Miss, It’s Just a Cold

Chapter 24: A Conversation of Discomfort

The man peppered me with questions.

“What do you do at home?” 

“What are your hobbies?”

“How does your father usually spend his time at home?”

I answered plainly, keeping my responses brief.

Of course, Father hadn’t told him that I was treated worse than an ugly duckling in our household.

As I spoke, the man’s expression shifted. Initially, he was smiling, puffing on his pipe, but soon his face grew grim.

And I hadn’t even mentioned the times Mother beat me, tied me to a chair overnight, or drenched my face with water under a towel.

“So, you’re saying you’re locked in a room with barred windows, scribbling in a notebook? That’s not even discipline—it’s like some cult’s methods.”

“Exactly.”

“There must have been others you could’ve married before now. Why stay in a family like that?”

I’d thought about it before.

But anyone I married would expect my love, while Mother would sell me off in exchange for money.

If I married someone who thought they could buy love with money, I’d become their possession.

And I wouldn’t have anything that was truly mine—not their heart, not their money, not even my own body.

I’d always be beneath them, lacking everything.

That’s why I’d rather grow old and die alone than belong to someone else.

At least now, despite being abused by Mother, I’m not her possession.

“Do you think marriage would change anything?”

“Of course! Look at me—ah, but perhaps that’s too forward for a first meeting.”

At that moment, I began to understand what kind of person he might be.

But since we hadn’t spoken much yet, I held off on making any judgments.

“You were out of line. Not that it matters, since I doubt we’ll see each other again.”

“And who says we won’t meet again? Your father brought you to me, after all.”

You don’t like me, though.

I’m covered in scars, have a sharp tongue, and probably wouldn’t listen to my husband if I had one.

I prefer someone who can speak their mind, like you.

Unlike ignorant commoners or uneducated folks who can neither speak nor write.

He was probably only saying that because I was in front of him.

For all I knew, he might have meant it.

“Besides,” he continued, “the biggest issue is that I’m not particularly fond of you.”

“What part, specifically?”

It’s not as though I could change whatever ingrained inferiority or disdain I seemed to carry—it was too deeply rooted.

“What if I said ‘all of it’?”

“Well, then there’s nothing to be done.”

“Regardless,” he said, “we’ll meet again.

You’ll enjoy spending time with me far more than being stuck in that household.”

He sounded like he thought I should be grateful.

“I doubt it….” I trailed off, unwilling to continue.

“Emily,” he said, “I could help you.

I’ve already secured a mansion in the capital, with more servants than you’d find here.”

“And so?”

“In most courtships, a couple spends time together in a drawing room, with the family’s permission.”

“I already told you—I’m not interested.”

He acted as though he were a savior, someone who would rescue me. But anyone who rescues someone will demand payment.

And I have nothing to offer.

What happens to someone who owes everything but has nothing to give?

It probably wouldn’t be pleasant.

“Let’s get dinner. Father said we should eat together.”

The man nodded and stood, apparently trying to be chivalrous. He emptied his pipe’s tobacco onto the ground and offered me his hand.

It was laughable. I brushed his hand aside and stood on my own.

As we left the park and walked toward the busy streets, the street performer who had played the violin earlier recognized me.

“Throw me another coin, miss!” he called out.

“Do you know him?” the man asked, his expression slightly harsh.

It was the kind of look that made me think if I said yes, he might call me a whore on the spot.

“He was performing on the street earlier. Father and I listened for a bit.”

Satisfied, the man pulled out a coin and tossed it to the performer.

The violinist caught it and walked away, humming cheerfully.

“You already gave him something earlier. Was it necessary to give more?”

His question lingered, but I didn’t feel like answering.

He’d just keep pestering us if we didn’t give him something.

Filthy, unskilled vagabonds wasting their lives fiddling with violins… I don’t know why we don’t just lock them all up.

The man’s disdain for the poor, the homeless, vagabonds, and nonconformists was glaringly apparent.

