Sierra looked perfectly fine upon waking.
One might have thought she had forgotten she'd received a terminal diagnosis entirely.
They say humans go through five stages when faced with death—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance—but Sierra's face was so serene that Poppy couldn't tell which of those five stages she was even in.
Sierra rang the bell inside the room as if nothing were wrong. Immediately, a maid came running.
“What is Father doing right now?”
“Yes, Count Fernaine is currently reading a book in his study.”
“Tell him that Sierra will come to see him in five minutes.”
“Yes, understood, my lady.”
Sierra caught Poppy's eye.
“You know?”
Poppy understood everything from those words alone.
Five minutes later, Sierra arrived at Archibald's study wearing only indoor clothes, her hair somehow disheveled—not covering her face nor fully undone, but styled in a way that highlighted her poignant beauty and pure elegance.
For some reason, all three of her older brothers had arrived as well.
Poppy flinched and trembled behind Sierra.
It was because she still hadn't grown accustomed to the eight indifferent gazes, cold as minerals, fixed upon Sierra.
Archibald and his three sons—those rumored throughout high society to be a doting father and doting older brothers.
In truth, they were indifferent to her. They said there were exactly six men in the empire indifferent to Sierra, and four of them were the men of House Fernaine.
It was because the lady of Fernaine—Countess Mariwether Fernaine, renowned far and wide for her benevolence and kindness—had been lost at the very moment of Sierra's birth. By now, it was such a trite reason that it left one speechless.
Tears welled up in Sierra's large, beautiful eyes as she looked at her brothers.
It seemed like a desperate, heart-wrenching attempt to draw the attention of a father and brothers who refused to look at her.
Yet not a single one of them was moved by those tears.
“Father… Brothers…”
Even at Sierra's faint, fragile voice that seemed about to fade away.
Sierra's beautiful voice trembled thinly. It was like the sound of a flute played by a tiny fairy.
Even so, Archibald Fernaine didn't so much as twitch a brow.
“I apologize for causing you concern.”
Both the speaking Sierra and the listening Archibald and three brothers knew that the news of Sierra's terminal illness had hardly become a 'concern' for Archibald.
God had taken Mariwether and given them Sierra. There had been no need.
“I've heard the news.”
Archibald's voice was bone-dry.
Archibald and his three sons had already heard the news of Sierra's terminal illness.
They hadn't told anyone yet, out of concern that the servants might speak indiscreetly or be shaken.
Sierra wiped her tears and nodded. Her shoulders shook. She was clearly crying, yet no unsightly hiccups escaped her. Truly, a masterful act.
But the men felt not the slightest emotional stir.
They had vaguely suspected that Sierra was putting on an act.
Sierra had always been like that. When asked if she needed anything, she always said no.
But the very next moment, tears brimming in her eyes, she would bemoan how wretched a count's daughter she would be without so much as one dress made from fabric newly imported from a kingdom across the sea.
And so, how many dresses, shoes, and jewels had Sierra claimed for herself? And yet, outside those walls, she cultivated an image as a frugal count's daughter.
“Father insisted, even though I said I didn't need anything.”
She would say it with her cheeks flushed as if embarrassed.
The eldest son, Vincent, didn't particularly despise Sierra for that. He merely considered her resourceful.
And Archibald hadn't particularly stopped her from spreading such misunderstandings either.
There were several advantages to having Sierra—pretty, kind, and charming—flaunt the expensive items she received from her father and brothers.
First, they could show off the wealth of Fernaine. It effectively demonstrated, through Sierra, that they possessed enough money to lavish on a young daughter's luxuries.
Second, it could soften Fernaine's image.
A daughter was easy to use for such things. So they let her have her way.
They told her to spend money as she wished. And Sierra, for her part, demanded not affection, but money alone.
It was because their relationship was so dry that they felt no sympathy or pity for Sierra, who would die at a young age.
“We've done everything we should.”
That was what they thought.
The treatment befitting a count's daughter had been sufficient. They gave her money to do whatever she wanted; what reason was there to grieve over a youngest daughter they didn't even love?
That would be no different even if Sierra died a month from now.
Archibald wished to move to the main point at once. He was trying to acquire the Greenway vineyard and launch related ventures, but a stubborn old man refused to sell the land, giving him no end of trouble.
Business was more important than his daughter.
“So, what do you intend to do going forward?”
It was a terribly dry question. Sierra burst into tears, despairing at her plight as one with a terminal illness.
When a person truly cries from sorrow, they inevitably dissolve into a sobbing mess of tears and snivel; yet she merely let large, pearl-like tears drop onto the back of her hand, like a figure in a painting.
“Father, I…”
'She'll say she doesn't need anything.'
Vincent nodded inwardly and sighed.
Then the conversation would go around in circles. Father would again try to do right by his youngest daughter, whose remaining days were few, simply because she was terminal.
It would only waste time and make matters bothersome.
But just then.
“A house in the suburbs that is quiet yet by no means inconvenient. Not so large as to be difficult to maintain, yet not so modest as to be unbecoming of the distinguished daughter of a count's household. With fifteen maids, six manservants, one head maid and one butler, and ten million arks' worth of gold coins to cover my expenses for one month—an amount that the House of Count Fernaine could pay in a lump sum, though it was an enormous sum. To be specific, roughly the Crown Prince's monthly expenditures—if I have these, I shall want for nothing.”
Sierra, shedding from her eyes what might have been pearls or opals, spoke almost as if wailing.
The four men were utterly dumbstruck; Sierra had never before demanded material things so bluntly.
Yet Sierra herself was calm. She wiped her tears and added:
“And I do not wish for anyone to learn that I am terminal. Having people come to visit me while I'm ill is a bother.”
Ah, wait. Hadn't her true colors shown through a bit at the very end?
But the dumbfounded father and brothers were so shocked by the very proposition that 'Sierra had directly demanded material things' that they had no room to notice such details.
“I'm sorry for the interruption—*sniff*—let's go, Poppy.”
Poppy, who had also been standing there with a blank expression, quickly came to her senses.
“Yes, my lady. Yes. Yes!”
Four men who had forgotten all about the Greenway vineyard remained standing stock-still in Archibald's study.
* * *