No Law, and Fists Hurt
"I am truly, deeply sorry, young master! That damned beast went and smashed the frame of the big carriage to pieces!"
"Mm, it's fine. Just lend us a two-seater, then. The ladies will be riding, so drive carefully."
"Th-then what about you, young master...?"
"I'll just ride this fellow here. We've a long way to go—I can hardly make the ladies walk, can I?"
My suspicions lingered even after Thomas's concession had gotten me into the carriage.
Why had the Count invited me to his castle in the first place?
What reason did the Count's eldest son have for coming all the way out to this backwater village himself—and why was a man who was, by name at least, a noble overflowing with manners to this degree?
The possibility that he was simply a decent human being was not worth considering.
In this suffocating medieval caste society, a noble who respected and looked after a mere farmer's daughter wasn't well-mannered—he was vulgar.
The idea that kings and generals weren't born of special stock only came up in twenty-first-century democratic republics or during East Asian dynastic transitions. In thirteenth-century Europe, the only people who enjoyed even partial freedom were the free citizens of the cities.
Of course, there was always the scenario of a magnanimous man of character who walked his own path without caring about the gazes of other nobles... but hadn't that escort uncle just chewed me out for being rude?
That had been less a personal lapse and more a reflexive greeting that had slipped out on its own.
In other words, he was used to freely abusing commoners.
And Thomas and his friends were, by nature, on the same side.
It made no sense that soldiers tasked with guarding the heir of a count's house would casually go around doing the exact opposite of their charge's disposition.
So was our young balding-victim Thomas really a kind, well-mannered noble?
Wasn't the far more plausible scenario that he was wearing a mask for some reason?
But then—what was that reason?
It wasn't as if my being a Saintess had been revealed yet, and he'd been strangely courteous even before he'd seen the Water Frame's elegant form.
I kept turning the Montpellier Count family's intentions over and over in my mind, and by the time we reached our destination I had managed to discover one important fact.
"Ugh."
This carriage's ride quality was incredible...!
"Damn it. They need to hurry up and lay some asphalt already."
I muttered an impossible dream under my breath as I climbed down from the carriage.
This sudden medieval carriage tour had been even more horrific than I'd imagined.
I'd never ridden one before, so I hadn't known—but thinking about it, this era had neither tires nor paved roads.
Large cities and the insides of lordly castles might have brick paths, but our neighborhood was a backwater with none of that.
So I had been forced to feel the friction between wooden wheels and dirt road with my entire body, and I had come to understand with perfect clarity what true off-road driving really meant.
One of the wheels even shattered halfway through.
The carriage kept catching on rocks and lurching, and while I was watching with a growing sense of dread, there was a sudden cracking sound and the whole thing slumped over.
I thought for a second we were about to be abandoned in the middle of the road, but the old coachman simply swapped in a spare wheel and solved the problem.
Out of curiosity I checked the cargo bed and found two more identical spare wheels stacked there.
Apparently in this era the roads were so wretched that broken wheels were simply "common sense."
That was how I finally understood why the traveling merchant charged so much for his goods. With transportation this nightmarish, selling a ten-florin item for twenty florins would still put you in the red.
"I really want asphalt. I want an eight-lane paved road with drainage and heated coils..."
Ah, to think those ugly asphalt roads I'd once looked down on could be so precious.
In a world where carriages ranked as cutting-edge transportation, even those trashy motorcycle gangs from my past life started looking like civilized people armed with future technology.
If I'd known it would be like this, I should have just come on horseback.
I didn't know how to ride, but it still would have been better than the carriage.
"Asphalt?"
"There's something like that. We don't have the facilities yet, so it's still just a dream."
While I was gazing at the wooden wheels and drowning in nostalgia for my previous life, Rebecca spoke the name of a substance that didn't exist here.
I gave a light shake of my head and avoided any detailed explanation.
In an age that hadn't even established the basics of chemistry, talking about petroleum and fractional distillation would only go so far.
Besides, right now it wasn't chemistry—it was alchemy.
The kind where people dug around with toxic substances trying to exploit a gold-duplication bug.
