My Step-Daughters Are The Villainesses

With Ulrich gone, the sisters had little choice but to remain where he had left them.

At the very least, they no longer had to stand among those arrogant young nobles.

That alone made the air easier to breathe.

And Camellia was already proving herself far better company than any of them had been.

She did not look down on them. She did not stare at them with curiosity twisted into disgust. She did not speak to them as though she were granting them the privilege of being tolerated. Although they were witches, she treated them with a quiet, natural courtesy that made the earlier ugliness feel even more vulgar by comparison.

More than anything, she seemed concerned.

Camellia had, of course, heard of Count Rubenhart adopting three young witches. The news had circulated too widely not to reach her. Yet seeing them in person still surprised her. They were all around her own age. Not dangerous grown women dragged in chains from the woods, not nameless witches painted monstrous by frightened stories, but three girls in gowns, standing close together beneath the chandeliers with expressions far too young for the kind of suspicion the world had already thrown onto them.

And Camellia knew very well how witches were treated in Skargardia.

She knew how they were treated in most of the world.

Young witches especially.

Noblemen spoke of them with indulgent cruelty, as though beauty in a witch made her more valuable rather than more tragic. Noblewomen often spoke of them with fear, contempt, or cold satisfaction. Servants whispered about curses. Priests warned of corruption. Men with power found reasons to justify anything done to them.

So the idea of three young witches living under the roof of Ulrich Van Rubenhart could not help but trouble her.

His house was one of the last places anyone would have expected them to end up.

Everyone knew of the Rubenharts. Everyone knew of his father’s hatred. Everyone knew that after Countess Rubenhart’s death by a witch’s curse, the house’s hostility toward witches had only deepened. Camellia had heard the same stories as anyone else. That was why, even after seeing Ulrich’s protectiveness earlier, she still wanted to be certain with her own eyes that the care shown to them was real.

They looked healthy.

That much was clear.

Their skin was well tended. Their hair had been cared for. Their gowns had been chosen with wealth and attention. Nothing about them suggested neglect. If anything, Ulrich had spoiled them in every visible way.

Still, appearances alone were not enough.

Camellia herself had been raised to be wary of witches. That wariness had been taught to her gently, carefully, wrapped in reason and caution rather than rage, but it had still been taught. Witches were dangerous. Witches were strange. Witches were to be watched.

Yet the three sisters before her did not feel evil.

Not even close.

What she saw instead were simply sisters, unusual, beautiful, difficult perhaps, but bound tightly to one another. That much showed in every glance between them, in the way they stood, in the way each one noticed the others before herself. Camellia found, perhaps against her own early lessons, that she did not want that bond broken by fear or cruelty.

"I am glad to see that you are treated well," she said with a warm smile.

The words came out lightly, but there was an earnestness beneath them. She had seen enough already to know Ulrich cared in some form. Even so, she wanted to hear from them. She wanted to know that the silk, the jewels, and the manners were not merely a display meant for court, hiding something harsher once the doors of the manor closed.

Hermione crossed her arms at once, clearly embarrassed by the topic.

"W—Well, he does not exactly have a choice," she said. "He should be grateful to take care of us, if anything."

Esther giggled.

"Big sister, you are being dishonest again."

Camellia smiled at that exchange before turning her attention to Airam.

Her gaze lingered there a little longer.

"You must be the eldest," she said. "Airam, am I wrong?"

"I am," Airam replied with a short nod.

Esther brightened immediately.

"How did you know, Your Highness?"

Camellia looked at Airam again before answering.

"Because she moved first," she said. "When my brother tried something inappropriate, she put herself in front of both of you without hesitation."

Then she smiled, gentler this time.

"You must love your younger sisters very much."

Airam did not soften.

"If anyone threatens them, I will kill them," she said.

Camellia let out a small laugh before she could stop herself.

Not because she thought the words amusing in themselves, but because of the blunt honesty with which they had been spoken.

