Reincarnated as General's Wife

Chapter 5: Panick

The steam still clung faintly to the tiled walls when Seranya stepped into the corridor. The muffled sound of footsteps echoed from the front entrance — the unmistakable tread of the master returning home earlier than expected. The elder maid, Marielle, was at the far end of the hall, adjusting a vase with overly precise movements.

Seranya’s eyes darted to her. “Marielle,” she called softly, just enough for the older woman to hear. “I need to use the bathroom. Urgently.”

Marielle froze for half a breath. The mistress was supposed to be in the parlor by now, ready to greet her husband — not lingering anywhere near here. “Now?” she asked, voice tight but still holding the tone of formality.

Seranya tilted her head slightly, her expression perfectly composed, a faint smile touching her lips. “I wouldn’t trouble you if it wasn’t important.” Her tone was light, even apologetic, but her eyes — calm, unblinking — carried an unspoken command.

The front door opened. A gust of cooler air swept into the house. From the entrance, the butler’s voice carried politely as he welcomed the master. Marielle’s pulse quickened. Every second counted.

Marielle gave the smallest of nods, stepping aside as though it were a routine matter. But her mind was already racing. This wasn’t in the plan. The lady was supposed to wait at the stairs, smile in place, timing perfect — yet here she was, excusing herself as if the welcome could wait.

Seranya slipped past her, the swish of her gown brushing against the elder maid’s sleeve. She entered the bathroom and closed the door with deliberate slowness, not a slam, not a rush — simply quiet, unbothered.

Downstairs, the butler kept his voice warm and steady. “The mistress will be here shortly, sir.” Inside, his stomach twisted. What was she doing? Why now? His face betrayed nothing, but his grip on the silver tray was faintly tighter than before.

Upstairs, Marielle stood in the hallway, forcing herself to look unhurried as she straightened the corner of a painting. Her ears strained for the sound of the bathroom door opening. She couldn’t pace. She couldn’t look toward the stairs. Calm, she reminded herself. Calm, or suspicion would follow.

Inside the bathroom, Seranya lingered before the mirror, dabbing her face with a towel as though freshening up after a long day. She could hear the faint exchange of pleasantries below, the shuffle of shoes on polished wood. She smiled faintly — not in amusement, but in the quiet satisfaction of being the one to bend the flow of events.

When she finally emerged, she moved with measured grace, as if the wait had been nothing at all.

Seranya slowed her steps as she reached the corner where the bathroom door gleamed faintly in the lamplight. The sound of running water trickled beyond it. She tilted her head, expression unreadable, before glancing back over her shoulder.

The elder maid stood there stiffly, clutching a folded towel to her chest like a shield. “Lady Seranya… you’re supposed to be waiting in the parlour to welcome the Master,” she said in that polite, calm tone servants used when they were actually screaming inside.

“Oh? I’ll… welcome him here instead.” Seranya stepped forward, casual as if she were announcing she’d just decided to water the plants at midnight.

The elder maid immediately slid into her path like a seasoned soldier defending a castle gate. “Here?”

“Yes. The bathroom is a very welcoming place, isn’t it? Warm. Relaxing. Steamy.” Seranya tilted her head. “Besides, I have… a very important matter to discuss with him in private.”

From the hallway, the butler appeared, drawn in by the strange energy radiating between them. “Is there a problem?” he asked, though his voice already had the resigned weight of a man bracing for one.

“Not at all,” Seranya said sweetly. “I was just about to—”

The elder maid cut in, “She was just about to return to the parlour.”

“I was just about to enter the bathroom,” Seranya corrected, smiling like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The butler’s polite expression did not waver, but inside his mind it was chaos.

(Bathroom? Why the bathroom? No, no, don’t question it—questioning leads to answers, and answers lead to stress. This family doesn’t need more stress. Breathe. Count to ten. Oh dear God, she’s reaching for the doorknob—)

“Lady Seranya,” he said quickly, stepping closer, “might I suggest… a delay? The Master… may not be at his most presentable.”

“That’s fine. I’m not here to judge.”

(Not here to judge? You terrify the staff into sweeping the floors twice in one day if you think the polish is dull—)

The elder maid gave the butler a sharp glance, the silent kind that screamed Do something before she actually goes in there.

The butler cleared his throat, summoning the courage that only comes from decades of professional dignity and tea service. “It would be… most gracious of you to allow the Master to enter the parlour first. After all, a proper welcome is tradition. And traditions, as you know, are important.”

Seranya narrowed her eyes slightly, the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. “Traditions… yes. I do like those.”

(She doesn’t. She’s lying. She’s plotting something. We are all going to die.)

The elder maid, still blocking the door, shifted just enough to nudge Seranya gently back toward the hall. “Perhaps you could wait just a moment more, my lady. Then you can welcome him properly—and with far more… comfort than the bathroom allows.”

Seranya finally sighed, stepping back with a theatrical air of defeat. “Fine. But only because you’re both looking at me like I’m about to commit a crime.”

(Because you are—) the butler thought grimly, bowing as if she had just granted them mercy.