Chapter 22. Alone

Winter was nearing its end. The coldest days had passed, and people exchanged pleasantries while talking about the approaching spring.

The Marchioness of Ivelucia carefully stepped down from her carriage, feeling a faint pang of guilt for visiting Rooney Orphanage after such a long absence.

Of course, she had a reason for her infrequent visits—she had slipped on ice earlier in the season, twisting her ankle. This had confined her to her estate throughout the winter.

Enduring her strict husband’s endless nagging was an added burden. Passionate about nurturing talent, her husband had retreated to their mansion years ago following a certain incident. The emotional blow had been severe, and since then, even his physical health had deteriorated. Already a naturally meticulous man, he had developed stomach problems, making him even more irritable.

The Marchioness sighed quietly, a sound only she could hear. Though his nitpicking often made her want to pull his beard out, she loved her husband deeply.

The House of Ivelucia had made significant contributions to medical advancements, especially through its scholarship foundation. More than half of the Republic’s most renowned doctors had been supported by the Ivelucia scholarship program.

Upon stepping back from public life, the Marquis had devoted himself to nurturing talent, even teaching theoretical classes weekly with unwavering dedication.

‘And yet… oh dear.’

The Marchioness shook her head. Time would heal his wounds. Perhaps some brilliant young person would come along and reignite the fire in her husband’s heart.

“Madam! You should have waited until the weather warmed up more… How’s your ankle?”

Marcel, the head of the orphanage, came running, fussing over her. Seeing Marcel’s warm, familiar face made the Marchioness smile unconsciously. Though their social statuses differed, the two had long shared a bond that resembled friendship.

“Thanks to your concern, I’m doing better. I wanted to come sooner, but I’m not as young as I used to be—healing takes longer these days. How are the children? Are they well?”

“You’ve been exchanging letters with Joanne, haven’t you? Thanks to the thick blankets you provided, everyone’s in good health.”

“Ah, speaking of letters…”

The Marchioness touched her lips lightly with her finger, her rounded nose tinged with a rosy hue.

“I heard there’s a new teacher?”

“A new teacher?”

“Yes. Joanne mentioned her several times in her letters—she said she’s very beautiful.”

Marcel immediately understood who the Marchioness was referring to. The last time a new teacher had been hired was in the fall, and there was only one person who could be described as “very beautiful.” Marcel replied with a smile.

“You must mean Miss Myrda. She’s not a teacher, though. She’s been volunteering regularly since the start of winter.”

“The children seem to like her?”

“Not just the children. Even the staff can’t stop praising Miss Myrda. She’s diligent, smart, and an enormous help to the orphanage.”

The Marchioness’s deep, milk-chocolate eyes sparkled with interest. Marcel was usually cautious in assessing volunteers, having dealt with all sorts over the years. If she was showering Myrda with such glowing praise, it was clear the young woman was something special.

“I’d like to meet her. Will she be here today?”

“I believe she said she’d come in the afternoon. If you’re lucky, you might run into her! Would you like me to introduce you?”

“Oh, no. That won’t be necessary.”

The Marchioness firmly declined Marcel’s offer. Judging by what she’d heard, Myrda wasn’t a noblewoman. The Marchioness had grown weary of young noblewomen fawning over her to curry favor.

Instead, she intended to observe Myrda discreetly from a distance. There would be plenty of time to decide whether to approach her.

❖　❖　❖

As soon as I arrived at Rooney Orphanage, a small commotion broke out. Little Hoya burst into tears and ran straight into my arms.

“What’s the matter, my dear Hoya?”

Between sobs, Hoya complained of a stomachache that had been bothering him since last night. Flustered, I turned to Marcel, who had hurried after him.

“Madam, have you run out of the medicine I brought you last time?”

“Oh, you know how it is. The kids get sick so often that we ran out pretty quickly…”

“How fast did you go through it? This time, I’ll make a larger batch before I leave.”

“That would be wonderful. Could you also make some more of that tea?”

“Of course. Now, let’s see. Hoya, your tummy hurts a lot, doesn’t it? Hang in there for a moment.”

