I Was Born The Unloved Twin - 134 Explaining pre-puberty

Today we look at employee case number 2, Abigail ‘Abbey’ Molenaar, age 13. A working-class youth of average height and weight. No reported family history of disease, except for lung and breathing problems. Which is unfortunately normal in the profession of millers, from which she hails. Anxiety-related hyper breathing aside, today she is here for…

“Hic! Hic! Ww-will-*hic* I d-d-die *hic* my lady? *huc*” the young girl hiccups, red in the face.

Diagnosis: The same thing as Georgie,I suspect. A horrible case of… Puberty.

“Fear not Abigail, your growing pains and new stretch marks are all perfectly normal for a youth of your age. This growth spurt is wonderful! You’re getting taller! Who doesn’t like that? The next few years may be quite strange and alarming for you, as your body slowly but reasonably goes from childhood to an adult. ” I solidify my diagnosis.

“*Hic* T-then, my-my lady. Shall I s-stay like t-this, fo-forever?!” she hiccups uncontrollably.

“Don’t be silly Abbey, why you’ve hardly begun! You haven’t even started your monthly bleeding yet.” I assure the poor ignorant little thing.

“EEEEEEEEEPPPP!!!”

The soap rooms are technically not an examination office, and definitely not a good standard medical facility. But it’s sanitized the best I can order and this is a private consultation between I, the uncertified but transmigrated Dr. Rosalia T. Ventrella, and my poor anxious but very useful little employee.

She does after all keep care and track of both my skincare products and my food research. To be fair though, sometimes they overlap. Who else is so devoted and actually pretty minimal on the errors? I must treat her well and not let the horrible standards of this world corrupt her.

“I-i-i d-d-don’t w-w-w-w-waaaaaaaaaaaaaana die!!!!” she sobs.

“Calm down Abigail. It is something that all of womenkind must live with. Your mother bleeds, my mother bleeds, every maid above a certain age bleeds, why even an untreated dog bleeds. Every month!. ”

Abigail wails so hard she falls silent, choking on pure knowledge. Please no, breathe Abbey breathe!

Life is hard when you’re too ahead of your time.

“No one dies from just that. We usually die from infections or complicated childbirths” I explain as I calm her down.

“I-In-Infection? The-the-pus and boils-? And ohhhhh *hic”

“Bu-but my young l-lady. How c-can we speak of such….unclean…things.” she squeaks.

“If it was so unclean why does half of the human population ail from it? The very population that can bear children, and hold a womb?” I ask, knowing full well this conversation cannot happen with any less ….simple…a maid. While my family can and apparently will cover for my great abnormality, I can only get away with the genius excuse so far.

“Menstruation is very natural Abbey, as painful and annoying as it is. Don’t worry. Do you trust me, your lady, to be the superior source? Or perhaps an old maid who told you to wear the ashes of a toad to ward off the evil blood and hide every full moon?”

Old things I recall hearing before. The problem is how many poor women actually take these things as facts. Really now the line between superstitious and stupidity is very blurred. Perhaps public health is more concerning outside of the leprosarium.

“Eeep! My lady! How did you know?!” my young and gullible little maid gasps.

To be fair, most people would not even take the words of a toddler seriously. But am I just any toddler?

“Abigail. Who. Am. I?!”

“M-my young Miss! The honorable one and only eldest young Miss. Rosalia Ventrella! WIse beyond her year and leagues beyond us lowly ones. F-forgive me, I have not and shall never doubt you!”

One day we shall do something about Abbey’s bowing the floor habit. It really won’t do for a maid of mine to behave so lowly and desperately. But for now, the reverence feels quite nice yes. Oh ho ho ho ho.

A light crashing sound comes from outside, though I specifically told no one but Alfonso was allowed to bother the soap rooms.

Thus we either have some very lowly ignorant thieves snooping around.

Or, as someone who outranks everyone, mother is doing a very bad job crouching outside under the nearest window. Peeking out, we can see her nervously play with her fingers, her big brown cow eyes blinking up despite her size.

Who does she think she is? Grampa? Sheesh.

“EEEEP! M-my lady! What- How – however – I am not worthy!” the easily overwhelmed little maid peers, clamoring at the window. As if it were a door she could open and roll out the honored red carpet for.

