Chapter 2
“I’ve worked all sorts of part-time jobs, but this… this is a new low.”
The Curtis Orphanage didn’t force us to panhandle out of a lack of funds. Quite the contrary—it was flush with cash compared to other orphanages. Curtis, after all, was the so-called “Noble Orphanage,” deeply entangled with the aristocracy.
The children here all wore beautiful dresses and suits, receiving the same high-quality education as any noble scion. They were, after all, the illegitimate children of those very same nobles.
Curtis Orphanage served as a discreet dumping ground for the unwanted children of dissolute aristocrats who enjoyed their lives of luxury and pleasure. It was a simple way for them to protect their petty consciences, claiming they’d sent the child to a good home while easily salving their guilt with donations.
To top it all off, they were praised as philanthropists by the common folk who knew nothing of the truth.
They look after the lowliest of orphans with such warmth. What merciful souls!
As a result, some nobles even used Curtis as a publicity tool. They would visit the orphanage under the guise of charity work, pose for a few photographs, and submit them to The People’s Daily, a tabloid for commoners they wouldn’t normally deign to glance at.
Look at us, practicing noblesse oblige with our visits and donations. See the fine buildings we provide for the orphans, the beautiful clothes we dress them in.
For these photo ops, the prettier and more cheerful the orphan at their side, the greater the promotional effect.
“They’re just like politicians who only show up in the market square during election season to shake a few hands and secure votes,” I muttered. It was the exact same principle.
And at Curtis, there was one child who was used specifically to amplify that marketing effect.
She wasn’t one of the noble bastards the director doted on, but a pretty orphan brought in from another institution—one who could be treated harshly. That child was Fredia.
“I’m not a foreign mercenary; I’m an imported orphan…”
Fredia was chosen for her doll-like appearance: beautiful, curly blonde hair, large, clear blue eyes, and rosy cheeks. She perfectly fit the aesthetic criteria designed to appeal to the nobles’ tastes.
On days when high-ranking aristocrats visited Curtis, this living, breathing porcelain doll would flash a bright smile and beg for donations.
Look how pretty and pitiful I am. Now open your wallets.
That’s the gist of it.
On days without any panhandling duties, she wore rags and cleaned up after the other children.
This was Fredia’s role. And now, it was mine.
“An orphan is an orphan! Does being abandoned by silver-spoon parents make you a silver-spoon orphan? Does that mean the rest of us are dirt-poor orphans just because our parents were?”
Cleaning their rooms on an empty stomach while the other children feasted on luxurious meals was agonizing. At the orphanage where I grew up, everyone was responsible for cleaning their own room.
“I was so happy to get a new lease on life, but… I’m a beggar, and they’re ‘noble orphans.’”
A heavy sigh escaped my lips.
But the situation wasn’t entirely hopeless. After all, I knew the entire plot of this novel.
“Just you wait. This ugly duckling will soon become a swa—”
Wait a minute.
Did the heroine of this story really become a swan after leaving the orphanage?
Not long from now, she would be adopted into a ducal family. But of all the families in the world, it had to be the villains’.
The protagonist, brimming with a sense of justice, clashed with the villains from day one. She endured a series of dramatic events, brought about the family’s downfall, and ultimately found romance with the male lead, a prince, becoming the Princess Consort.
“But even after all that, she had to deal with her mother-in-law’s torment and barely survived being stabbed by the prince’s half-brother. Ugh.”
The protagonist may have gotten a happy ending, but the journey to get there was excruciating.
As a reader, I had enjoyed the spectacular drama she went through. But the thought of experiencing it myself sent a shiver of dread down my spine.
“Besides, if I become the empress, I’ll have to deal with politics…”
Empress. Politics. As an ordinary citizen, I could only marvel at the original heroine, who willingly chose to become the mother of a nation, no matter how deeply in love she was.
In a world where people like my own parents could discard their children because the burden of parenthood was too great, the thought of becoming a mother to countless commoners I didn’t even know was…
“Impossible. I couldn’t do it if I died and came back a hundred times.”
What if I just left before the adoption? What if I left the orphanage on my own terms and derailed the original plot?
With my modern knowledge, I figured I could easily succeed in this novel’s world if I just put my mind to it.
“In other novels, the heroines succeed by selling fried chicken or starting a popcorn business.”
It didn’t seem like a bad idea to work as a maid until I was older, save up some money, find a winning product, and slowly build a business from a street stall.
“That would have been an absurd fantasy back in my world, but here… the plan actually seems plausible. Survival difficulty: maybe one star?”
While I may not have looked like much, I was a seasoned pro at part-time jobs, having done just about everything under the sun. Surely, in this medieval-style world with its less-developed food culture, I could make something of myself without following the original story.
“That’s it! Who needs adoption? I’ll make my own way!”
Ah, a rosy future stretched out before me once more!
