My Step-Daughters Are The Villainesses

Morning broke, bringing with it a subtle shift in the manor’s routine. Today, the remaining tutors were finally scheduled to commence their instruction. First on the itinerary was Elana Etton, a woman tasked with molding the three girls into proper noble ladies, teaching them the unspoken rules of high society.

Before facing her, however, Airam, Hermione, and Esther had to endure their daily preparations. Though the sisters had stubbornly chosen to sleep in the exact same room for the past month, sharing a single morning bath would take far too long. To save time, they reluctantly separated, retreating to the individual, lavish chambers originally assigned to them.

Inside each room, maids waited to draw steaming water, lay out fine soaps, and attend to their needs, giving the girls as much time as they required to wash. Once they were clean and wrapped in fresh towels, the true ordeal of the morning began.

Airam sat rigidly at her vanity. She despised having strangers hover over her, she simply did not trust these unfamiliar servants and hated the vulnerability of being tended to. Yet, when it came to lacing her heavy garments and styling her hair, she forced herself to sit quietly, offering a stiff, reluctant obedience. Hermione shared this quiet rebellion, submitting to the maids’ hands only out of necessity, her teeth clenched the entire time.

Esther, conversely, found a quiet comfort in the routine. As the maids gently worked a brush through her damp hair, the soft, repetitive motion pulled at her heartstrings. It brought back warm, fleeting memories of their mother, who used to brush her hair with that same affection as even the maids found it hard to hate on the sweet Esther.

Soon, they had to select their attire. Thanks to Ulrich’s meticulous planning, their closets were overflowing. He had taken their measurements upon arrival and commissioned a staggering array of tailored gowns, each piece crafted from fine materials suited and expected for the daughters of a Countess. The volume of their wardrobes was overwhelming. The silk, velvet, and lace were all a daily reminder of the luxury they now lived in, a huge leap from the lives they had known before.

The dressing process was highly methodical. Corsets were pulled snug, and bodices were smoothed and fastened perfectly around their waists. While one servant expertly braided and pinned their hair, another applied light creams to their skin. In total, it took well over an hour for the girls to be deemed presentable for the day.

Spending an entire hour almost two surrounded by strangers, isolated from one another, still felt weird and wrong to the sisters. Over the past month, they had slowly built a tolerance to the daily separation, but they still hated it. Whenever they were forced apart, a creeping, breathless anxiety would gnaw at them. Airam suffered the most from this. The mere thought of not knowing her sisters’ exact whereabouts could spark a sudden panic in her chest. Because of this unspoken fear, whoever finished dressing first would immediately hurry into the hallway to wait for the others. They simply refused to walk the manor alone.

This time, Hermione was the first to emerge. She stood waiting by the grand staircase, leaning back against the banister with her arms crossed. She wore a rich red gown that framed her sharp posture, her hair pinned back into a regal style as she watched the hallway doors, waiting for her sisters to appear.

Airam emerged a moment later, draped in a black gown. Seeing this, Hermione’s face instantly scrunched into a faint grimace.

"Sister, do you always have to wear such a dark, eerie color?" She asked.

Airam glanced down at her skirts. Despite a wardrobe bursting with vibrant hues, she almost exclusively reached for the darkest fabrics available. "I like black," Airam replied simply. "And you always wear red."

"Because red is better," Hermione retorted.

"Blue is the best!" Esther interrupted from behind, stepping out into the hall in a bright, azure gown accompanied by a light giggle.

"Well, we can wear whatever we please anyway," Hermione said, turning to her younger sister with a smile. Secretly, Hermione loved her new wardrobe. The perfectly smooth silk slipped comfortably against her skin, possessing a beautiful craftsmanship she could appreciate with a single touch.

As Hermione led the way down the grand staircase, Airam and Esther followed closely behind.

"Today we finally meet our new teachers!" Esther said, her voice bubbling with excitement.

"We are just learning useless things again," Airam said dryly.

"It is not useless, Eldest Sister. We have to learn proper etiquette and the history of Skargardia if we want to acclimatize ourselves here," Esther replied.