Behind them, Astrid looked openly bewildered.

She could not decide whether Airam was being insolent, reckless, or simply mad. Speaking like that in front of the royal princess should have been unthinkable. Yet Airam’s face remained so grave, so disturbingly sincere, that it became difficult to treat the words as empty boldness.

Astrid finally asked the question she had clearly been holding back.

"What about the Count?" She said. "You cannot kill him, can you?"

"Astrid," Camellia said quietly, a warning in her voice.

But Astrid did not withdraw it. She wanted to know. Camellia could see that much. So did Hermione. So did Airam.

The nature of the bond between Ulrich Van Rubenhart and the three witches under his name was strange enough to unsettle anyone watching from the outside.

Airam was silent for a moment before she answered.

"He is not a threat."

Esther puffed her cheeks at once and crossed her arms.

"Not like you could do anything even if he was, eldest sister."

Airam turned toward her.

"If he becomes a threat, I will do what is necessary."

"Lord Ulrich is not a threat," Esther said, more firmly this time. "He has not been one since he adopted us."

Airam’s expression did not change.

"He is not one for now," she said. "Because we may still be useful to him later. What we are is the reason he took us in to begin with."

Esther opened her mouth.

"But..."

Nothing came after it.

She had no answer ready. Not because she truly believed Airam was right in every part, but because there was enough truth inside the fear to wound. Witches were rarely helped for nothing. Kindness from nobles usually had a price hidden beneath it. Esther wanted to deny that Ulrich could ever see them that way, yet the certainty she needed would not come.

Airam looked away.

"Do not trust too easily," she said quietly. "It only hurts more in the end."

Hermione stared at her.

It was unusual enough for Airam to speak this much. More unusual still was the emotion that had slipped through with the words. Airam usually buried anything softer than anger so deep it became nearly impossible to see.

Besides, she would never let anything show when it came to Ulrich. If she spoke of him, it was usually with cold suspicion or indifference.

Yet just now, there had been something else in her voice.

Camellia noticed it too.

She did not look especially surprised. In truth, it made sense. Ulrich had spared them. He had taken them into his household. He had clothed them, educated them, and brought them to court beneath his own name. A man like that rarely acted without reason. If he had given them this much, then naturally there was something he expected in return one day. Their loyalty, perhaps. Their strength. Their usefulness.

At first glance, the three sisters were clearly far from ordinary.

Especially Airam and Hermione.

Camellia’s gaze lingered on Hermione a little longer before she spoke.

"Do you have elven blood, perhaps?"

Hermione blinked.

"Eh? No?"

Camellia gave a small, apologetic smile.

"Forgive the blunt question. Silver hair is often associated with elves, especially those with strong affinity for mana and nature. So I wondered."

She had not meant to pry, yet she still wanted to ask.

Silver hair was not impossible among humans, of course. Extremely rare, but not impossible. Even so, with Hermione’s silver hair, her unusual coloring, and that almost unreal beauty shared between the sisters, Camellia had briefly wondered whether some old elven lineage might have thinned into the family line without being spoken of openly.

"At least not that I know of," Hermione replied.

"Maybe one of our grandparents did?" Esther suggested at once, her eyes brightening with interest.

Hermione looked at her. "I doubt it."

"But it would explain why you and Mother had such pretty hair," Esther insisted.

Airam answered before Hermione could.

"Mother did not always have silver hair. She used to be blonde, like you."

Esther’s eyes widened.

"Eh? Then what happened?"

Airam fell silent.

Hermione glanced at Esther, then answered before the pause could become too heavy.

"Nothing much," she said. "It just changed."

The answer was vague, and Esther clearly noticed, but before she could press further, her attention had already moved elsewhere.

She turned eagerly toward Camellia.

"What about you, Your Highness? You must have a lot of elven blood, right?"

Camellia nodded.

"One of my ancestors was an elf from Sylphara. Since then, signs of that lineage still appear among some of the royal descendants."