Would those people even know what petroleum was?
No—maybe the concept of alchemists didn't even exist in this world.
Alchemy was fundamentally empty superstition, and medieval European Catholicism had actively rooted out superstition wherever it found it. The Vesta Order, which had filled Catholicism's role here, had been staffed entirely by superpowered clergy.
Even the Catholics who couldn't use Divine Power had been perfectly happy to crack alchemists' skulls. In a fantasy world where priests could breathe fire from their mouths, the Order might have wiped alchemists out completely.
And with them, any foundations of chemistry they might have built would have gone up in ashes as well.
"I hope we can make it someday."
"Yeah."
But thinking about it further, it didn't seem like a particularly important problem.
If anything resembling an industrial revolution even started before I died of old age, that alone would be a miracle—chemistry could wait.
Once we built educational facilities and started churning out educated people, that kind of gap would close quickly enough.
I had more immediate problems than fretting over the chemical technology of another world's humanity.
"How do you like it, Lady Rebecca? The pride of House Montpellier—Vermont Castle."
Thomas introduced his home with a look of pure satisfaction.
I had no idea why he was showing off the house to Rebecca, who had only come along as my guardian, instead of to me, the person he had personally invited—but the fortress he so proudly presented was extremely... hideous.
I was not inventing some petty grievance about being snubbed by Thomas.
Vermont Castle looked like a pile of stones someone had stacked up haphazardly.
"Wow, it's huge! But the shape is a little unusual, isn't it?"
Is this even a castle?
I asked about the identity of this enormous rock pile as if I knew nothing.
No—the European castles I knew didn't look like this.
What kind of castle didn't even have its outer walls fully bricked? Was this an Instagram-aesthetic café?
"Haha, the outer walls still need a bit more time before they're finished. But the inside is perfectly fine, so don't worry."
Yep. Instagram café. Even the "the interior is fine, I promise" sales pitch was identical.
"Are you building a new castle?"
"It's been a few years now."
Thomas gave a cool nod and led us inside.
People must have come and gone regularly; the guards didn't even check us and simply waved us through.
And then the lively scenery of the domain came into view.
Hidden behind the walls still under construction, a charming cluster of multi-story houses and a central keep of modest size greeted visitors with a surprisingly respectable presence.
"Oh..."
"The inside is pretty decent."
I ignored Rebecca, who was subtly broadcasting her dissatisfaction, and sank into a cauldron of pure emotion.
How many times had I been disappointed and crushed since starting this second life through an unwanted reincarnation?
Born the youngest daughter of a rural farmer and forced to endure a dirt-floor medieval existence utterly devoid of romance, this little city felt genuinely lovable to me.
"We'll prepare a suitable room for you. Rest there and recover from the journey today. Your audience with the Count will be at midday tomorrow."
Thomas smiled contentedly and handed me a small pouch.
"A modest token of hospitality. Incidentally, Vermont Castle sells truly excellent chicken dishes—I highly recommend you try them at least once."
Attracting tourists while stimulating the local economy—you're a smart one, aren't you!
Fine. I won't spend it anywhere weird. I'll use it all right here.
But is the chicken here better than fried chicken?
I seriously doubt it.
"Nice. Let's see just how deep Young Master Thomas's pockets—"
The moment Thomas headed into the keep first and I was about to check the amount of pocket money he'd given me—
Rebecca snatched the pouch in the blink of an eye and began counting the coins.
"Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine... only forty florins. House Montpellier's finances must be in rough shape."
She returned the money pouch with a proud little smile.
Uh... was that jealousy just now?
She checked that the money she'd given me was larger and felt relieved?
Ugly. So ugly.
At fourteen she was still young enough that almost anything she did could be called cute, but even so—comparing money tossed over for a single meal to a fortune accumulated across three generations was a stretch.
And forty florins for one meal was an absurd fortune. Far from being short on funds, they seemed to be swimming in money.
"House Montpellier's finances must be in rough shape...!"
So stop saying it twice.
Keep that up and I'll stop calling you Unnie.