"We do not need to acclimatize, because we are leaving in a couple of years," Airam pointed out.

"A couple of years, Airam, not a couple of days," Hermione sighed. "I also hate learning about this Kingdom’s culture, but we are stuck with it. If we refuse, Ulrich will just annoy us endlessly."

"It is Lord Ulrich, big sister," Esther corrected promptly.

Hermione shot her a sharp stare. "Esther, I do not like this newfound respect you have for him at all."

"It is not newfound!" Esther defended. "Look at us, Hermione. These beautiful gowns were bought by Lord Ulrich, you know."

Hermione shifted awkwardly, suddenly very aware of the fine silk brushing her ankles. "T—That’s..." She stammered, unable to form a solid counterargument.

Speak of the devil. Just as the sisters reached the ground floor, they spotted Ulrich standing in the foyer, locked in conversation with Fabian. Ulrich was fully dressed in riding clothes, clearly preparing to depart for the Capital. He wanted to get the King’s mandatory summoning over with as swiftly as possible. Adopting the three daughters of a witch was a highly controversial move; to mitigate the political fallout, he needed to display goodwill toward the Crown and avoid appearing overly arrogant. No matter how much he internally despised the incompetent King of Skargardia, keeping up appearances was vital.

Fabian nodded promptly, absorbing his master’s instructions. Under normal circumstances, either Fabian or Monika would have accompanied Ulrich on such a trip. However, given his precarious political situation and the unpredictable nature of the three sisters, Ulrich chose to leave his most trusted staff behind to manage the three sisters in his absence.

"Have a safe journey, My Lord," Fabian said, bowing respectfully just as Ulrich turned toward the grand doors.

"Have a safe departure, Lord Count!" Linnea added, standing attentively at the bottom of the steps.

Ulrich offered her a curt, silent nod.

"A safe departure, My Lord," Monika said as well. She waited nearby, holding Ulrich’s neatly folded crimson coat in her hands.

Ulrich took the tailored garment and slipped it over his shoulders. He adjusted the high collar and tugged sharply at his sleeves a few times to smooth the cuffs. As he finished settling the coat, his gaze drifted upward, landing on the three sisters frozen in an awkward, colorful row upon the stairs.

Caught in his sudden attention, the girls stiffened.

"Hmph." Hermione broke the silence with a scoff. She turned on her heel, her red gown swishing sharply, and marched off down the upper corridor without a second glance.

Airam lingered a moment longer. She leveled a long, completely unreadable stare at the Count before turning silently to follow Hermione’s path.

That left only Esther. She stood rooted to the spot, timidly clutching the silk skirts of her blue gown. Her mouth parted slightly, as if she wanted to offer him a polite farewell of her own, but meeting the piercing of his red eyes instantly drained her courage. Yielding to her nerves, she spun around and quickly scurried out of sight.

Monika chuckled softly at the display, an amused, quiet sound that was subtly echoed by Fabian and Linnea. Ulrich did not react to their amusement or the girls’ hasty retreat. He simply faced forward and stepped out of the manor, descending the sweeping front steps toward the iron gates where his carriage sat waiting.

The journey to the Capital loomed ahead, bringing with it the exhausting reality of facing a court full of irritating nobles. Putting the glaring incompetence of the King aside, Ulrich harbored a much deeper wariness for the Queen who was the real sovereign. In truth, he suspected her hands were the ones pulling the strings behind this sudden royal summons. Regardless of who had actually signed the decree, Ulrich knew exactly what he was riding into. He was prepared to endure a barrage of thinly veiled insults regarding his controversial decision to adopt three witches.

◊◊◊

Meanwhile, just beyond the perimeter of the estate, a solitary figure lingered in the shadows of the tree line. A woman stood perfectly still, her slender form entirely obscured by a traveling cape, its deep hood pulled low to cast her face in darkness.

She was a witch.

From her concealed vantage point, she watched intently as Ulrich’s carriage rolled past the gates and disappeared down the winding road. As the clatter of the wheels faded into the morning air, a small smile curled her lips, and she turned to melt quietly away.