Saturday, I’m awake even before the morning call, and my weekend routine goes off without a hitch. Lottie and Gwen meet me in town to lead me to the bakery (you know, I’m sure I can probably get there myself) and Pete happily hands me the apron, chatting to Lottie.

As usual, the day isn’t too busy. All the customers in the morning are women of various ages, some pulling along little ones. Lunchtime, a couple of men come in for a roll. They don’t exactly ogle me, but they do look at me a little more than I’m comfortable with. I guess I’ve been lucky so far. For Ellie, that kind of thing was, well, she had to get used to it otherwise she would have broken down. Rumours weren’t just for the girls. But that had been boys around her age, not grown men.

Speaking as Nora, I’ve not really been put in this sort of position before, and I have tried to look plain. I guess I probably do standout amongst the commonfolk. Paler, cleaner skin, slender arms that haven’t seen a hard day’s work. It’s not that commonfolk are ugly, just that I’m fortunate enough to have been “polished”.

That said, I do have a pretty face, so it is a little genetic.

Anyway, whether having Pete behind me or those men being more interested in lunch, it really is just a look. They don’t try and hold my hand when I take their money or give them the roll, and they don’t say anything. Well, they say, “Thanks, love,” and, “Ta, love,” but that’s a common enough, um, nickname(?) for commonfolk women around here. Maybe thinking of it as “luv” is better.

Despite how much I’m thinking about it, that’s more to do with the slow day than because I’m upset by it or worried. Thinking that, I turn to Pete and bend sideways a bit to see if he’s napping. As if he can feel my gaze, he cracks open his eye, catching me.

“Ah, um, I was wondering if I should… sweep?” I ask, startled even though I was, like, expecting to see him? I guess I was ready to see his eyes closed or open, not opening.

He pushes up his cap, unsettling himself from his seat and rolling his shoulders, and a yawn slips out of him. “Well, Lou does that.”

I haven’t met her, but Lou is his wife and she does the “night shift”, making the morning bread and leaving it to rest; he then comes down early to bake it and prepares the afternoon bread. Their daughter, Jenny, would tend to the customers before she was married.

So Lou does the cleaning as well. I guess it’s better to sweep when there’s nothing out, not quite the dusting you want on bread.

“Aye, it’s fine. If ye got a book or some’ing, go fer it,” he says.

I mean, when he says it like that, I suppose I shouldn’t worry. It’s his money. However, I don’t have a book with me or anything to pass the time. If I had a needle and thread… but it would be too weird to walk around town with that in my pocket, I think.

The afternoon eventually brushes against evening and Lottie returns to pick me up along with a loaf of bread. We chat a little on the walk back, but it’s still more me talking at her than with her, not too different from the old days. I make sure to pry—and ask Gwen what sort of things Lottie gets up to with her sweetheart.

Apparently, Lottie giggles after their morning kiss, and he calls her “Lottes”, or at least he always says, “Love you, Lottes,” when he leaves. Lottie is not pleased that this information has been disclosed to me, but she’s the soft sort who can’t quite bring herself to discipline her own child over telling the truth.

It’s well worth a slice of cake.

Sunday now, I expect it will go the same. I hurry to get to town so they aren’t late to mass (they head to church after dropping me off at the bakery). The morning starts like last Sunday, very slow but still the odd customer.

With all that time to think and Lottie and Gwen on my mind, I can’t help but ask Pete, “Not that I’m suggesting anything, but… is there a reason you don’t attend Sunday mass?”

He takes a gulp of his tea, always plenty of milk added to cool it down. “Ye know, was hard keeping the shop running when Lou was with Jenny, then the baby to care for, and every penny mattered, yeah? So I stopped going and, ye know, everything’s fine. Day of rest, bah, plenty‘f time to rest when I’m dead.”

I can see that. I mean, he makes enough to pay me, so closing up really would be turning down money. And I guess that time was stressful enough that they didn’t want to have another child. I’m not exactly an expert on these things, but it seems like most families here are one to three kids, even amongst the commonfolk. There doesn’t seem to be an infant mortality problem, so maybe that’s why.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

“What about ye? Tired of them grannies setting ye up with the grandsons?” he asks, grinning.

I smile back. To me, it’s… as Nora, I’ve always been caught between the belief that there must be a god to explain my “reincarnation”, and it obviously can’t be this world’s god or my old world’s god because of that. In Ellie’s world, there were a couple of religions that had reincarnation, but they had stuff about karma and becoming an animal and I don’t think they included this kind of retaining memories—or being reborn in another world entirely.

Still, as Nora I attended church with my family once a month and on special occasions. It wasn’t compulsory at my last school or this school, so I haven’t gone except when I’m back home.

Pete patiently awaiting my answer, I focus and come up with something. “That is… He tells us to take all things in moderation, and doesn’t He already have us rest for a third of the day?”