The orphanage struggled to provide fresh food, so children with weak stomachs often suffered from digestive issues. It wasn’t as bad in the winter, but during the summer, when food spoiled quickly, cases of stomach problems were a daily occurrence.

I headed to the orphanage’s kitchen and laid out the medicinal ingredients I’d brought.

The remedy I was making had roasted tree bark powder as its base—something reminiscent of the so-called “goat poop medicine” from back in Korea.

I knew how to prepare this thanks to the memories of Mine Molière. Before she awakened as a mage and was called to the royal palace, Mine and her mother had made and sold herbal remedies gathered from the mountains. Mine had a keen intellect and categorized herbs by their properties and uses, conducting countless experiments to determine the best combinations for various ailments. Her secret notebook was essentially her version of the ‘Donguibogam’, the revered Korean medical text.

But…

‘That notebook… it led to the ruin of Mine’s mother.’

The line between medicinal and poisonous plants is thin. Some poisons can become cures when used correctly, while some medicines can become deadly if used improperly.

The town’s pharmacists, jealous of the young, beautiful, and intelligent mother-daughter duo, conspired to frame them. They claimed Mine’s notebook was evidence that they were experimenting with poisons under the guise of selling herbal remedies.

In the end, Mine’s mother was branded a witch. Though her record of saving many villagers spared her from being burned at the stake, she was stripped naked, beaten, and exiled from the village.

Mine stayed by her mother’s side in the snow for days until she passed away, refusing food or water. Afterward, that small, frail child set the village’s food storehouses ablaze before disappearing into the night.

‘How did you survive, Mine Molière?’

How did she endure such a cruel world, having lost her mother in such a horrific way, with nothing but her tiny, emaciated body?

The memories weighed me down. As I shaped the medicine into small, child-friendly pellets, I realized tears were streaming down my face. I quickly wiped them away with the back of my hand, hoping no one had seen.

To mask the bitter smell of the medicine, I coated the surface of the pills with something sweet. The unpleasant odor of the main ingredient was a significant drawback, and I had to at least make the smell tolerable if the children were going to take it.

As I was rolling the pills in the sweet powder, I heard the kitchen door creak open.

“Is there anything I can help with?”

“Ah…?”

“Sorry, did I startle you? I’m a volunteer too. I’d like to lend a hand.”

“Oh… hello. My name is Myrda.”

“I’m Lucia. Marcel told me about you. Now, what can I do?”

“Thank you. Could you roll the medicine into pellets this size?”

“Of course.”

Lucia approached with her sleeves rolled up, her neatly pinned ash-brown hair gleaming softly under the light. Her clothing was made of fine, subtly glossy fabric.

“What kind of medicine is this?”

“It’s for stomachaches and diarrhea. A lot of the kids here have sensitive stomachs…”

“You seem very skilled with medicinal ingredients. Was your father a pharmacist?”

I stifled a bitter laugh. “My father? Oh, he was the last king of the kingdom,” I thought to myself, but of course, I couldn’t say that.

“No, I grew up in the countryside with my mother. This was how we made a living.”

“Marcel mentioned how effective your medicine is. She said just one dose cures the children’s stomachaches completely. And…”

Lucia hesitated, a faint hint of embarrassment in her tone.

“She also mentioned the tea you make. Apparently, it’s incredible for settling the stomach.”

“Well, the work here is tough, and I figured a lot of the staff suffer from headaches or stomach issues. That tea… my mother used to give it to me often. I had a weak stomach as a child.”

“Everyone has their own story, don’t they?”

“Of course. No one is without a story.”

“By the way…”

After rolling the last of the medicine into perfect pellets, Lucia stretched her shoulders and slowly spoke.

“Could I possibly have some of that tea as well?”

“Oh, do you have stomach troubles?”

“Not me, but my husband does. If it’s too much trouble, I’m happy to pay for it…”

“No, no. I’ll give it to you.”

I smiled brightly at Lucia—or rather, at the Marchioness of Ivelucia.

“How much do you need?”