Top Student from the Slums (3)
“Georges St. Pierre’s house, Your Majesty.”
Roin’s crisp reply made Georges’s eyes go wide.
“I… Your Majesty. I’m not sure what’s going on here…”
“...?”
“There must’ve been some mistake in the grading process. I’m not the top of the year.”
Roin smiled brightly at Georges, who was waving her hands in frantic denial.
“Your heroics on that train the other day? Impressive.”
“W-what did I even do? I was just… in the way.”
“Still, finding courage in a situation like that? Not easy. And you weren’t even an official knight yet.”
“Well… someday I will be.”
“How’d you even think to charge at those terrifying villains?”
“Of course—to protect Your Majesty…”
“Why protect me?”
“...? Because you’re the liege of all knights, the most noble person in the world.”
Roin nodded with a grin.
“And what if that most noble person wants to go? You gonna keep saying no?”
Georges’s face flushed beet red as she stammered excuses.
“N-no, it’s not that… My place is just… really, really rundown.”
“Doesn’t bother me.”
“It’ll bother you…”
As Georges hesitated, two more figures appeared behind her.
“Tch! Since when does a knight argue with her liege?”
“Tsk tsk. No qualifications for ‘top.’ Maybe ‘runner-up’ me would do better.”
Georges whipped around to see Principal Dumbledore and Leclerc standing there.
The principal scolded her sternly but kindly.
“Her Majesty’s will is the will of the gods! Escort her to your home at once!”
“Y-yes, sir!”
Georges barked the reply. She snuck a glance at Leclerc beside the principal.
How’d my answer sheet end up in Her Majesty’s hands? Don’t tell me he…?
Leclerc met her eyes and looked down his nose at her with haughty disdain.
“Slum rat gets ahead in the world. Even hosting the queen. Congrats.”
A vein throbbed on Georges’s forehead at Leclerc’s words.
No way. That pompous goldspoon jerk…
Georges huffed and brushed past Leclerc.
“...Ugh, why say it to her face like that? You’re so bad at this.”
Roin followed, playfully punching Leclerc’s arm.
Leclerc’s face turned scarlet in an instant.
The principal paused as he passed, adding one more line.
“Just the one word? You know school romance is banned, right?”
“...”
“Save it for after graduation, in the knights’ order. These things happen in time.”
True to form for a principal, he’d said he’d say one thing and dropped two.
Leclerc sighed heavily, face still burning. Today, like always, things felt hopelessly frustrating.
“...This way.”
Georges’s voice, usually so bold, was now barely a squeak, shrunken small.
She stood before a dizzyingly high shantytown, over two hours’ walk away. Endless stairs stretched out ahead—like infinity itself.
“Your Majesty, shall I summon attendants even now…?”
Georges turned—and froze in shock.
Roin had ditched her dress for tracksuit and sneakers.
“Let’s go.”
“...”
Roin climbed the stairs with gusto. She couldn’t match Georges’s stamina, but it was plenty for the shantytown trek.
Steep stairs slick with filth, narrow alleys, slate roofs, cement walls crusted with grime. Even in this labyrinth without signs, Georges led deeper still.
“Here.”
She pointed to a tiny basement studio at the alley’s end.
A room about 5 pyeong. Barely any furniture. Cracked windows let in gloom. No mana stone for light—of course.
“It’s… a bit rough… Can anyone really live here?”
Roin’s words from behind made Georges hang her head.
Yes. To common sense—to a queen’s eyes—this was worse than a doghouse.
To make my liege say something like that…
Georges bit her lip, head bowed. Tears welled. She’d never hated her poverty more.
“I’m sorry for living in a place like this. But for tonight, I’ll make it as comfortable as possible.”
“Ah, my bad! I shouldn’t have said something so rude… It’s fine. I can handle it!”
“No need to endure. I can’t host Your Majesty in a hovel like—”
“No! The dorm-sharing tradition dates back to the previous king! We can’t skip it just because a cadet’s home is small and shabby!”
Roin declared stoutly.
“Come on! In you go, Cadet Georges!”
“...?”
They hadn’t even entered yet—what was there to go into?
Georges turned, puzzled.
“...Your Majesty?”
“Yep! I’m good!”
“...That’s not my house. It’s the recycling bin.”
Roin’s face, cozy in a perfectly sized box, flushed crimson.
“What?! Why didn’t you say so sooner! You pointed here!”
“Ah, I meant the house a bit further up… Or rather, that’s not a house to begin with?”
“You hyped it up as so rundown I pictured the worst.”
Roin climbed out, brushed herself off, and laughed.
At the basement door, she nodded without a hint of disgust.
“Eh, what’s the big deal? It’s fine! Tiny, but decent for one person.”
“...?”
Where was the “fine” in this? Georges stared, eyes wide.
But Roin, who’d lived in a mountain hut until meeting Cliche, felt no revulsion at the shabby building. The doorknob and windows actually working? A step up from her old place.
Screeeak…
Inside, Roin’s eyes rounded.
Tiny studio. Oddest feature: a drum barrel smack in the empty center, half-filled with charred scrap wood.
Newspaper layered thick on walls and windows. Floor buried in dry pine needles, sawdust, shredded newsprint—like a hamster cage.
“Keeps it warm.”
Roin nodded at Georges’s explanation.
