Welcome to the Rose Mansion - Chapter 103
“What…!”
Crash!
The sound of something shattering violently echoed. Richelle froze in place, still gripping the doorknob. Did something happen to Young Master Otis?
The image of the blood flowing down the chef’s face clouded her vision like a hallucination. Richelle hurriedly descended the stairs. If Young Master Otis was in danger, she had to go help him immediately.
But suddenly, a memory seized her by the nape.
—Don’t even think about helping me. If you stay, it’ll only restrict my actions.
“…”
Would acting impulsively and outside of the plan really be the right decision?
What if she only put Young Master Otis in more danger?
Him telling her to hide meant the chef was coming in this direction. In other words, Young Master Otis’s attempt to lure him away had failed.
Despite his often rude and harsh words, Alan Otis was, at his core, a good-hearted and upright boy. If Richelle were to face the chef head-on, that kind-hearted boy would surely throw himself into danger to protect her.
Just as he had during the marmalade incident.
‘I have to trust Young Master Otis. He promised me he wouldn’t push himself too far. It might be better not to create any more unpredictable variables right now.’
Richelle squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again. She began scanning her surroundings for a place to hide.
There were three options. The two wooden doors she had passed while running deeper into the kitchen, and the iron door she hadn’t checked yet.
She didn’t know what was outside, so running out wasn’t an option. That left her with two choices. Richelle decided to explore the place she hadn’t gone to yet.
If she was lucky, she might find the key to the locked door or discover the chef’s weakness.
Fortunately, the iron door wasn’t locked. Richelle cautiously pulled the handle. A cold draft rushed in.
‘Is it a refrigeration room?’
It was dim inside, though a faint blue light seeped through from somewhere, making it easy to see.
Richelle left the door slightly ajar to avoid being locked inside and quickly surveyed the room.
The refrigeration room was vast, too large to take in all at once. Shelves and display racks lined the walls, and in the center…
“So much meat…”
Lamb, pork, beef, and various other cuts she couldn’t identify hung in neat rows from the ceiling.
Even in the dim light, she could tell—they were all incredibly fresh, as though they had been newly slaughtered. Blood, running like water, dripped steadily onto the floor below.
A chill ran down Richelle’s spine as she walked swiftly along the display shelves.
There was nothing particularly unusual about them—various ingredients, numerous glass jars with unknown contents, and several heavy crates.
She opened a crate but couldn’t see clearly because of the lack of light.
After all, this was a refrigeration room. It seemed unlikely there would be anything stored here aside from food supplies.
Perhaps it would be better to go back out and reassess the situation.
Just as she was about to turn around.
“Ah!”
A squelching sensation rose from under her foot. Richelle jerked back, startled. In doing so, she accidentally bumped into the hanging meat beside her. It was only natural that she turned to look at it.
She shouldn’t have.
“What… what is this…?”
There were two legs—legs that would have once moved gracefully, walking or running.
Below them was a flat belly, arms crossed and bound across the chest, and a neck.
And a shaved, gleaming head…
Right there.
Its eyes, sewn shut, nevertheless seemed to stare directly at her. The neatly stitched mouth looked like it might scream at any moment.
Richelle stumbled back in shock. Among the orderly rows of hanging meat, the last in line…
It was unmistakable, no matter how many times she checked—it was a human being.
A person, just like her, preserved like food…
[It wouldn’t be very pleasant to encounter if it were to find someone coming in with that smell. It likes meat dishes, and meat is always scarce.]
Suddenly, a passage from the rules of Bertrand flashed through her mind.
Then she remembered Madam Otis, who often skipped meals. She recalled the lamb served at the banquet on her first day in the mansion, its texture unlike any lamb she had ever known.
And lastly, she remembered Alan Otis slamming the table the moment her fork touched the meat.
…How much meat have I eaten since I came to Bertrand?
“Urp—”
Nausea welled up inside her. She clamped a hand over her mouth, holding it in. She couldn’t vomit. The chef was said to have a sharp sense of smell. She couldn’t afford to do anything that would attract attention.
Her trembling hands clenched into fists.
Don’t think. Don’t think. This is no time to be thinking about anything but survival.
“I- I just need to get out of here…”
She managed to move her trembling legs. I have to get out. I have to leave this horrifying place. Once I can breathe fresh air again…
At that moment.
“Ugh!”
An icy, rough grip seized her ankle. Richelle gasped and looked down.
A cold, bluish hand, like that of a corpse, was clutching her ankle.