…Or so I thought, until I hit an unexpected snag.
“Leave? On whose authority?”
The director, glasses perched on the tip of her nose, peered at me over their rims with an expression of utter disbelief.
I’d only asked, “Do I graduate from the orphanage when I become an adult?” just to test the waters, but her reaction was… intense.
“Do you have any idea how much it has cost to feed and clothe you all this time? Thankfully, a Mr. Hamel has promised to pay that amount and take you in next year. On the condition that you work for him, unpaid, for five years. You should be grateful.”
What kind of utter nonsense was this?
Isn’t the orphanage funded by donations? I wore patched-up clothes that the other kids threw away and ate their leftovers. On top of that, I handled all the cleaning, laundry, and panhandling. I think I’ve more than earned my keep, I wanted to retort.
But I simply nodded, said I understood, and left the director’s office.
She was going to sell me as a slave all along, wasn’t she?
So my fate was to either become an empress or a slave.
I would escape this fate.
The day after I made my resolution, an unexpected opportunity fell into my lap.
What’s this? Is this some kind of divine sign to run for it?
The director seemed ready to chase me to the ends of the earth if I ever tried to escape, so what was this? Was she really trusting a cat with a fish?
But I’m not prepared at all yet.
Soon enough, however, I realized the director was no fool, and I had been counting my chickens before they hatched.
“She’s an orphan…!”
“She doesn’t have a mommy or a daddy…”
The moment I reached the market, children playing at the mouth of an alley swarmed me.
“Oh my, isn’t that Fredia? Children! Don’t you bully that girl!”
Occasionally, a passerby would greet me as if they knew me and shoo the children away.
Oh, my picture was in the newspaper!
I’d forgotten. The photos taken while I was panhandling for donations had been published, so everyone in town knew my face.
“The People’s Daily” was the local paper for commoners, reporting on trivial matters like who got married, who opened a new shop, and the daily price of vegetables. Nobles wouldn’t give it a second glance, but every commoner read it.
So this is why the director sent me on an errand. Even if I run, she knows she can find me just by asking around.
Derailing the plot wasn’t going to be easy. As I sighed, the market children’s voices continued to needle me from behind.
“Hey, didn’t you get paid to have your picture taken?”
“An orphan living in a fancy place like that. What are you doing in a dump like this?”
Their jealous tones made it clear they were bitter that I, an orphan, seemed to have a better life than they did.
If only they knew.
This brings back memories.
I used to be teased just like this back in school.
—I heard she’s an orphan. Lives in one of those homes.
—No wonder she’s so tacky. Who even uses a pencil case like that?
—Does she even wash properly? Not that a good scrub would wash away the poverty. That uniform is probably a hand-me-down, too.
—If she’s an orphan, she’s got no money for college, right? She should just bring down the grading curve for the rest of us. Why does she even try so hard?
The other kids watched me with sharp eyes, quick to grow jealous or belittle me if I had anything better than they did.
—Did you see she won the prize for her book report?
—They just gave it to her out of pity. The first line went something like, ‘I have no parents…’
—I’d be too embarrassed to even bring up my parents. The other day, she was late, and the teacher let her off because she said one of the younger kids at the orphanage was sick. She’s the type who feeds on sympathy, isn’t she?
People can’t stand to see someone they consider beneath them get better treatment or possess something nice.
Children are just more honest about it.
“Showing off, for a mere orphan!”
“Hey! Look at her, ignoring us! Thinks she’s a noble now just because she took a picture with a lord!”
History repeats itself, I thought with a sigh. It seemed life was the same no matter where you went.
“Hey, throw that.”
I kept walking, pretending not to hear them, but my indifference must have annoyed them, because something came flying from behind me.
“Ahh!”
It was a stone. I spun around, and the brats scattered, giggling.
“Ugh.”
These little runts were getting on my last nerve.
“Look, she’s ignoring us.”
I figured getting angry would only make me look ridiculous, so I continued on my way. But a moment later, the whispering started again.
“She’s leaving.”
“She’s just going to walk away?”
Hoping to deter them, I moved into a crowded area, thinking they wouldn’t dare throw anything with so many people around. But I was wrong.
“Don’t you have anything bigger?”
“Let’s throw that.”
It seemed they didn’t care about collateral damage as long as they could hurt me.
“You little—!”
I turned to shout at them, but it was too late.
“Dirty orphan!”
“The nobles’ minion!”
“Both her parents are dead…”
Along with their jeers, a volley of trash and stones flew toward me. I instinctively curled into a ball and squeezed my eyes shut.
I waited for the pain.
But there was no impact.
“Uh…”
Instead of my own, my hand was fisted in the hem of a stranger’s clothes. All I could see was the pitch-black silhouette of his back, stark against the light.
Then, a melodic voice drifted toward me.
“I doubt one’s parentage is the deciding factor in their character.”