On the Preciousness of Money -4-
Today's lady's room was as peaceful as ever. A lazy afternoon with warm spring breezes drifting in. When I visited with snacks in hand, I spotted the lady sitting at her desk, utterly absorbed in something.
"Fold left once."
Muttering to herself as she fiddled with a large sheet of paper, the lady nodded and moved her hands again.
"Left again…."
Her lips pursed in concentration. Thinking she must be crafting something profoundly deep, I tiptoed closer without making a sound.
That parcel from last time.
—Ricardo, don't ever open parcels that arrive.
—Why not?
—Just don't. It's my underwear.
I'd resisted the urge to peek since she said it was underwear. It felt like just yesterday I'd taught her how to order via parcel through letters, and here she was, doing it herself. Commendable.
The lady pressed down hard on the cardboard with her small, delicate fingers, deep in focus. Watching her concentrate on origami, I asked,
"Lady Olivia."
"Mm."
She answered without looking up. I waved my hand in front of her face and pulled a silly expression, but failed to draw her gaze from her task. Was this what a workaholic looked like? Admirable as her focus was, I felt a pang of hurt that she ignored the world's handsomest butler.
Wearing a sulky expression, I asked why the sudden origami.
"What are you doing?"
"Folding a box."
"Why a box all of a sudden?"
"Well..."
—Press.
Folding it in half and pressing firmly again, she clamped her mouth shut. As the cardboard took shape, her words dwindled sharply. Reaching her concentration limit, she snorted and nodded. Sighing at her refusal to finish explaining, I called louder.
"Lady Olivia!"
"Hiet...!"
Startled by my raised voice, she flinched, shoulders jumping, and finally looked at me. Tears welled in her eyes from the shock, her face full of grievance. Smiling, I repeated,
"Why are you folding a box?"
"Oh. Where was I...?"
"Start from 'Well...' again."
"Yeah. Well..."
Resuming her folding, she tried multitasking by talking. Doubting I'd hear the reason today at this rate, I snatched the cardboard box from her hands and clasped mine behind my back.
"Oh...!?"
Her eyes widened at the vanished cardboard. Staring at me, she tilted her head.
"Want to do origami too, Ricardo?"
"No."
"Do it together. It's fun."
She offered me a stack of cardboard sheets from the desk.
"Sounds no fun."
"..."
Hit right on the mark, she flashed an awkward smile.
"No, it's super fun! Look!"
Grabbing fresh cardboard, she started anew with an excited face. Seeing her enthusiasm for box-folding—or rather, her desire to flop down—I smirked, rested my chin on my hand before her, and pressed,
"So why are you folding this?"
With a faint smile, she answered,
"Part-time job."
"Part-time?"
"Yeah. Pizza box folding gig."
"Oh..."
Looking at her creation, I thought,
'Box...?'
Did something so philosophically artistic deserve the label "pizza box"? Gazing at her grotesque Medusa-like abomination, I gave my honest take.
"This'll get you fired too."
She nodded solemnly.
"Yeah, probably."
Truly, she had great self-awareness. Offering the piled cardboard again,
"Wanna try?"
"No."
"Why!"
"No fun."
"Together!"
"No."
"Eeeek!"
From that day, the lady developed a keen interest in side gigs. No idea what wind blew, but she'd fire off letters at newspaper ads. I'd opposed at first, hating to see her struggle, but her stubborn resolve to earn her own money wore me down.
—Eeeek! I'm earning money!
—Don't I earn it?
—No. I wanna earn too.
—I'll earn double then.
—You'll turn bad if you overdo it. No.
—Why now? I'm already bad. Just extorted some today.
—...Come to think of it, yeah.
—Yup. Earning your own is good, so to build her social skills, I relented.
Earning independently teaches money's value. When she'd point to a newspaper ad yelling "This one!", I'd nod, freeing her from idleness. And she made many mistakes.
Fired from bear doll eye-sticking for making a female bear. Paid extra for infusing unnecessary artistry into boxes. Quit handkerchief embroidery in a huff. Yet her persistent efforts made me nod proudly. Darbav would weep seeing this; wished I could photograph it, but no camera.
Now, seated on the bed for her new gig, she stitched a stuffed doll clumsily, lips pursed as she addressed me.
"Ricardo."
"Yes."
"Don't cut your hair."
"My hair?"
Checking the mirror, I asked,
"Why?"
"You're ugly."
"My base face is so handsome, any style suits."
"No. You look best now."
Making a doll alongside her, I teased with a smile,
"Then, am I handsome now, lady?"
Like petals on the spring breeze, the question flowed naturally. She paused, then grinned.
"Yeah. Handsome."
My face burned hot. Sensing something off, she froze with needle and doll.
"Huh?"
Realizing she'd been tricked, the question mark over her head stretched into an exclamation. Shaking her head, she corrected,
"No!"
"No what?"
"I misspoke. You're ugly."
"Too late. Already fallen for my charm…."
"Eeeek!"
"Hiet!"
"Eeeeeeeek..."
Pouting in protest, she snorted, then sighed deeply.
"Not handsome, but passable."
At her haughty whine, I chuckled and nodded.
"Passable's something."
I liked that much. A brief silence fell, then as her doll took its first steps into the world—
—Stab.
"Eeeeeeeek!!!!"
Pricked by the needle, she shrieked and declared farewell to the doll.
"Not doing it!"
This everyday life suits me just fine.
A stark atmosphere hung over the Histania mansion. In the dim office, Rowen sat staring at a letter on his desk, sighing.
Rowen fiddled with the letter darkly, muttering,
"Academy lecturer..."
The Academy. A place of memories over twenty years old. There he'd battled rivals, met his first love. Through those bonds, he'd gained two daughters and a son. To Rowen, it was life's starting point—the sole refuge from his father's swordsmanship demands and the suffocating family.
"..."
Bitter smile at the resurfacing recollections.
'Was it like that for Hanna too?'
He never saw himself as a good parent. Family over children; duty to continue Histania's lineage. To forge a better future, nurture the talented heir, weed out the chaff—thus, a cold father. Yet his stubborn excuse lingered: 'I endured worse.' A cowardly justification that killed his daughter.
Rowen pondered long in his chair. Go to the Academy? Or ignore as always? One thing clear: he missed his youngest daughter now.