Chapter 5: Home Sweet Home

Just kidding. While I enjoy a good nap as much as anyone, I’m not quite lazy enough to immediately head to bed, right after waking up from several days spent unconscious. That said, I did need to get back to the orphanage: all of my belongings were there, after all. Granted, I didn’t have much to my name at the time: a few sets of clothes, mostly second hand, and the wooden practice sword I’d been practising with when I got knocked flat on my back, prompting a trip to the healers and the return of my memories from a past life.

I’d have to repay Damien for that, I promised myself then. An expensive gift for my memories, and a kick to the family jewels for the method of acquisition, which left much to be desired. Lacking anything urgent to do, I permitted myself the indulgence of revenge fantasies, as I let my memories lead me back upon a well trod path. After all, meagre though my possessions were, they were mine, and nobody else would have them. To my good fortune, my hometown of Allensward wasn’t too big; its founder and namesake was not a big investor in land, despite his renowned magical prowess. Accordingly, it took a mere ten minutes and change to get home.

The front doors were open, in keeping with national policy, they’d stay that way until night fell. Letting myself in, I nodded to the obvious guard manning the front desk, pulling double duty as the receptionist on account of his precise handwriting.

“Will Swindell, returning home from medical observation.”

The guard grunted, picking up his quill and adding a line to the orphanage logbook. Just a brief scrawl, detailing my identity and time of arrival, of the kind that nobody ever read, until it suddenly became an item of great interest during legal proceedings. That was all the acknowledgement I got as I headed inside; a handful of staff took care of over two dozen children at any given time, so the amount of interaction was minimal by necessity.

As a consequence, the Will of before remembered his upbringing as cold and distant, enough to leave lasting psychological scars that undoubtedly stunted his development. As a reincarnate, though, it was perfect for me; the fewer people who could claim closeness to me, the less chance someone discovered my radical change in personality, and started screaming about possession or demonic infiltration. Both had happened in Frontier within living memory, and I had no desire to deal with the Inquisition at that point in time, or preferably ever, for that matter.

The youngest children, preteen by English reckoning were already gone, ushered into their rooms at sunset for some much needed rest. It was a sobering realisation that this society, so far behind the development curve in many ways, was the one that placed a proper emphasis on getting enough sleep. Half the day, in fact, in line with modern medical guidance that every developed nation ignored in favour of early morning lessons or evening socials. A few younger teens pottered about, washing dishes and wiping down surfaces, as they finished their chores for the day.

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It wasn’t strictly necessary, I knew; the matron was a Housekeeper with enough magic to do everyone’s chores with mana to spare. The work kept the troublemakers occupied, however, and taught the rest discipline and obedience, so the chore rota persisted nonetheless. Thankfully, those sixteen and above were exempt, as they were expected to spend their final two years at the orphanage preparing for their future Class, as best they could. Ignoring the rabble, I headed up two flights of stairs, until I reached my room.

It was tiny, barely fitting a single bed and a wooden chest filled with everything I owned in this life. Being on the top floor, the sloped roof came down at an angle to cut off a third of the standing space, a source of repeated misfortune for Will’s poor head, over the years. Nonetheless, it was all worth it, because let me repeat, this was my room: most children in the orphanage shared rooms, with anywhere from two to six residents per room. Will had prioritised great privacy over comfort, in claiming this room, one of the few areas where our personalities perfectly aligned.

After opening the padlock, a four digit piece of metal that wouldn’t have looked out of place on an Armani suitcase, I finally got to check my ‘inventory’. Five sets of clothes made of hemp: dull, grey, and functional. A set of furred boots for when winter started to bite. A wooden sword with more splinters than edge. Everything was where it was supposed to be; everything, except what was most important to me.

It was the work of seconds to lock my chest back up, heading outside and down one floor to the locked door that I’d never entered during my time at the orphanage. The Matron took a laid back approach to governance, delegating all the day-to-day concerns to a team of half a dozen carers. I could recall only a handful of times when she had to step in herself, to resolve in seconds what her subordinates couldn’t in hours. Truly, she was the model of an effective CEO.

The door opened before I could even think to knock, and I stepped inside, to an office that was remarkably familiar to me.. Bookshelves, filled to bursting with tomes and binders. Loose sheafs of paper everywhere I looked, some of them even finding their way beneath the floorboards. The refreshing smell of coffee, wet ink and just a hint of detergent. All it would take was replacing the candles with overhead lighting, and it could’ve been a mirror of my own home office in Chelsea.

“Is something the matter, William?”

Right, Will was shorthand; that made sense, though it struck me as odd even at the time, that the System preferred the short version of my name. Shaking my head lightly, I turned away from my examination of her office, and turned to address the Matron.

[Matron Bayard - ???]

“So, how do I get paid?”