“Oh stop it Abbey and carry on. Let’s see to your stretch marks, hmm vitamin A. Maybe a coconut scrub, hmmm.” I make to go back, ignoring the scene outside.

“B-but-”

“Nothing of concern Abbey, after all I don’t ever recall having such a UNLADY LIKE mother.”

I slam the window shutters back closed though an even greater sound crashes outside. Perhaps from someone falling over, taking down countless boxes and barrels with them in a ‘boohoo’ like whimpering.

I do not understand the strange creatures that seem to make up the members of this family. They’re as foreign as….well they’re just really strange and weird ok!?

It appears that mother is still very upset over my cold shoulder of her? It’s not necessarily on purpose. I’m just a busy girl, and mother as the lady of the house is a busy woman under all this rennovation. But at the same time I don’t understand what’s all the big deal?

Did this woman not essentially forget about me a lifetime ago. Why the hell is she so sticky and clingy now? It’s quite exasperating.

I understand I complain about the differences between the treatment the original receives versus what I face quite a lot, too much so. But it really is a very jarring experience.

It’s like downloading the cheat codes to a game, the entire walkthrough really. Only to realize you’re playing the updated version, and not only is some of this ‘cheat’ off it’s messing up your entire gameplay!

While I can somewhat try to make sense and overlaps of the man who plays my father, the mother character is extremely and utterly baffling!

Senseless! Overpowered! Practically insane?

How am I supposed to match up the delicate flower of society to this!? Who survives underground dungeon raids with a war hammer or jumping out of multi-story buildings and hot air balloons! How? How does one compute?!

I mean sure mother always had a habit of breaking her tea cups and garden decor. And she’s clumsy so tripping through walls was normal. Our family commission plenty of murals and fresco cover-ups for the cracked and broken parts of our home but that was all grampa’s fault somehow and….oh god. Oh my god it was mother?!

Yes, that makes much more sense. For sometimes grampa was not even in the home territory when another wall broke.

Right. Let’s just focus on making a new product. Safe painkillers and aspirins are too….impossible, but more creams? With a focus on stretch marks? Oh what a market potential!

Let’s not think too hard about all that mother likes hiding from me. None of that at all.

“Bu-bu- but-” the little maid shivers, unable to fight against the call of duty.

That and mother is making a very hard to ignore “boohoohoo”-ing sound outside.

They are pitiful cries of a damsel in distress, most likely the emotional kind. A sound I am very familiar with, after all, I grew up with Lilyanne. I suppose my spoiled younger sister must have gotten it from somewhere and it’s definitely not from father.

I sigh, for not only is my mother a crier, but my little maid is an even bigger one. It’s very contagious in her case. If I don’t get this early enough, the cry fest may never end.

I crack open the wooden window.

Yep. Mother is still whimpering in a ball down there, looking faint underneath my windowsill. She makes a woefully sorry sight of a woman in her prime, tearfully growing mushrooms in the dark corner. The mushroom darkness gets larger and larger as time goes on, strange mutterings sounding out from there.

“…unlady like…unlady like…darling…darling you cruel fiend…darling…not a lady *sniff* so cruel *sniff* breaks so easy…not like I wanted to crush the …boohoo…unlady like…why is she so much like her father then… he was so mean…but so cute…boohoo *sniff* not fair…boohoohoo…unlady…”

There are literally depression mushrooms on the ground large enough to grill whole. How is she even doing that?!

“Mother…please don’t grow mushrooms on my soap shed.” I request in all seriousness.

“*sniff* Is my little Rosa talking to mama again?” she tearfully pokes a mushroom circle, looking up at me like a gentle lamb to the slaughter.

Me? The silent treatment? I would never dare do such a thing, this strange instinct that screams danger at me is usually active. But I have been getting away with quite a bit lately. All well deserved.

But order to keep up with this increasingly cramp time schedule before I turn 5, and beyond, it would be best not to be torture murdered by my mother’s tears.

That and father did warn me to stop ‘bullying’ and worrying my mother. Which makes absolutely no sense! How can little old me do any of that?! He’s just being a fussy stupid doting husband.

I, as a young useless little miss, am very busy and have much to do. Surely, the honorable lady of the entire house Ventrella has a schedule far more important than snooping outside warehouses and windows. All domestic matters of the property, especially in the expansion and reallocations of annexes and servents. Her own letters of business to see too. Orders of fall and winter prep to make, from food and energy stores to clothing literally everyone under our roofs and blah blah blah. All in the duties of a household’s lady. I bet there’s plenty of decorating fun to be had in the construction. Too busy in fact, to bother with something as mundane and worthless as me.

