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Chapter 11 - Food

Chapter 11 - Food

A year had passed since Rose secured her new job, and on the surface, things seemed steady. Sure, her wages were meager, and the manager dismissed her every innovative idea—a goldmine, considering they were freshly stolen from things that actually worked—but she moved on easily. She scraped together just enough to support herself and Dahlia. It wasn’t enough to fund her own machine, but it allowed the pair to survive comfortably.

Dahlia helped out quite a bit. Cleaning the house made the indoor air easier to breathe. She also took to running little errands for the neighbors, earning an Étain or two. But Rose was against her working like that. Child labor, though not existent in this world, had been one of the biggest reasons Rose was cast as the villain in the novel. That and constant abuse, but Rose was insistent that she do neither.

However, Dahlia insisted, and Rose couldn’t blame her. The girl was waiting for her parents to return. She would wait for a long, long time, and Rose hadn’t the heart to tell her. She herself still hoped for a miracle. A priest could feel charitable, after all. Not all were so disconnected from the poor that they would step over them without a second glance.

Yet, each time Rose left home, she bit down that miserable, lingering hope. It was the very first step in an all-too-familiar routine. Wake up, wipe the sweat from her skin, and swallow any thought that help was on its way. With that, she could start the day with a little more than determination—for desperation was its closest companion. She looked around at the street that, despite constantly changing, never really changed. In her hand, she held the large, familiar plate the old bat insisted she use to “throw out the trash.”

At first, it felt awkward accepting help from the woman. But she needed it, and in the end, she came to expect it, painfully aware that these daily meals were what kept her head above water.

She smiled at the thought. Perhaps there was something she could do for her. Something other than sending Dahlia to an orphanage. She chuckled at the old woman’s insistence on that idea, but Rose couldn’t bring herself to do it. Was it the smart thing to do? Yes, absolutely. Sure, a lot of those kids disappeared as soon as they were adopted—most were literally sold off—and those that remained? Well, war needed all the fuel it could get, and it was almost time for the king to be killed.

But the fact remained: Dahlia wasn’t just some child, not just a heroine with plot armor. Not to her anymore. She was more like a puppy. And who could say no to adopting a puppy? Well… Rose could, but that wasn’t the point. There was a bond between them now, fragile yet undeniable.

It also helped that Rose knew Dahlia would get her happy ending, would save the world, marry the duke, become queen, and lead the kingdom to glory. She could send a few Orfins her way after that. Laughing at the absurdity, Rose quickly shook her head. No, the real reason was that Dahlia reflected her original self so well. She was like a mirror.

Dead parents she believed had abandoned her for years? Check. An aunt who only took her in out of social obligation? Check. A happy ending? Well, this was a fantasy world. At least one of them deserved to have one.

Rose sighed as she arrived at the all-too-familiar “market.” “Good morning, how are you feeling today?” she asked, smiling at the old woman. As always, the woman’s stall was unchanged. She never broke it down or set it up—it simply existed. Only the large pots ever changed, and even then, it was only their contents.

Rose smiled again, bracing herself for a dry remark or an offhand insult. Yet the old woman only stared ahead, unflinching. Something about her silence sent a chill up Rose’s spine.

Rose hesitated, her brow furrowing. “How was your day?” Rose asked gently, her voice breaking the rising silence like a ripple across still water.

No response.

The woman didn’t stir, didnt blink didnt move. Rose reached out with a trembling hand. “Are you deaf now, old—?”

The words caught in her throat as her fingers met the cold, unyielding flesh. Rose fell silent, still. The woman was no longer able to scold her, or insist she send the girl away.

The woman was gone.

For a moment, Rose could only blink, stunned into stillness. Sure, the old bat was… well, old, but she wasn’t dying. Not yet. She looked around the street, her gaze darting between the passersby. People were setting up for the day, milling about without so much as a glance in her direction. No one here on the street would—she shook her head sharply. No, no one in the city would care about this old ba—woman.

But she had been so full of life just the other day. A miserable, conceited woman, sure, but… Rose's chest suddenly ached, and she realized she had stopped breathing. She inhaled sharply, filling her lungs with air. It was over. Done. There was nothing she could do. Yet she didn’t want to accept that.

Her eyes glazed over the familiar street until she spotted Chet. An old army man, his left arm lost to a long-forgotten battle, leaving him to scrape out a living on this street. Even so, he still had his strength. Sure, it was diminished, but an old woman like her wouldn’t weigh much.

Rose started toward him, her feet moving too quickly for her spinning mind to keep up. She stumbled, nearly falling, but caught herself awkwardly. Forcing herself to slow down, she walked again, step by step, her body feeling mechanical. Numb.

“What?” Chet tutted, his tone rough with annoyance as she stopped in front of him.

Rose blinked at his irritated expression. When had she gotten here? She shook her head. It didn’t matter. “She…” Rose’s voice faltered, her eyes darting toward the woman’s stall.

“A bitch, I know,” Chet said with a dry laugh, raising his voice as if the woman might hear him. But she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Not anymore.

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“No,” Rose whispered, her voice cracking. “Dead.”

The word hung in the air, foreign yet heavy, and the only thing she could focus on was the empty plate in her hand. It would never be full again. Dahlia would stare at her with those wide, questioning eyes, and they both would realize it. She wasn’t living—she was surviving. Surviving on the kindness of one miserable old woman who was now gone. What would happen to them now?

Rose hated the thoughts swirling in her mind but couldn’t stop them.

“The bitch kicked it? Finally,” Chet muttered, his voice lined with grim amusement as he gave a nod and a chuckle. His laughter faded as he noticed the pale, blank look on Rose’s face. “Why’s it matter to ya?”