Why he harbored such hatred, I couldn’t say.

“Just fiddling with a violin,” huh?

Is that what violins and other instruments amount to for people like him?

If that’s the case, was that why Mother destroyed my instruments? Were they nothing more than “just instruments”?

We entered a restaurant that appeared quite upscale.

It must’ve been a regular spot for him, as a server recognized him immediately and escorted us to a window seat.

Through the glass, I could see carriages and people passing below.

“…Places like this must be expensive,” I muttered.

“Not at all. Even commoners can afford this if they work hard enough.”

How could every word that came out of his mouth be so insufferable?

I didn’t voice the thought but felt it deeply.

The meal was the usual sequence: appetizers, fish, meat, and a sweet dessert.

I didn’t care about the names of the dishes, the supposed culinary artistry, or the histories behind the ingredients.

But the man, eager to flaunt his knowledge and refinement, wouldn’t stop talking.

When I was absentmindedly crunching on some ice that tasted faintly of fruit, he wiped his mouth and addressed me.

“The meal doesn’t seem to have been to your liking.”

“It was fine.”

Even after leaving the restaurant, his self-aggrandizing continued.

He boasted about his accomplishments, his vast network of influential friends, and how many people called him handsome.

He wasn’t unattractive, but after living next to Ernst all my life, he seemed perfectly average.

“Fritz,” I said, “let’s not meet again.

We were both dragged here against our will, but you and I are too different.”

“…I don’t understand what you mean.”

“I just don’t like you.

You act as if you’re some great savior, someone capable of rescuing me. It’s irritating.

And honestly, I couldn’t even enjoy the meal because I had no idea what I was eating.”

As I spoke, I felt a twinge of fear.

After all, Father had arranged this. Would he be disappointed?

But surely, someone who loves me as much as Father does would understand.

“And unlike you,” I continued, “I don’t hate beggars, commoners, the poor, or vagabonds—people who can do nothing but play their so-called ‘trash music.’”

Because that’s exactly who I’d become if I ran away from this house.

It almost felt like a veiled threat: if I didn’t marry someone like him, I’d end up like those people.

“In fact,” I added, “I admire them.

Despite everything, they keep living.

But you, you act as though such people have no right to exist.”

“So, are you saying I’m wrong?”

“No, you’re not wrong.

Except for the part where your brain’s clearly defective.”

I cleared my throat deliberately as Fritz’s face twisted with anger.

If this conversation continued, I had no doubt he’d strike me.

“So let’s just end this here.

The more time I spend with you, the more your flaws stand out.”

“…Fine. It’s not like you’re the only decent-looking woman out there.”

I didn’t ask him to escort me back.

Leaving the remainder of my icy dessert untouched, I walked out of the restaurant.

The streetlights illuminated the darkened city, casting a soft glow on the cobblestones.

If a thief approached me, they’d probably stab me in the stomach out of frustration at my empty purse and then run off.

When I finally reached home, the house was quiet—everyone had already finished their meals and retired to their rooms.

I went to the bathroom, undressed, and sank into the tub to wash away the lingering scent of tobacco clinging to my skin.

Other households supposedly had servants to assist with bathing, but at least we didn’t have that.

Convenient, maybe, but also awkward.

I sprinkled scented oils and leaves into the water and began washing myself, ensuring no unpleasant feelings lingered in the tub.

After washing my hair and fully immersing myself in the bath, I closed my eyes.

The world is full of unpleasant people.

It would be easier if I could think of them as less than human, but that never works.

I wanted to tell Father that he has terrible judgment in people.

Fritz reminded me of Mother.

Not in appearance or speech, but in how he thought and acted.

Perhaps that’s why Father liked him—or maybe that’s why Father loved Mother so much.

People like Fritz are the hallmark of middling nobility—

Seething with inferiority toward those above them and brimming with contempt for those below.

If I ever married someone like that, I’d throw myself off the highest balcony before the first night ended.

“Conversation partner,” he’d said. What nonsense.

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