Death at the Crown Princess Selection

So, all of this began three months ago, on the final day of the Crown Princess Selection held at the Imperial Palace.

After a full morning of catechism and a brief recess, it was time for the public trial of courtly etiquette.

In the banquet hall, where crystal chandeliers blazed with opulent light, spectators composed of the imperial family and high nobility had gathered in small clusters, awaiting the entrance of the Crown Princess candidates.

"The first event of the courtly etiquette trial is the tea ceremony. Each candidate will enter the hall in turn."

As the chamberlain's stern voice rang through the banquet hall, the beautifully adorned candidates filed in one by one.

Most of the spectators were related to the candidates by blood or boasted close ties with them, and they nodded appreciatively at the young ladies' beauty, plainly satisfied.

"...Though I can't decide whether one candidate in particular stands out, or simply grates on the eye."

At someone's muttered remark, mocking laughter burst out here and there, as if in agreement.

Their gazes turned toward the petite young lady who had been the last of the candidates to enter.

Half a handspan shorter than the other candidates and wiry thin, she looked awkward even in a tailor-made dress, frail as a child. Her raven-black hair and pale complexion stood in instant, unfavorable contrast to the rosy-cheeked young ladies glowing with health.

"The imperial family is nothing less than the face of the empire. With a Crown Princess looking so shabby and base, how could the empire's dignity ever stand upright? Absurd, truly. Tsk."

"Though, frankly, it's remarkable enough that a count's house put forward a Crown Princess candidate at all, don't you think?"

"Well, House Miona itself is an undeniable noble lineage. And the young lady's father gave his life fighting on the front lines his whole career, after all..."

"Her father's merit is her father's merit. Even so, Arabella's personal qualifications are simply far too lacking."

"Exactly what I've been saying. Doesn't she always look like she's barely hanging on? Like she could collapse at any moment, honestly."

"There's even talk that it isn't mere frailty."

"What do you mean?"

"Why, the House of Miona has always lost its members young, hasn't it? Some call it the Curse of House Miona..."

"But Count Miona was one of only three Swordmasters of his era, an unrivaled general with an undefeated legend to his name."

"So what? Look at the girl yourself. Can that sickly body possibly produce a healthy imperial grandchild?"

"Shh, that's enough. Her Majesty the Empress is present."

Only after chattering loud enough to reach the Empress's ears did they feign restraint and fall silent. And then they began openly cheering on the candidates connected to their own families' interests.

Meanwhile, Arabella seemed utterly oblivious to the glares raining down on her, staring blankly at the tea table the entire time.

At the corner of the banquet hall, in the section where the servants had gathered, her maid Becky was cheering for her mistress with all her heart, if only in her thoughts.

Hang in there, milady! You're doing great!

Her mistress was undeniably sharp-tongued and demanding, but seeing her sitting all alone amid those flower-like young ladies made Becky's heart go out to her all the same.

But what is she staring at so hard like that? Somehow it almost looks... desperate.

The moment Becky cocked her head in puzzlement, the chamberlain's dry voice finally announced the start of the judging.

"Candidates, please enjoy your tea according to the etiquette and formality of the imperial household."

Glug, glug.

The imperial servants poured tea into each candidate's cup and withdrew. The candidates raised their cups with practiced elegance, poses drilled into them through countless rehearsals. Arabella was no different.

From savoring the aroma to swallowing the tea to setting the cup down, her every movement was flawless, beyond reproach.

Now came the moment to select and eat a single refreshment. Arabella's hand, holding a silver fork, moved toward the pastry plate without a moment's hesitation.

What did she pick, I wonder?

The instant Becky craned her neck in curiosity, Arabella chose a caramel-colored cookie, swallowed it in one bite, and dabbed her mouth with her napkin.

Chomp, chomp. She chewed with a blank expression. It seemed for an instant that her face twisted, and just as Becky tilted her head in confusion—

Gulp.

Arabella suddenly grabbed her napkin, covered her mouth, and began to choke violently.

Oh no! Don't tell me she's choking!