Food. Shelter. Clothes. The basic needs of life. She managed to scrape together enough for shelter, bleeding her fingers raw trying to keep what little clothes they had in one piece. But food? Food had just died.

Food. Just. Died.

Chet’s smile faded at her silence. “Oi…” he called, snapping her out of her spiraling thoughts.

“What?” Rose asked, her voice barely audible.

Chet scratched the side of his large nose, his eyes narrowing. “Should we move the body?” he asked gruffly.

“Yeah…” Rose mumbled, her voice wavering. She swallowed hard and nodded. “That’s… that’s why I came. To ask if you could… help.”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck before nodding. “Alright,” he said.

They walked toward the dead woman, Chet grabbing hold of the chair she had died in with ease. “Bang open the door, will ya?” he called over his shoulder.

“The door?” Rose blinked, confused for a moment before nodding. “Yeah, sure.” She moved quickly, the scraping sound of wood against stone filling the air behind her as she hurried ahead. She reached the door just in time, pulling it open before Chet arrived. Despite his missing arm, he moved with an efficiency that left her rushing to step out of his way as he maneuvered the chair inside.

The rush of fresh air into the house did little to mask the stale, suffocating scent clinging to the space. Rose wrinkled her nose as she stepped further in, her eyes adjusting to the dim light. She looked around while Chet dragged the chair to the center of the room, the dull thud of its legs echoing in the silence.

Dust clung to every surface, thickly settled in the cracks and corners, untouched for days—maybe weeks. Her gaze drifted to the gritty stone floor, where specks of dirt sparkled faintly in the weak morning light seeping through the grimy windows. The scene felt horribly familiar, a reminder of places she’d rather forget.

“Oi, look ‘ere,” Chet’s gruff voice cut through the still air, snapping Rose out of her thoughts. Her breath caught as she looked up, finding him further inside the house. He was rummaging through a cracked wooden dresser, his one hand pulling open drawers with practiced ease.

She froze as he tugged out a small string pouch, his grin widening as he bounced it lightly in his palm.

“What are you doing?” Rose’s voice rose sharply, startling even herself.

Chet shrugged, unbothered. “What’s it look like? She’s dead. Don’t need it now, do she?”

He walked over to the rickety table, his boots scuffing against the floor as he moved. With a casual motion, he dumped the pouch’s contents onto the table. Coins clattered loudly, the sounds filling the small space. Bron and Étain pieces spilled out, their dull gleam catching the light, followed by a few shimmering Argine coins.

Chet let out a low chuckle as he pocketed more than a few of the coins. Rose’s stomach turned as she watched his casual greed. The remainder he shoved back into the pouch with a quick sweep of his hand before tossing it to her without a second thought.

“There,” he said with a smirk. “Take it. Better you have it than let it rot here.”

“She just died!” Rose hissed, clutching the purse tightly. “And you’re stealing from her?”

The old soldier snorted, unbothered by her outrage. “Ain’t like she’s got family. Nobody cares enough to come ‘round. Honestly, you’re the only one who ever talked to her. So,” he added with a smirk, “I’ll give you a bit o’ time ‘ere before I tells them all she’s dead.”

“You can’t be serious,” Rose said, her voice trembling with anger and disbelief.

He waved her off dismissively. “Do what you want. Leave it for the scavengers, for all I care.” He turned toward the door, adding over his shoulder, “But they’ll strip the place clean soon enough.”

The door banged shut behind him, rattling in its frame before sliding open a crack, as if mocking her.

Rose’s gaze dropped to the coin purse in her hands. The leather was worn and soft, and she gripped it tightly, her knuckles white. For a moment, she considered tossing it onto the table, disgusted by the thought of keeping it. But her fingers wouldn’t let go.

She shuddered, a tremor running through her as she sucked in a deep, shaky breath. Slowly, she moved her hand, as if to return the pouch, but then her arm jerked forward in frustration. Her grip tightened, squeezing the pouch too hard, and a single Argine coin tumbled free.

The sharp, metallic clink of the silver coin against the wooden floor rang out in the still room. Rose watched as it rolled, wobbling unevenly before it stopped on its side. The engraved wolf on its face seemed to glare at her, its predatory eyes shining greedily in the dim light.

Tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks. Could she really take someone else’s things? The man was right—this wasn’t hers to take. But if not her, then someone else… someone who didn’t have a child to raise on a handful of Étain a day.

Her mind spun, calculating in despair. That one shiny silver coin on the floor—an Argine—was worth over 64 days of work for her. Forty-four days of scraping by, of bleeding fingers and aching muscles. And here it lay.

She needed time. Time to get a raise. Then she could buy everything with her own money. She wouldn't need someone else to help her. She just needed a little more money, a little more time.

Until then, she could use the extra cash to keep the food coming, even get Dahlia some new clothes, god knew she needed it. More than that, she could finally afford to send Dahlia to the Marchécole, a merchant school meant for wealthier commoners.

Rose clutched the pouch tighter, her fingers trembling. With this money, Dahlia could learn to read, write, and count. Sure, Rose could teach her herself. But, She still had the benefit of a modern day graduation with a 2.8 GPA, after all—it wasn’t great, sure, but she remembered enough for this world. But the real value of the Marchécole wasn’t just in the education. It was the connections Dahlia would gain there, connections that could grow into opportunities far beyond what Rose could ever give her on her own.

The whisperings of her need twisted in her mind, drowning out any faint echoes of morality.

With a shaky breath, Rose slipped the coin purse into her pocket. It felt horribly light as she stood there for a moment, her gaze lingering on the dimly lit room.

Her eyes scanned the space, searching for anything else they might need. Her gaze landed on the tarnished silverware lying on a dusty shelf, the edges gleaming faintly in the morning light. She swallowed hard, her throat dry, and took a tentative step further inside.