I Became a Landlord (5)
"I am Kim Malza, a tiny little leaf in service of the Flower Goddess Iris."
I froze. There were other reasons for it, but the biggest one was her name — a name from back home that had absolutely no business existing in this world. And a thoroughly old-fashioned one at that.
"...That's quite an unusual name."
For a fleeting second I wondered if she might be from the same hometown. But her features were a long way from Korean, and the naming convention itself belonged to a much older generation than anything current.
"My grandmother was a priestess! She's the one who named me!"
"I see. I was just thinking it's a nice name."
I didn't press any further. Prying would only make me look suspicious.
"At any rate — have you unpacked?"
"Ah— no, not yet."
Priestess Malza shook her head vigorously, as if to plead that she wasn't that shameless. Which would have been more convincing if she hadn't already shown up at a still-unfinished church and started cleaning the place.
"Then let's get you settled in first. The chapel still looks like it's under construction, but the lodgings seem more or less ready. You should be fine."
The lodgings I led her into were two stories tall. I had no idea why a church residence built for a single priest needed to be this spacious, but I wasn't about to complain. If anything, it was a stroke of luck given the present circumstances.
"My joints aren't what they used to be, so I'll take the first floor. Priestess Malza, you'd best use the second."
I was still in my thirties — hardly an age where my knees were a genuine concern — but I yielded the upstairs to the young girl out of consideration.
"I'll go unpack as well, so take your time getting settled."
"Yes!"
The first thing I did after stepping into my room, however, had nothing to do with unpacking. I fired up the gallery to satisfy a curiosity I'd been sitting on since her introduction, keeping my expression carefully neutral the entire time.
Longer than I thought? Well, it's not like that doesn't make sense.
Then a flicker of unease crept in. I pinned down the source of it almost immediately.
A phenomenon this old — and this frequent — and the people of this world don't know about it?
The question answered itself just as quickly. The next wave of comments might as well have been reading my mind.
"Huh..."
I'd figured the gallery had a lot of people, but still.
I clicked my tongue at the unexpected revelation. For someone who regularly pored over the info tab, this was the first I was hearing of it.
"Ah."
That was when it clicked. People don't go out of their way to announce that seawater is salty. Stay anywhere long enough and you figure it out on your own. This, apparently, was the same kind of fact.
I'd only ever used the gallery as a study tool, so of course I wouldn't have noticed. That said, I wasn't entirely free of resentment. If they'd just written a single line in the newbie must-read section of the announcements tab, I never would have labored under this misconception.
It was a sensibility I couldn't quite wrap my head around.
I could almost see the logic. Almost. It still didn't sit entirely right.
"..."
I closed the gallery and lay down on the bed. It was still a bare frame that hadn't even been stuffed with straw, hard as the floor itself, but it was serviceable enough to stretch out on.
It's not as if anything would change at this point. And I doubt I would have chosen differently even if I'd known sooner.
Beyond that, I had no particular feelings on the matter. What actually bothered me was something else entirely.
Of all the names...
I pictured the young priestess I'd taken in as a new member of the household.
Kim Malza.
I couldn't help but be horrified. Those three syllables happened to be my mother's name. That was the real reason I'd been so thrown when I first heard it.
So I have to order around someone who shares my mother's name?
Well. This was something. I felt like the world's worst son.
Knock, knock.
Even the sound of knocking is starting to feel homey.
I opened the door at an unhurried pace and found Priestess Malza standing there. I considered forbidding her from coming down to the first-floor lodgings except in emergencies, then immediately dropped the idea.
It's just the two of us. As long as I don't go upstairs, it shouldn't matter.
If the household ever grew, I'd have to draw those lines more carefully — but I sincerely doubted this church was going to pick up any more members.
"Is something the matter?"
"Hehe, it's lunchtime, so I wanted to check if you'd eaten yet."
Was it that late already?
"Then I'll head downstairs and get a me—"
I stopped mid-sentence. I was no longer staying at an inn. Going downstairs would not, in fact, produce a meal.