Yet here we are.

I stay silent for too many moments too long, and mother goes back to water the depression mushrooms with held back tears in her eyes. Apparently heartbroken outside my shed’s little walls. Dark creepy mushrooms aside, anyone else would be rushing up to such a sight. Ready to defend and violently beat up whoever dared make such a beautiful woman cry so pitifully. My past self on earth included.

After all my mother is still such a young woman, and I do tend to be more sympathetic if not oddly protective of my own kind.

What can I say, I’m sucker for such faces. Maybe that’s how J.J. or HengFei could always get away with such shit with nothing but some teary puppy dog pouts. God damn it.

I take a deep breath, telling myself to do it for the money. Do it all for the money and the vague threats father presented me with. Gotta get on that nerd’s good side if I’m going to get any more good or info out of him. And that means pleasing the birthgiver….

…Goodbye power and dignity, hello death snuggles.

“Mother, I am not ‘not’ taking to you.” I try to placate her, only to be met by those overwhelmingly large and imploring teary eyes.

They’re very different than Lilyanne’s, despite being one and the same source.

The resemblance is uncanny yes, the doe-eyed shape and thick lashes practically the same, but…there’s really so much missing.

My lovely little sister has them lighter, a dollop and jarful of tantalizingly sweet honey melted in. Traces of pure gold. They sparkle like painted stars and radiate all the warmth that the break of the sun over the horizon can shine.

As someone who has always had boring brown eyes, the memory of this foreign sister of this body, of Lilyanne’s endlessly praised beauty, every single little part, renders me mute. They were anything but boring. Enveloping in how much they seemed to express, how they seemed to shine and flutter when she bats her pretty lashes.

But they don’t possess this certain feeling… Of drunkness?

That’s what grampa makes me feel sometimes.

Have you ever had a stout? Glasses of strong and dark beers, ales and everything in between, clicking in flights and fuzz. Like the aged oak barrels hiding under Gable’s celler, like the sugary bubbly rootbeer tinged with the aftertaste of forbidden mischief. So easy to lose yourself in the drink after drink. Before you know it you’re already laughing, floating, or hungover. Perhaps all of it at once.

Mother’s too.

They spill with my father’s favorite cognacs and brandies. Sweet as they are bitter, intoxicating from the refined scent alone, and oh so deceptively strong. Especially when served straight, neat. So pretty in their fancy bottles. Even a few drops can change a simple dish into divine. Let alone a glass down your throat, burning warm straight past your heart. Pooling in your now light limbs. Wrapping you up, leave you still wanting more.

Such eyes scare me. They make me itch with a want I can’t even begin to make sense of, let alone identify. As if in need of a drink.

They make me look, force me to.

It hits me how I never got to look at my mother so up close. Not like this. If I wasn’t looking at her from a distance, her eyes were always closed. Another spell of fever, another day of bed rest. It’s strange. Currently, mother is much more energetic than I can get remember.

Which is a good thing, don’t get me wrong. Yay for good health. So much health. But I really don’t know what to do with her?

I don’t know what to do with myself.

“Oh that’s still your upset face.” mother bites at her lip, looking almost as lost as I feel.

Yeah.

I don’t really know how to stop it. Same as how I don’t forgive this mother of mine. For anything.

It must be frustrating for her. Having a child as strange as me, for a firstborn none the less. But it will be fine. She’ll forget about it, about me, soon enough. She’ll move on.

Just like her.

“Rosalia? What do you want mama to do?…Will you feel better…if I really left you alone to play?” this foreign woman speaks to me.

Her hair is very curly and shiny like copper coins. Her curves are beyond those of classic Greek statues and social media pictures worth millions of likes. She’s not a particularly tall woman, much taller than who I was. It’s a natural height that comes with the pigments in her skin and extra bones or whatever in her gorgeous face.

She is not my mom.

And even then, I’m dead. My own mother had never forgiven me and honestly maybe never will.

My cheeks sting in phantom memories, making me clutch my face unconsciously. It doesn’t hurt I tell myself.

