A Caged Bird Doesn't Cry - Chapter 7 Part I
Chapter 7 Part I
Olivia knew how to stay within boundaries. She was well aware of the delicate line not to cross with Andrea's temper—a key reason their relationship had lasted so long. Yet since the recent incident, Olivia had begun crossing that line intentionally—like deliberately wrapping her legs around him when she sensed his moment of vulnerability, refusing to let go.
She also disapproved of his habit of bringing other women. This time, it was Helena—or was it Elena?—some blonde with hair closer to white than silver, whom Olivia had arrogantly ordered around.
"Sing. The Duke enjoys music. Isn't that right, Andrea?"
Only Andrea had the right to give orders in his bedroom. That alone was reason enough to dismiss her. The woman's humming, interrupted each time he thrust into her, drew Olivia's alternating gaze between him and the sl*ve girl.
It was a transparent, tiresome act. Worse still was the venomous look she directed at Laticia. Displeased, Andrea withdrew from the panting woman and ordered them to leave immediately. Olivia, resentful, pointed at Laticia.
"Is it because of her? That worthless sl*ve—!"
Preposterous. If anything, it was Olivia who kept reminding him of the sl*ve's presence, despite his indifference. Seeing no need to respond, Andrea picked up the bell. Not wanting to lose face before the servants, Olivia hastily retreated.
"Andrea, I acted rashly. Forgive me. You understand, don’t you?"
Contrary to her hopes, Andrea had neither the patience to make her understand nor any interest in being understood. Their relationship had always been transactional—mutual understanding was a nuisance reserved for wives, if even then.
So when word came that Olivia had returned, Andrea dismissed her without hesitation.
"Let no one in."
He felt no regret. Just as a gardener prunes overgrown branches, trespassed boundaries must be severed.
The servant bowed silently at the command to send Olivia away. The unspoken answer to whether her companion should also be turned away spared any need for clarification.
Laticia, waiting in the bedroom, knew she wasn’t included in the Duke’s "no one." Sl*ve traders didn’t count sl*ves as people—one, two, they tallied them like numbers. Not even as livestock, old Paul used to laugh bitterly.
A thing of no consequence.
Laticia was reminded of her place once more. Just hours ago, she had promised Theodore she’d plead his case to the Duke, but now her courage had vanished. All she could do was steal glances at the Duke’s profile as he stared pensively at the floor.
When should I bring it up?
Certainly not now, when the Duke was lost in his own world.
Yet, unbeknownst to her, Andrea noticed each time her violet eyes flickered toward him. Their unusually deep hue piqued his curiosity—Would violet flower juice drip if I squeezed those iris-like eyes?
That was all. A silver-haired sl*ve girl evoked nothing more in him. Olivia’s delusions were absurd enough to draw a hollow laugh.
Startled by his sudden chuckle, Laticia flinched. The faint tremor released a sweet scent from her skin. It seemed Olivia wasn’t the only one crossing lines—that painter openly coveting his sl*ve in his own garden was another.
He knew Laticia returned from meetings with Theodore with sorrowful eyes. Frozen like a taxidermied bird in his presence, yet chirping happily in Theodore’s.
"Speak. Anything."
It wasn’t curiosity about their conversations—just weariness of the silence. After a stunned pause, Laticia tilted her head slightly, a habit before speaking.
"My name—Laticia. Old Paul taught me to read. It’s from an ancient word, ‘Laetitia.’ It means ‘joy.’ I chose it myself. I thought... it might bring happiness."
From her brief introduction, Andrea deduced: she had no parents to name her, meaning she’d been sold into sl*very as an infant—perhaps even at birth—and had known no joy.
"Old Paul also wrote song lyrics for me. Before, I just hummed."
As she hummed, her words soon circled back to Paul, the old sl*ve who’d died underground—likely worthless even as meat. She listed others who’d shared that cellar, but Andrea easily noticed one deliberate omission.
Theodor Vüther.
The unmentioned name grated like a thorn. Why hide what he already knew? Before he could ask, Laticia cautiously continued:
"The name must’ve worked. After I chose it, I met Theo—like a miracle."
Back to the name? No—the important figure came later. Her life, it seemed, had been as meager as expected. Her only experiences were fleeting encounters with fellow slaves behind bars, and even those were few.
"If not for Theo, I’d have... taken the medicine Paul left—"
"Theodore."
"Huh?"
"Theodor Vüther."
"Ah... Yes, Theodor Vüther. Forgive me, Master."
She bowed, admitting her fault. Using familiar terms before unrelated parties was improper—yet habit kept betraying her.
"I’ll never forget the first painting Theodor made for me. I’d never seen such a color—a vivid, blazing red."