While Becky fretted, watching her mistress, the situation deteriorated with alarming speed.

Thud.

Arabella's body convulsed, and then she toppled sideways as if seized by a fit.

"...Milady!"

Becky was not the only one alarmed. In an instant the banquet hall descended into chaos, screams and shouts erupting from every direction.

Hack, hack, kek! Gack—!

Arabella writhed in agony, curled up tight as a shrimp. Watching her choke and wheeze as though her breath would fail her at any second, the chamberlain shouted at the top of his lungs.

"A doctor! Bring the palace physician! She can't breathe!"

"Good heavens! What on earth is happening?"

"Could something be wrong with the food?"

"Then what about the other candidates? Are the other candidates all right?"

Uproar broke out on all sides, and the hall became a mad scramble of people rushing to check on each candidate's condition.

"Oh, what are we to do! Milady!"

Yet the only person who ran to Arabella was her maid, Becky. Everyone else either stood at a distance, muttering that no one dared lay hands on the body of a noble young lady, or simply hid their faces behind fans and whispered.

Helpless, Becky shook her mistress where she lay collapsed on the floor.

"Milady! Lady Arabella! Please, come to your senses!"

The maid's desperate cries never reached her mistress's ears. Arabella was convulsing, her bloodshot eyes rolled back. The skin of her face and arms swelled grotesquely in an instant, and foam gathered at the corners of her mouth. Unable to breathe, her chest heaved and sank, and with every wrenching surge her whole body contorted in a hideous display.

At the ghastly sight, those surrounding her recoiled step by step. Even Becky was too terrified to touch her any further.

In the end, no one came to help her. No one at all.

Through several suffocating minutes, the doctor never appeared. Arabella, who had twisted and writhed as if thrown into a boiling iron cauldron, at some point stopped breathing entirely and went limp.

"Miladyyy!!"

Becky screamed, trembling uncontrollably at what she was witnessing. Just then, someone hauled the weeping girl to her feet and shoved her backward. The physician—unseen until this very moment—had chosen now, of all times, to arrive.

"...She has passed away."

"Good grief!"

"How can this be!"

"Oh, heavens above..."

At the physician's pronouncement of death, several delicate noble ladies staggered, and in the blink of an eye the banquet hall was transformed into a stage for a terrible tragedy.

And yet, with the exception of a single maid, not one soul mourned her death.

Imperial servants promptly brought a white cloth and draped it over her, then fetched a stretcher upon which to carry the body away.

But then, as ill luck would have it, one of the servants' hands slipped, and the cloth-wrapped corpse flipped over and tumbled to the floor.

Thump.

"How dreadful."

The noble ladies watching pressed handkerchiefs to their noses and shook their heads gravely, as though the corpse were already giving off the stench of decay.

And then, right at that moment—

Twich.

The white cloth suddenly stirred.

Just their imagination, surely. That was what everyone strained to believe. But what happened next was far more astonishing. A deathly pale hand shot out from beneath the white cloth and flung the covering clean off.

"AAAHH!"

The startled imperial servants tumbled backward onto their backsides. But what unfolded before their eyes then was more shocking still.

Hack, hack! Kek!

The corpse the physician had pronounced dead was moving on its own. Not only that—it was shoving its own fingers down its throat, desperately trying to force out what was inside! When that proved unsuccessful, the thrashing Arabella abruptly scrambled to her feet.

"AAAH!"

Pushing her way through the crowd of fainting spectators, she seized a chair in a frantic rush and began slamming her own chest against the chair's backrest with all her might.

Thud! Thud!

Before long, something soft and congealed shot from her mouth and dropped to the floor.

Hack, keh... Hah. Hah.

Only then, gasping for breath as though coming back to life, did the corpse—no, the girl—suddenly whirl around to look at her surroundings.

"KYAAA!"

One noble lady who met her eyes outright fainted. Amid the pandemonium, the instigator of all this chaos, Arabella herself, muttered blankly at the crowd.

"...Who are all of you? And where exactly am I?"