Sorry for being so useless mom. Unfial or whatever. Sorry for being the wrong one. A mistake.

It would have been better for her if she never married that man and vice versa. Better for her if I, and my brother, were never born. It would have been better if my parents had perhaps never met. A wrong match, the wrong person to share your life with, is far more of a burden than staying single. It drains you. It places an unpaid price on the kids that had no say or choice in any of it.

I know. Heng Fei and I were their burdens, punishments, in our own ways.

And when my parents finally, fucking finally, separated it was a painful relief. The kind that comes from cutting off a tumor from yourself, nerves and blood still pumping. The kind of desperation where you would rather jump than stay in a burning building, a hulking sinking ship.

It felt like the greatest kind of fall. The divorce papers dry and faxed to all the right places. The ugly settlements and gaping debts that would never really be paid.

It felt like being lost at sea. Left behind.

No one really wanted me. Not after what I did. Not after what I shamefully did to them. I understand how they never forgave me. I’m the selfish kind of bitch after all.

They wanted Heng-Fei, because he was a boy. A good boy. And just that was enough to make him fucking special. They wanted him when he was still healthy. Like it meant anything.

In the end…weren’t we both just mistakes to be left behind?

It doesn’t hurt but I deserve it. Because I can’t stop. I can’t stop being so damn stupid. So I deserve every bad thing that comes my way. It’s almost relieving, slaps me out of my own mistakes. I deserve every punishment. Every sharp white hit. Every insult. I deserved it all.

…Bullshit.

“If I have to tell you, ” trying to speak up, my tongue feels hard and dry. This awkwardly adorably young voice so high pitched, grating on my own ears “If I really have to tell you…then I don’t want it.”

“…Alright.” the too pretty lady responds, nodding silently.

Something feels stuck at my throat, though I swallow the same time I close the windowsill. It latches itself closed with a click, and that’s that.

Abbey awkwardly looks between the window and me.already hopping my way back to the work table.

“My lady?” she squeaks low, like a mouse hidden behind the walls.

“That’s right Abbey. We have work to do. Yes. So much!” I clap myself out of it, trying to pull out the overly heavy ledger. Gotta get those supplies and notes out.

I’m fine.

It doesn’t hurt because it never hurt in the first place. Right? Besides, it’s long over with.

I might not be Rosalia but I’ve obtained her memories. None of her will but all of her burdens. Thi

I already learned my lessons from not just one but two lifetimes. Don’t get your hopes up. Don’t feel so much. Would have been so much easier if I just gave up earlier. Would have saved so much wasted time and effort if I just…gave up on them. My mom, my dad…

It’s more of a burden than anything. Easier said than done.

Can’t believe it took me dying and getting turned into someone else to realize that. Can’t believe I’m still not over it.

Whatever.

*CRACK*

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPP!!!!” screams Abbey, jumping to hide under the table.

Not at me dropping the heavy oversized ledger no. But from our now…suddenly missing…door.

“Oh dear!?” mother sweatdrops.

Her hands are very busy balancing a very tall and stacked platter I assume was stolen from Alfonso. Thus, she is only left with a dainty silk slipper wrapped foot to….kick and slide the door out of the way. Like it was a dropped handkerchief and not…an entire wooden weighted slab. Right.

“…Mother…what are you doing?” I raise an eyebrow. Trying not to make any further sudden movements say like a facepalm.

“Oh Rosalia! Get down from there, standing on the table is not good manners at all. Certainly not.” she runs over gracefully. Somehow setting down the platter without dropping a thing and grabbing me off into a proper seat.

Chilled lemonade pours into a kiddy safe little cup with a handle right in front of me. Silver plates of hors d’oeuvres, much fancier than the usual kitchen snacks, sit innocently as they’re laid out onto the boorish work table.

I think the mother is trying to bribe me with food.

I blink at my cup in confusion. If it were anyone else I may even wonder if it was possibly poisoned with something. Like that time grampa mistook sugar for salt, bleh.

“It’s not good to coop yourself up dear. Here here my baby lost some of her squishy, oh I just knew the food there wasn’t for my little lady’s tastes! Well…at least you’re not as picky as your father.” mother signs to herself, picking little bites on a tiny plate.

Devil dressed quail eggs, dotted and sprinkled with herbs and just a bit of spice. Summer fresh bruschetta, heavily topped with fresh tomatoes. Petite citrus grilled scallops, the appetizing scent almost overpowering the rest of the table. A colorful salad.