...I need to go grocery shopping.
The problem was how little money I had left. Four and a half coppers. If one copper was roughly ten bucks, I had less than fifty dollars to my name.
I'll pick up a few simple things with this, then ask Priestess Margaret for an advance on my pay.
But the next words out of Priestess Malza's mouth let me leave those last few coins undisturbed.
"You haven't eaten yet, have you! I thought that might be the case, so I prepared a portion for you too, Father!"
I looked at her with a peculiar expression.
Someone with my mother's name is cooking me meals now? I think I'm getting dizzy.
The dizziness did not last. The moment I saw the table she'd set, I was hit with something far worse.
Sitting on the table was a pot filled to the brim with stew.
The never-ending pig slop...
There was no mistaking that visual. I couldn't hold back a sigh. I gave the pot a hopeful stir with the ladle, just in case some meat was hiding at the bottom, but sadly there was no meat to make an excuse of.
So the day I have to shove this into my mouth has finally come.
The one consolation was that this particular slop had not been boiled and reboiled across the ages. I supposed I should be grateful for that much.
"...From now on, I'll handle the cooking."
"Oh, no! You took me in as family. Chores like this should be my job!"
"I insist. Cooking happens to be a hobby of mine."
I had no such wholesome hobby, of course. It was nothing more than an excuse spit out because I never wanted to eat pig slop again. Fortunately she seemed to buy it, giving a small, accepting nod.
The problem I'd just solved, however, was a future one. It did nothing for the crisis sitting in front of me right now.
"Then this stew might be the first meal I ever serve you and the last! Please enjoy it!"
I snuck another look inside the pot.
Judging by how much she made, I'll be eating this through tomorrow morning.
Afraid the distaste would show on my face, I carefully smoothed my expression and lifted the ladle.
Turnip, sweet potato, beans... is that an apple chunk?
The more I poked through the contents, the more new ingredients surfaced. The pièce de résistance was a sticky, glutinous lump.
...Sujebi?
I'd thought the stew seemed oddly viscous given how much sweet potato was in it. That would be the hand-torn flour dumplings. Turnips, already famous for tasting like nothing, plus dumplings dumped in without a drop of broth. The stuff had looked unappetizing enough before I knew what was in it. Now that I did, what little appetite I'd had punched through the floor and kept going.
Then again, it might be different once it was in my mouth. I carefully took a bite.
The slimy dumpling squished wetly between my teeth.
Was her grandmother British, by any chance?
I couldn't help thinking it.
And I have to eat this through tomorrow morning.
That was when a thoroughly wicked idea crossed my mind — the kind of thought no real priest would ever entertain. Of course, I was a priest impostor, so a scheme this vile was well within my reach.
"Come to think of it, the workmen were hard at it in the chapel earlier."
"Yes?"
"They must be hungry as well. Why don't we share the food with them?"
I refuse to suffer this alone.
I swallowed the thought and made the suggestion with a gentle smile. Priestess Malza seemed to think it was a wonderful idea, nodding at once.
"That's a great idea! I'll go share it with them right now!"
There was no real need for her to leave in the middle of the meal, but I didn't stop her. The instant she gathered up the pot and headed out, I slipped away just as quickly.
Time to flee— I mean, go grocery shopping.
Nobody was chasing me, but my feet picked up the pace all the same.
Is this my second time grocery shopping at the market?
Calling the first trip "grocery shopping" was a stretch, if I was being honest. All I'd bought back then was an oak block and a carving knife for sculpting a holy symbol.
But I'd barely arrived at the market before something completely unexpected stopped me in my tracks.
"Goodness, Father! I'm telling you, that's the regular price!"
"No, I... you really shouldn't."
The merchants were ripping me off. Or more precisely—
"Honestly, that IS the regular price. Have you been getting fleeced this whole time?!"
—they were using the gouge to scoop extra into my basket.
I looked down at the ingredients piled high in both arms.
There's no way I got all this for fifty bucks.