No one noticed the grape picker. Unless she fell, made a mistake, or died.
“Idiot. Those grapes aren’t ready for harvest yet.”
The head servant’s snap rang out sharply. A middle-aged woman named Molly stood before the girl, her face sour, her eyes sharp and utterly devoid of mercy. She raised one foot and kicked the girl in the shoulder with deliberate force. The thin body toppled backward. Her clothes were dirty. A muffled cry escaped her.
“I’ll dock your pay for this stupidity. Tch.” Molly spat beside her face.
Mrs. Molly kicked the basket beside her. Grapes spilled across the ground, rolling and bursting, leaving behind thick purple stains.
“Pick those up, idiot,” she ordered harshly. “They’ll make decent food for the livestock.”
The head servant had never been kind to anyone, and no one dared contradict her.
“Make one more mistake and I’ll fire you, Mireya.”
Her footsteps carried her away, steady and assured, as if the world had always been on her side.
The other grape pickers lowered their heads and remained busy with their work. Their fate was in that woman’s hands.
Mireya slowly got to her feet. Half her clothes were dirty, and her knees ached. She picked up the scattered grapes one by one, placing them back in the basket with trembling hands.
“Father…” she murmured. Her voice was barely audible. “If you weren’t a criminal, maybe I wouldn’t have to live like this.”
Her tears fell, dampening the earth. Hunger began gnawing at her stomach again. She hadn’t eaten anything since morning. She had given her food ration to the fat auntie in the next room—a woman who knew who she really was and used that secret as a noose around her neck.
“Mireya, get up quickly. The Duke is coming this way,” called a grape picker not far from her.
Mireya didn’t hear.
“Mireya! Leave the grapes!” another one shouted.
Still, Mireya gave no response. The girl was thinking of her father.
“MIREYA!”
Mireya jolted. Mrs. Molly was already standing behind her. But it was too late. The Duke had arrived. Everyone bowed in unison with the utmost courtesy. Heads lowered, breaths held.
Mireya looked at both her hands, stained with dirt and grape juice, then her gaze fell upon a pair of gleaming black shoes that had stopped not far from her fingers.
Silence. Mireya pulled her hands back and placed them in her lap. She bowed deeply, realizing that a noble stood before her.
The Duke lowered his gaze to look at her.
“Pay your respects to His Grace at once, Mireya,” Mrs. Molly whispered sharply, nearly hissing.
“I pay my respects to Your Grace,” Mireya said softly. “May you live a long life.”
“Raise your head.” The command came from the Duke. His voice was calm, deep, and cold, like steel that needed no impact to wound.
Slowly, Mireya lifted her head. Their eyes met for the first time in years.
Beneath the warm blaze of the sun, Duke Leonard Eisenwald fell silent. His gaze traced the girl’s face before stopping on a pair of clear eyes holding back pools of tears. The tears had not spilled; they seemed deliberately restrained. Those eyes were like a lake—calm on the surface, deep below. They invited anyone who looked into them to drown.
“What is your name?” the Duke finally asked without looking away.
Mrs. Molly quickly cut in, nervous. “My apologies, Your Grace. She’s only an ordinary worker. She—”
“I wasn’t speaking to you.”
The interruption was sharp. Its coldness made the air in the vineyard grow taut. The Duke did not even glance toward Mrs. Molly. His gaze remained locked on Mireya.
Mrs. Molly fell silent.
“What is your name?” the Duke repeated.
Mireya lowered her head again, her fingers gripping the dirty fabric of her skirt. “My name is Mireya, Your Grace.”
Silence fell once more. The Duke gave no response after Mireya answered. Duke Leonard Eisenwald walked away, calm and dignified. His guards followed without a sound.
When the Duke Leonard Eisenwald’s footsteps could no longer be heard, Mrs. Molly’s right hand shot out. She seized Mireya by the hair and yanked hard, forcing the girl’s head back.
Pain spread across Mireya’s scalp. But the girl did not cry out. She merely bit her lip and endured it, as she always did.
“You really are a stupid girl,” Mrs. Molly snarled. “If you made His Grace Leonard angry enough to reprimand me, your life would be over.”
She released her grip roughly. Mireya sprawled onto the ground. Her palms stung as they struck the hard surface, mixing with dirt and the remnants of the burst grapes.
“Clean up those grapes now,” Mrs. Molly snapped coldly, as if what she had just done were nothing at all. Then she left Mireya kneeling in the dirt, her hair disheveled, her hands trembling, and her wounds—as always—not important enough for anyone to notice.