I like a lot of foods, but these things I like more in particular in this world.

I very much can brush off the coincidence of the menu. Something grabbed off the selection already prepared in the kitchens. But the extra cute plating is obviously extra effort on mother’s part. The careful way it’s spaced and set up, like how themed kid menus in restaurants have to be adjusted.

But the visuals that take the cake, quite literally, is the flat but decadent crumbly almond cake. Topped with a floral cut of honey glazed peaches and berries.

“Eat your food first before desserts Rosalia. Say awww~” mother pops a little quail egg in my mouth, distracting me from possibly starring starry-eyed at sweets.

Oh yum. I’m so glad I forced the invention of mayonnaise. Wait when did I allow myself to be fed like a baby bird?! Mother I am no-

Ooooh tomato bread. That goes well with what I already have in my mouth. I really like the bread of this world. So artesian rustic and savory, mmm. Oh yes, please. Munch munch.

I suppose it is brunch time. Munch munch, mmmm I miss good food. The time at the outpost was really horrible on my pampered tastebuds. I hope they’ll be able to support themselves better off in the kitchens over there.

I do not have to say anything if food just comes to my mouth.

I do not have to speak up or comprehend how surprising this situation is. Or that the salad is drizzled with extra balsamic, just the way I like. It is easier to simply be fed like a little hamster.

I’d rather not fall over in shock at the thought of mother watching me close enough to know my tastes to this extent. It can simply all be a coincidence.

But I suppose this woman is trying.

My tongue is too sensitive at this age, it still picks up a lot of bitterness that most adults don’t even notice. I can’t enjoy a lot of herbs or more pungent things as I did before, even if I do like salads or seafood.

Maybe that’s why all these delicious things mother feeds me, taste a tinge bitter. At the back of my throat, the bottom side of my tongue.

She’s never fed Rosalia like this. Me yes, but not Rosalia.

Why?

Why is she so affectionate now in this lifetime? Why for me but not her? Are we really all that different? What made Rosalia so unworthy, so unloveable, that her own mother never looked to her properly even as a small child?

Somehow I overestimate in my bites, clamping down on mother’s hand. An embarrassing mistake. They are of course not very edible.

I would never have gotten away with such a mistake before, simply because there was no situation where this could possibly occur. Mother hardly had times for her own matters. On days where both hers and Lilyanne’s heath were not of a concern, she would be off making social calls, maintaining ties, or simply catching up on duties. Then it was back to fussing with Lilyanne if she hadn’t passed out in a fever herself.

Where would she have the time to look into my matters, let alone waste time hand feeding me.

I unconsciously bite down harder.

“Awww, Rosa. Mama’s fingers aren’t very tasty to chew. Bite control, open your jaw. Here this is how people how people and not wild animals do it-… Oh dear I never thought I would repeat those words….. How about we use the fork now?! What a convenient thing…, oh I do wish we had these back then…”

“…I know how to use tableware on my own mother.” I try to appropriately react to being infantized to such an extent.

“Oh of course you do! Such a big smart girl, with tiny little arms, now say awww~. That’s it, chew slowly, as not to choke. We’re not ripping the lifeforce from the vulnerable necks of hunted pr- I mean! Everything is so cute and small and cooked so wonderfully, yes no choking! Never listen to your grandpapa on such matters! In fact no more animal planet! Oh whenever did he take you to to learn about bleeds?….Oh no, don’t mind me dear, drink your honey lemon Rosa love. It’s your favorite yes?” mother babbles nervously.

It’s very awkward. More from my silence making it so.

But she really is trying. The person in front of me is doing their clumsy version of trying. At what I’m not sure, but I don’t think either of us do. I guess I can admit that much.

“Mother. It’s alright. You don’t have to do all this. I’m not really mad at you or anything. Even if I was, you don’t have to.” I relent, accepting a sip and smacking my lips.

“…Alright dear.” mother nods, but still continues to airplane bite-sized servings of food in front of my face.

“I mean it!” I chew.

“Of course darling. Do you want more salad next? Hmm? Yummy yummy.” the next fork comes.

“Yes please with more radish- I mean no! I can -mppf”

“It’s not lady like to speak with your mouth full Rosalia, it’s alright, we can go over this slowly. It can’t be helped. There there.”