Andrea’s gaze lingered on her silver hair. Having known only darkness and monochrome, her awe at red was understandable.
"There was also a blue so deep it nearly brought tears. Theodor said it was the ocean."
Suddenly, Latisha looked up, meeting his eyes directly. Unlike before, her violet eyes were dreamily moist.
"Just like your eyes, Master. That deep blue."
"......"
"Ah—forgive me!"
Realizing her transgression, Latisha hastily averted her gaze. Yet, contrary to her remorse, Andrea wasn’t displeased. If anything, he felt an aberrant urge to lift her chin and reclaim that stare.
An abnormal impulse indeed.
Hearing about Theodore, the tangled emotions, the rare opportunity given to a sl*ve to share personal stories, and the desire that lurked secretly before striking like a snake—none of it felt like him.
Andrea skillfully concealed these unfamiliar fragments of emotion beneath his impassive facade. Consequently, Laticia noticed no change in her master. She only sensed that now might be the time to bring up Theodore.
"So, Master... There's something I'd like to ask..."
After pausing to steady her breath, choking on nervousness, Laticia blurted out her words as if expelling them.
"When will you summon Theodore? You promised him a chance to paint your portrait. I could be more..."
Laticia bit her lip hard. She knew how unreasonable this situation was, how audacious her attitude seemed. But what more did she have to lose? If it helped Theodore, she could endure anything. At worst, she’d only lose what little she had.
"Must I prove my usefulness?"
Laticia’s bold question drew a laugh from Andrea. His thoughts twisted at an angle, much like the smirk on his lips.
This girl is consistent.
Usually trembling like a soaked dog, yet when it came to Theodore Vüther, she barked fearlessly, like a reckless pup.
She doesn’t even know who her master is.
Then shouldn’t she be taught? Before she finally bites her master.
"I’ll have the portrait commissioned soon."
The unexpectedly mild reply made Laticia’s eyes widen, her heart pounding anxiously. Now was the time to crush the violet flower just as it bloomed with joy.
"But first—"
"..."
The way the color in her eyes already began to fade struck him as slightly disappointing. Too soon to break. She needed to endure a little longer.
"I must verify the condition set by Locardi Vüther."
"Condition?"
What condition could Locardi have set regarding her? Sing well, free the Duke from his insomnia, and Theodore will get the opportunity of a lifetime. That was all she knew. But a foreboding feeling crept up her spine like a slithering snake, making her shiver.
Andrea kindly answered the question hanging over Laticia’s pale face.
"Sing well—"
"..."
"—and be a virgin."
The blood drained from her face in an instant. Her eyes, already losing focus, wavered like delicate violets unable to withstand even the slightest breeze.
"The singing part is clear enough."
"But are you untouched?"
Laticia instinctively knew what this line of questioning would lead to. What she didn’t know was how to answer. A denial would bring trouble upon Theodore, but the truth...
She refused to think beyond that. It wasn’t her place to agonize. Whatever the case, the Duke would act as he pleased—he had every right, and she, a sl*ve, had none to refuse.
As the silence stretched, Andrea’s eyes narrowed. The answer was obvious. Locardi Vüther wouldn’t have dared deceive him—he’d have gone to great lengths to preserve a sl*ve’s value. Still, Andrea cornered her.
"Seems Locardi lied."
The cold tone made Laticia shake her head frantically.
"N-no, he didn’t."
"Then which is it?"
A flicker of amusement passed through his icy blue eyes, but Laticia, too distraught, missed it. Rubbing her chilled fingers, she barely managed to reply.
"I... I am untouched."
"Then."
A cruel smile curved Andrea’s lips.
"Prove it."
Her vision darkened instantly. Prove it? How? Singing was simple—just open her mouth. A painting could be shown. But how did one prove this? To Laticia, ignorant in such matters, it was utter darkness.
"How... do I prove it?"
"Must I explain every little thing?"
"..."
She was at a complete loss. Yet, not entirely without recourse, Laticia—still dazed—managed to recall a fellow sl*ve girl.
A woman sold to a baron and returned, already battered, had been whipped nearly to death by Locardi. Laticia remembered her tearful story clearly: the baron had flown into a rage when no blood appeared during their first encounter and beat her mercilessly.
'I really was untouched!'
That was how Laticia learned that blood was expected the first time—though sometimes it didn’t happen. That seemed the only way to prove it. But...
What if there’s no blood?
There was no guarantee she’d be any different. Yet, as always, she had no choice. Succeed or fail, she had to try. The Duke, experienced as he was, might understand. Unless he deliberately picked fault...
But even if he did, Laticia could do nothing. Like that sl*ve girl, if her master chose to whip her, her fate was to endure silently. Perhaps she’d simply been too fortunate until now. With that thought, Laticia slowly began to undress.
***
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