WPO 1

Chapter 1

Did you think Katree was the name of some remote backwater village?

My aunt, who loved to put on airs, snapped as she flung open her white silk fan with a flourish. I just stared at her dumbly, marveling that even a wide-brimmed hat couldn’t hide my aunt’s expanded girth.

Beyond Katree—a place I’d never heard of in my life—past a grand farmhouse where you couldn’t find a shred of refinement, and across the sapphire-blue sea that symbolizes a resort, there’s finally a place called Olga. Your great-grandfather apparently built a three-story villa in that bleak rural corner of Olga so he could carry on lovey-dovey with his mistress.

As my aunt rattled on about the romantic history of a great-grandfather I’d never even met, she kept smacking her lips. As if a perfectly roasted whole turkey sat before her, my aunt’s great round eyes gulped down saliva.

The villa caretaker, while pruning the garden, apparently mentioned planting new anemones and ranunculus. Ever since I heard that your great-grandfather had a beautiful mistress and a picturesque villa,

I’ve had my suspicions. I’ve always wondered—couldn’t that family of caretakers, loyal enough to hand over their own gallbladders, actually be the mistress’s family? While you’re there, keep your eyes peeled and if you catch anything that could serve as evidence, let me know.

Surely even for a distant niece like you, you know your aunt’s mailing address?

After marrying into a place with a long list of assets but a short family history, my aunt developed a kind of illness. Apparently unsatisfied with the family name attached after her own, she would every time, as if by mistake, put forward her maiden surname, “Moremon.” The very person who served as the “that person” in “I must never end up like that person”—that was my aunt.

It was commonplace for her to carelessly handle teacups that my mother treasured like a single pearl earring. Every time her lips, painted with violet rouge, parted, out came gossip about the chilly neighbors. Using her tongue to spice up and serve others’ ruined circumstances was my aunt’s specialty—but she wasn’t reckless enough to try carving up blood-related family. At least not until she brought up the story of the Olga villa where great-grandfather’s mistress had supposedly lived.

Having barged into the drawing room at the crack of dawn and emptied three plates of pumpkin pie, my aunt still looked hungry. Turns out the unfortunate neighbor chosen to fill my aunt’s hungry belly was none other than me. I, who had been grumbling about a ribbon falling off a dress I’d ordered for the season, became the foolish sacrificial lamb that day.

“Flona.”

“Flona Moremon.”

On the path leading into the estate, there was a forest of cypress trees preening their fresh spring leaves like a pet performing tricks. I will never forget, even in death, the moment I climbed into the carriage with my back turned to those cypress trees that were treated with such precious reverence, like living witnesses to Moremon history.

“Flona Moremon!”

“Yes?”

It wasn’t that I’d missed my mother’s words because I was lost in gloom. I’d heard her perfectly well and simply ignored her several times. My mother, eyes narrowed into triangles, held my younger sister Floni in her arms. As if protesting the carriage with its worst possible ride, my sister vomited every couple of hours. The scarf my mother had embroidered herself with expensive imported thread was now soaked through with my sister’s sweat and vomit, stripped of its original color and gone dingy. It was truly a regrettable affair.

After all, I was the one who’d suggested the lavender embroidery, and I was also the one promised to inherit it in the month winter came.

“Flona, how many times must I ask if there’s no new handkerchief?”

“You can ask hundreds of times, but what isn’t there isn’t there. If you’re truly desperate, shall I cut off my hem right now for you?”

“Don’t speak sarcastically. Your one and only sister is hovering at death’s door.”

From the moment my ill-tempered aunt came running, casting aside her sweet sleep, and cursed me, misfortune was foretold. My mother’s nagging scattered to pieces in the shaking of the rattling carriage. For the frail princess’s third bout of vomiting and fainting had begun. Floni had played her part in this journey of renting out our venerable estate and being chased off to Olga in disgrace. I wanted to leave the care of my sister—teary-eyed like a deer with a wounded throat—entirely to my mother.

“Flona. We need to find something to wipe with, right now.”

The carriage climbing the hill with an anxious heart was tormenting poor Floni. If only my mother’s ruthless hand hadn’t reached for my handbag of all things, I might have cooperated enthusiastically. The treasures inside my handbag that I hadn’t even shown my best friend Marina—from the bead bracelet I’d collected one bead at a time on allowance day to the embroidery piece that had received high praise from my strictest teacher—I’d brought them all clutched to my bosom.

“Anything, quickly!”

My embroidery piece—the one I’d climbed onto the platform to receive while enduring my classmates’ envy-laced glares—was pulled out and flew to Floni’s mouth. As the sour yellow liquid flowed over the swan design, I squeezed my eyes shut. It was a work made by cutting up pieces of a dress I could no longer wear, stitching them together, and sewing my very soul into it. On the road to exile in Olga, my soul had become a cheap handkerchief.

“I’m worried about your father, riding in an even worse carriage than this.”