It’s not exactly an answer, but he laughs, lightly patting my shoulder. “Too right.”

He gets back to baking, then.

I relax, wondering if I should get out my book before I end up with more strange questions I just have to ask. There probably won’t be many customers until mass finishes.

However, I’m not left idle for long. The door opens, bell rings, and I stand up straight and put on a smile, my hands neatly folded at my waist. “Welcome, sir.” I say those words without letting my surprise sound out. That is, I call every man who comes in “sir”, but this man really looks to be a “sir”, or rather a “Lord”.

He’s tall, slim, and the shape of his nose (pointed, ever so slightly hooked) and the narrow look of his face give off an aristocratic air. The clothes fit well, tailored, fabric fine and a hint of a lustre to his dinner jacket, smoothly catching the light. His black hair is neatly brushed with a middle parting, not even a shade of stubble on his face.

Given where he is, I’d say he must be a butler, but even a butler wouldn’t be here unless lost and he doesn’t look lost at all.

His impression is maybe a bit cold, his height making him someone who looks down on others and his groomed appearance telling of arrogance. Yet his narrowed eyes, an icy shade of blue, show an unmistakable warmth when they meet mine, his mouth set in a thin but distinctive smile.

“Oh my,” he says, his voice low but not overly so, far from Pete’s rumbling.

Pete pokes his head out, his footsteps coming up behind me. “Ah, sir again,” he says, stepping around me entirely and going over to greet the man.

“Please, do call me Nigel.”

Pete clicks his tongue. “Last time ye said Oliver.”

“The clients prefer Nigel.”

While I look on, entirely lost, Pete claps “Nigel” on the back, making the poor man stumble. “Nigel, then.” Pete turns around and, seeing me, his face lights up. “Ah, still looking fer staff?”

Am I… being sold off?

“You know, I am rather in need of another waitress. With the school term starting up, those young ladies from King Rupert’s are making the café quite busy on weekends.”

Pete claps his hands together and says, “Well, ain’t I got the lass fer ye. Old friend of Lottie—that missus I said?”

“Ah, yes, madam Charlotte Grocer. She would be perfect if not for, no, I should say her dedication to her child is admirable.”

I guess he asked Lottie and she turned him down because of Gwen?

“Aye. This lass, dare say she’s better.”

After a moment, they both turn to face me, and I feel the urge to step back, unsure which of them to look at.

“I did think she holds herself rather well,” the man says. “Confident voice too. Even seeing me, she didn’t waver.”

“Oh aye, and very polite.”

The shock wearing off, I’m starting to feel irritated—I’m standing right here, you know? Maybe my irritation finally shows, because the man brings a hand to his mouth, and then softly shakes his head. “My goodness, where are my manners? Please, my lady, I am Neville Thatcher.”

He walks to the counter as he speaks and offers me his hand.

Of course, I don’t take it. There’s not an exact reason, but I’m unwed and I can see his wedding ring, as well as the age difference. It’s also somewhat rude to greet someone over a table and a shop counter probably counts.

His eyes seem to sparkle, that slight smile growing. “You are?” he asks, taking back his hand.

“I am Ellie Kent,” I say, curtseying.

“A wonderful name befitting one of such grace,” he says, bowing back to me. “Would you be interested in a job that similarly befits?”

It’s… I can’t exactly say if he’s a smooth-talker. Well, no, he is, but I can’t say if he’s a good smooth-talker. It certainly sounded nice to hear, yet it didn’t make my heart beat faster or anything? Shouldn’t I be blushing?

Maybe I’ve read too many romance stories.

Collecting myself with a brush of the apron, I then look him in the eye. “I am afraid I already have a job I am happy with.”

Pete interrupts us there, shuffling around the counter again. “No, go on,” he says. “It’ll suit ye there. Have a look, yeah?”

“I would have to agree with Mr Baker,” Neville says.

“And he’s a good bloke, wife and kids, don’t worry,” Pete says.

“Given our clientele, the pay is quite generous, and for only a half-shift I might add.”

They make it sound like I have a choice, but I don’t, do I?

Neville, with a crooked smile, looks at me and asks, “Won’t you indulge me?”

I’m not entirely sure, but I think it should be embarrassing for a grown man with a wife and children to say such a thing to a young lady such as myself. However, I keep that to myself, looking away from him.

“Fine, I guess.”

Rather than annoyed at my half-hearted response, he gently laughs. “Ah, you do remind me of my daughter, which is of course the highest compliment a father can give.”

So I end up on the street again (a halfpenny in my hand, not that I did any work, but Pete felt bad for having me come out all this way for nothing), following a step behind Nigel. Or, well, Neville?

Whatever.

It’s surely going to be a busier day than I thought after all.