Pity Follows Only the Child Doomed to Misfortune
A grown person's eccentricities draw nothing but the judgmental gaze reserved for criminals, while a child burdened with impending doom is shadowed only by looks of pity.
I was lying in the garden, folding colored paper into frogs. The only downside? The mansion didn't have any green paper.
Rustle. My fingers brushed across the paper.
If I weren't a TS Girl but some hairy, middle-aged guy lying pathetically in the garden folding paper frogs, those pitying stares would turn into the kind you give a total lunatic.
The people around me watching didn't bother coming over to talk, but they looked at me with eyes full of sympathy and sorrow, as if I were some tragic waif.
A few days earlier, I'd jumped from a mansion window. My father—someone I could count on one hand the times I'd seen his face—had gathered up my brothers and a bunch of unnamed high nobles to stage a rebellion. If it'd succeeded, fine, but it crashed and burned spectacularly. So the other side demanded the heirs with succession rights as payback or whatever.
Anyway, after leaping from the second floor and hacking up a lung on the ground, not many people would suddenly recall their past life. Was it the fall that made my memories of my original life fuzzy, or remembering my past life that did it?
Ever since I woke up, my days consisted of holing up in my room munching on sweets, then folding paper when I got bored. The worried looks from everyone around never faded.
I didn't care. There wasn't anything to do anyway. The whole place felt like a funeral home no matter where I went. On top of that, the servants trailed me everywhere. The second I got near a window, they'd close in, ready to throw themselves in harm's way.
Unfortunately for their efforts, I had no reason to jump anymore. This body was far too satisfying for that.
I lifted the paper frog I'd just finished onto my palm. The fingers cradling it were slender and pale—nothing coarse or rough could ever describe them.
As I fiddled with the paper, a lock of hair spilled over the back of my hand. Silver. Nearly white, shimmering from pure snow to soft hues depending on the light. It trailed down past my waist, splayed out across the grass.
My eyes were red. My vision was crystal clear, so they were probably gleaming like sapphires right now. I didn't need a mirror to know. This face could make anyone fall in love. If I wore a tired expression, they'd think I was drowning in grief. If I smiled at someone, they'd swear it was love.
So it didn't matter where I went or how I lived. No one could resist loving me.
I folded another frog. Seven paper frogs now dotted the grass.
A few days from now, the Duke of Vintervalt's daughter would be dragged to the heart of the empire in her role as a noble lady. But she wouldn't go quietly.
I folded an eighth frog. I pressed down on its back.
Pop. The fold must've been off—it didn't jump.