When Floni, with nothing left to throw up, collapsed in exhaustion, my mother’s anxiety sought out an entirely different target. Since there wasn’t even room for three women to sit comfortably, my father—who had gone on about his responsibility as head of the household—chose to follow behind with the luggage cart.

“We should have reduced the luggage. Anything we’re short on, we can just buy after arriving.”

“That might be a bit difficult, I think?”

“Difficult?”

“Look over there.”

The days of living as a lady of leisure on the outskirts of the capital Sidore, with a proper cypress-lined path and three mansions to her name—those days were about to vanish like a dream. Unless the coachman had taken a wrong turn in his cups, the scenery of Olga, coated in the smell of the sea, was an orderly field of green leaves. Past the fence densely planted as if to say don’t you dare covet the apples, the barley field we faced came surging forth, threatening the narrow carriage path. The streets that should have been filled with the scent of sugar and butter till your nose tingled, the shopping district advertising discounted goods past their fashion—none of that was anywhere to be seen. Only the occasional sight of sun-bronzed farmers flopped face-down in the barley fields like flatfish, swimming through the stalks.

Was it only me who couldn’t be distinguished from a scarecrow made of bundled straw? The color of the unripe green barley was not much different from the sea color I’d seen at the entrance to Katree, and I broke into a cold sweat. My spiteful aunt’s curses were becoming reality. I’d assumed the shopping district where one could buy a sack of sugar would be near the estate, but no. Even opening the window to soothe my motion sickness, only the scent of grass gathered demurely together stirred the wind. My life, which had fluttered like drawing an embroidery pattern on fine cloth, felt as though it were being driven into a patch of thorny weeds.

“Once your father obtains a new carriage, we’ll be able to go to the bustling shopping district. We’ve only come here for a few months of rest and recuperation.”

“I do hope so. It would be even better if recuperating by swimming in the barley fields proves helpful to Floni’s health.”

“Flona Moremon. I said don’t be sarcastic.”

“I suppose nonsense comes out because my stomach is churning, Mother.”

Whether she lacked even the strength to bicker, my mother’s hand, which had been swatting at dust, pressed against her chest. It wasn’t that I wanted to push my mother off a cliff with my tongue like a hunter with a gun. My complaints had been long indeed, but I loved the Moremon family. Including even my aunt, who was pointed at as a vulgar family of the newly rich.

It was just that it felt unfair—my precious youth being held hostage in a barley field that was like a place of exile. Fair and square, with a recommendation letter on my back, I wanted to enroll next year and become a radiant spring lady myself.

“Once we arrive, we’ll have to wash up first. These days, inns only give lukewarm water even when you pay.”

Minnestri society divided ladies entering the marriage market thoroughly into three categories. The so-called spring lady is not determined by the name of a noble family. The quality of her handbag, fan, and hat, of course, along with her level of refinement and the prestige of her girls’ school—all must form a perfect symmetry. It was only natural that fine young men lined up like dawn bell-ringers to meet them.

On the other hand, those classified as autumn ladies after passing through an arrogant summer find their circumstances growing desperate. The gifts suitors offer drop to the level of bouquets plucked from a field, and they’re pushed to the very back row of invitation lists for famous parties and tea times. My aunt was precisely the one who’d been struggling valiantly on the autumn lady list.

The final category, the winter lady, is for those branded as being of low birth or beyond redemption. Some receive the winter brand simply for being old enough, which tells you just how brutal Minnestri’s social ecosystem was.

Comparing my mother, a spring lady of society, with my aunt, an autumn lady, the past me hardened her resolve. There’s a saying that if life is a book, then marriage is the expensive wrapping paper or the cover. I was confident I could do well. If I simply enrolled at Rocam Girls’ School and followed in my mother’s footsteps, wouldn’t my future be relatively solid?

“Oh, heavens! Look at that rude handiwork!”

Knock knock knock—at the crude knocking as if someone were picking a fistfight with the carriage, my mother clicked her tongue. Having crossed the hell of the barley fields, a path appeared where pale little flowers bloomed enticingly. White, snowflake-like flowers hung precariously from short trees. It was a stark unfamiliarity, quite different from the estate’s cypress trees that soared as if they didn’t know the meaning of sky-high.

“Great-grandfather really did build his villa in a terribly remote place.”

“It’s better than before, at least.”

I flung wide the carriage window I’d wanted to keep shut. Wind seeped in through the small, round window frame. It was a silent approach where not even birdsong could be heard. On the main gate that appeared at the end of the flower path, the Moremon family crest was clearly engraved.

Beyond the gate, which stood open as if to welcome the Moremon family, I could see the two luggage carts that had arrived first, and my father vomiting as if marking territory. Why did my aunt’s voice ring in my ears like a hallucination at that moment?

“Once you settle in Olga, be sure to write. I have so very many questions to ask.”

My mother had spoken of recuperation, but my aunt had spoken precisely of moving. Even before the carriage door opened, I turned my head away from my mother, who was already tearing up.

“We’re only staying a short while, only a short while.”

Unfortunately, I trusted my wicked aunt’s curses more than my kind mother’s comfort.