Hermione gave a small nod of understanding.

"Yes, I can see it in you. And in the Queen as well."

She did not mention Albert aloud, though the thought crossed all of their minds almost at once.

The Crown Prince looked far more like his father.

"It is mostly chance in the end," Camellia said with a light smile. "Some children inherit more visible traces than others."

Hermione’s curiosity did not stop there.

"And your lifespan?" She asked. "Elves live longer than humans, do they not?"

"They do. So yes, those of us with stronger elven lineage often have a longer life expectancy as well."

Esther’s expression dimmed a little at once.

"So when we are old women," she said quietly, "you will still be young and beautiful?"

Camellia looked at her with softened eyes.

"For now, we are all young. There is no reason to be sad over such a distant day already."

Esther lowered her gaze.

"But it is still sad," she said. "The person you marry would die before you, wouldn’t he?"

That made Camellia pause briefly.

Before she could answer, Hermione spoke.

"In that case, would it not be better for Your Highness to marry an elf?"

Camellia gave a faint, almost rueful smile.

"I doubt that would be possible. Relations between Skargardia and Sylphara are not especially good."

"I have a question," Airam said suddenly.

Camellia turned to her at once.

"Yes, of course."

Airam did not hesitate.

"Why was that man chosen as the Queen’s husband? He looks unfit."

Astrid nearly choked.

"H—Have you lost your mind?!"

Her shock came out so quickly and so loudly that Esther jumped. Even Hermione stared at Airam for a second, though she could not deny the question itself had crossed her own mind before.

Airam’s face remained unchanged.

"Look at him," she said.

Against her better judgment, Astrid did.

Her gaze shifted toward the throne, where King Antonias sat in luxurious ease, leaning too close to a servant girl with the sort of careless attention that would have been embarrassing in private, let alone in full court. The contrast between him and Queen Kaliantha was impossible to ignore. In every visible respect, bearing, intelligence, control, dignity, the queen stood above him.

It was almost insulting to look at them together.

Camellia, for her part, did not even seem eager to turn her eyes that way.

"My father was chosen by my grandfather," she said calmly. "Their fathers had been close friends."

Hermione gave a short, blunt answer before Astrid could recover.

"So there were no political purposes involved. Only favoritism."

Astrid looked as if her mind had stopped working altogether.

The witches had no sense of caution.

Or rather, they had a very selective sense of caution.

Any other noble girls would have swallowed such thoughts, hidden them, wrapped them in safer words, or never spoken them at all. Yet here these three were, discussing the king’s inadequacy and the queen’s marriage as if they were seated in a private room instead of beneath a royal ceiling.

And somehow Camellia did not seem offended.

If anything, she looked entertained.

More than that, she looked relieved.

Girls her age rarely spoke to her this way. Most chose every word around her title. Every sentence became too careful, too artificial. But these three, whatever else they were, answered her honestly. They reacted first as girls and only second as subjects. There was something strangely refreshing in that.

Meanwhile Esther, who had little interest in dissecting royal marriages, simply smiled brightly.

"I think the Queen is very beautiful," she said. "Just like Your Highness."

Camellia smiled in return.

Hermione added, "The Queen seems very intelligent as well. I am sure she would not make the same mist—"

She stopped herself midway, realizing the sharpness of what she was about to say.

Then she corrected smoothly enough.

"She will choose a proper groom for you, Princess."

It was still rather crude, only slightly softened by the correction, but Camellia understood the intention behind it. In her own way, Hermione was trying to be kind. Trying to reassure her that her future need not repeat her mother’s.

That warmed her more than she expected.

She laughed softly.

"Marriage is still far away for me," she said. "What about you three? Have any of you already been promised?"

Hermione reacted first and almost too loudly.

"W—What? Far too early!"

Esther, on the other hand, blushed at once.

"Y—Yes...too early..." She said bashfully, lowering her eyes.

Airam had remained still until then, but now she answered in her usual direct way.

"We are not marrying."