquid touched her tongue, she paused.
It was perfect.
The temperature was exactly right. The floral notes of the bergamot were delicate, balanced by a hint of sweetness she hadn't asked for, but desperately needed. It was the best cup of tea she had tasted since her former butler left.
She looked up at him, suspicious. Lucien stood there, his hair slightly messy and his waistcoat buttoned crookedly, looking for all the world like a fool who had just stumbled into the room.
"Who made this?" she demanded.
"I did, My Lady. Is it... is it bad?" He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit that drove her mad. "I asked my uncle for the formula. But I might have accidentally let it sit for a different amount of time because I got distracted by a spider on the wall."
Evelyne stared at him. Was he mocking her? Or was he truly so incompetent that he had stumbled into perfection by sheer luck?
"It is... adequate," she lied, setting the cup down. "The morning gown. Send someone to etch the deep navy one with the silver trim. And try not to trip over the rug on your way out.
"Of course! The navy one. A classic choice for a lady of your... uh... stature!" Lucien chirped, giving a clumsy, lopsided salute that nearly sent his elbow into a nearby vase.
He turned on his heels, and as if on cue, his foot caught the edge of the ornate Persian rug. He let out a startled "Whoa!" and performed a desperate, flailing dance to regain his balance. His arms windmilled wildly before he finally managed to steady himself, looking entirely embarrassed.
Evelyne closed her eyes, massaged her temples, and took another sip of the tea to keep from screaming. She missed the silence of five minutes ago.
"I'll go find the maid right away!" Lucien shouted, stumbling out of the door and closing it with a thud that was just a bit too loud for a noble household.
As soon as the heavy oak door clicked shut, the bumbling light in Lucien's eyes vanished.
He didn't walk toward the servants' quarters. Instead, he stood perfectly still in the hallway, his posture shifting from a slouching fool to a man of cold, predatory grace. He reached up, effortlessly straightening his crooked waistcoat with a single, fluid motion.
[Status: Reincarnation Synchronized.
Current Role: Butler of the Rosethorn Estate.
Target: Evelyne Rosethorn (Status: Doomed).
Overwrite her 'Destiny'.]