“Efficient heating. Bubble wrap on the walls would be even better.”
“Gasp? How does Your Majesty know about that?”
Roin smiled wryly. Memories of poverty stirred a pang of sympathy.
But they weren’t bad memories.
Roin plopped onto the newspaper-sawdust bed.
“What do you like, Cadet Georges? Any favorite foods?”
“Oh! Right! I’ll prepare dinner right away. Though…”
“Though?”
“Can I serve what I actually eat, no frills…?”
“Of course! I hate showy displays. Isn’t that what dorm-sharing’s for?”
“Yes! Understood!”
Buoyed by Roin’s kindness, Georges gained some confidence. She fetched a sack from the bathroom.
Meat inside.
“Why keep meat in the bathroom?”
“Coldest spot. Perfect fridge.”
“Aha.”
Georges loaded firewood into the big drum barrel, topped it with marble tiles.
“Mulberry wood I chop from the back hills.”
“Nice. BBQ time? Sounds tasty.”
Roin licked her lips, eyeing the tiles.
But the meat Georges pulled out was unexpected: white, greasy chunks, from fingernail-sized to fist-sized, squared off, with a faint fishy smell.
“What’s this?”
“Pork backfat.”
“Backfat?”
“Yeah, I buy it when I crave meat.”
“They sell backfat separately?”
Roin had never heard of eating just fat—usually tossed, right?
But Georges shook her head.
“Butcher downstairs sells it for 500 gold per kilo. Sometimes free.”
“Oh?”
“Crispy grilled, tastes like meat.”
“Ooh, who knew?”
“Yep. Salt-dipped, delicious.”
Georges grabbed potatoes from a corner box, wrapped in foil, tossed into the barrel.
“My staple. No dinner after school, but for hunger pangs, these.”
“Why potatoes?”
“Nutritious, cheap. Great satiety value.”
“Huh…”
Georges pulled out another hunk.
“My treat… Hope it suits you…”
Pork leg, wrapped in bay leaves.
“Good staple too. About 3,000 gold per jin.”
“Whoa! Cheap!”
“Yeah, once a month for me.”
Georges sliced, grilled on the tiles. As red meat browned, she prepped wraps: simple plate of chicory, mugwort, young pine needles, soy sauce.
Roin dug in happily. Georges’s cooking wasn’t masterful, ingredients humble—but grilled meat’s always tasty.
Crunch!
Roin nodded at the crispy fat.
“Texture like crackers, but meaty flavor?”
“Too much isn’t healthy, but occasional’s fine.”
“I like the leg better.”
“Eat up. Plenty left.”
Georges beamed, sliding meat to Roin. Roin grinned back.
The queen at her knight’s loyalty; the knight at her queen’s acceptance of her poverty.
After meat and potatoes, Roin flopped on the floor.
“Haaah. So full.”
“Bath now?”
“Huh? Bath possible?”
Roin sat up; Georges hesitated, then nodded.
She ditched the hot grill tile—crack! It shattered.
Gurgle!
Georges scooped unburnt wood, filled barrel with water.
Bubble bubble…!
Barrel cooled fast into warm bathwater. Dirty with ash and sediment.
“Looks filthy, but clean. Mulberry ash sterilizes, antibiotics for wounds and skin. No pork grease—safe.”
Georges stirred ash in.
Roin stripped without fuss.
“Join me?”
Georges blushed furiously.
“H-how could I presume to bathe with Your Majesty…”
Flustered, her words garbled.
Roin giggled, lunged at Georges.
“Together! Baths are fun with company!”
“Eek! N-nooo!”
“Your panic’s adorable. Strip!”
“I-I’ve no experience!”
Georges babbled incoherently. Meanwhile, half-naked Roin dragged her in.
“Wah!”
Dunked, Georges quieted. Roin followed.
Barrel was roomy. Floating mulberry leaves in the tub.
“Perfect temp.”
“Yes. Nice and toasty.”
Both sank to necks, faces blissed out. Ash piled on bottom, soft between toes.
Roin stirred ash with toes, playful; Georges warned.
“Don’t kick it up—hot bottom could burn.”
“So squishy between toes! Try it!”
“...Shall I?”
They scooped ash with toes, giggling. Georges smeared some on Roin’s face as a mask; Roin retaliated on Georges.
Splat! Splat!
They played till the water cooled.
“Ahh, fun bath. Dump the rest?”
“No. Strain the ash water for soap and detergent later.”
“So thrifty. Cool.”
“Just stingy.”
Georges cleared the barrel, prepped beds. Just piled newspaper shreds, sawdust into cushy mounds with hollows—like a cozy hamster nest.
She stoked the central barrel, blanketed ash, arranged Roin’s spot nearby.
“Eh!?”
Georges couldn’t help laughing at ready-for-bed Roin: double socks, wool cap.
“Caps keep you warm sleeping.”
“True.”
Georges took the offered cap. Heart already warming.
They lay side-by-side by the barrel. As fire died, room went pitch black.
“...Georges, asleep?”
“After Your Majesty.”
Roin rolled over. Dark hid it, but mischief sparkled in her eyes.
“Can’t sleep yet. Heroine gossip time.”
“...!”
Georges’s eyes snapped open, intrigued. Girls’ nights burned brighter than day.