Why do I get the feeling like I’m being treated like a horse with hay? Of course, my own horses get only the finest feeds with variety and seasonal selections. But essentially it’s the same.

Ah, I never understood this woman. Lady or whatever mysterious thing I rather not know she is now. I probably never will.

Same as everyone else in Rosalia’s life probably. Grampa and his crazy warning especially.

Oh whatever, for now we’re all just trying. And that’s already something. It’s not….forgiveness, or anything like that. I’m not so blind as to forget the warnings Rosalia lived and died for. Even more so, I know best how easy it is for someone to turn when life doesn’t go their way. Not according to the picture-perfect plan.

This maternal instinct of hers will fade away quickly. Once she figures out just how much of a mistake I am.

But I guess I can take it for now.

“Delicious?” the woman playing my mother asks, smiles and coos as I eat heartily.

This lemonade needs to be Limoncello, but I cannot drink. There are not enough carbs at the table. The scallops need to be grilled hotter and longer for more of crispy skin and need a more suitable accompaniment. The vegetables on the bruschetta aren’t chilled enough to be truly refreshing. I would prefer another variety of salad in addition. There’s not a single cured meat or cheese dish here. Even if I don’t prefer them as much, how unbalanced of a table. The olives aren’t pre-pitted and the way mother peels them for me is a bit mushy and thus loses the deliciousness to lost texture. Plating is good for photos, very cute, but less points on delivery.

“…It’s alright.” I decide, being generous to the tailored kid’s meal.

“Oh ho ho…this mouth…as lovely as darling’s….we’ll just have to work on it slowly, yes. ” mother laughs almost threateningly. Almost.

“Is it almost time for dessert? Is it mother?” I plead, even softening to show more of that cuteness I know she desires.

Works like a charm.

“Oh I suppose. It really can’t be helped.” she sighs.

Maybe in relief, maybe in exasperation. Either way, it’s time to slice that cake. How wonderful. I’ll think about all the implications of this time later, perhaps while digesting. Let’s just…stop hanging on too hard on what I already know. For now this is fine and sweet enough.

The funny thing though is this really strange sense that I am forgetting something very immediate. But if I can’t recall, it surely isn’t that important.

“Hmmm, I feel like I’m forgetting something obvious.” mother talks to herself as she plates me a little slice, dolloping a bit of sweet mascarpone to the fruit.

“? Only that little?” I feel like crying at seeing the baby portion.

“Oh my, we ladies must watch the number of sweets. Mama hears it’s not good to have too much. Something about it reduces beauty!”

“But…mama? It’s cake….”

My cake, pile it on! Girls have a separate stomach for sweets. I’ ‘m lacking it so bad here. There are already such limited options. Ah you should have seen the amount of chocolate I could down during my teen ye-…

“….Mother. I believe we’ve forgotten my little maid. ” I shamefully just recall.

“Oh ho ho! So that’s what that feeling was! Yes the girl about to begin her bleeds. Oh I remember that strange and terrifying time. Papa of course was not sensitive enough to word things out to a young lady. To think he has already shown you a pack of female den wolves during the full blood moon. ” mother happily claps to herself before growing ever the most distant and depressed in her terrifying memories.

The both of us look down underneath the very table we sit at to find Abigail right where we left her. Still cowering on the floor and keeping quiet as a mouse.

My bad.

Please don’t cry Abbey.

Have some bread? Cake? Don’t cry?! I promise we won’t leave you to a bloody pack of wolves when puberty hits you for an episode of animal planet. Really now! Trust me that’s not the norm at all. Who even does that?! That’s just messed up.

Don’t cry!

Mother? Help me please?

Oh no mother not you too! Please don’t cry anymore!I don’t even have anyone around to blame. Stop crying, please? Cake?

Yes, cake solves all. At least for us girls.

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Mini Bonus: Into the time machine.

Ft pre-teen Maria and the woes of pre-puberty. Also a very awkward pair of dudes playing parents.

Skippable yes.

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“You do know, Buttercup, that you will have to talk to you father eventually.” Gable sighed, oiling and detangling another….bone…from the young girl’s lovely hair.

It really was beautiful. The cascading ringlets, made of rich warm brown and golden hues, were something of the larger than life statue of an ancient forgotten idol in foreign lands south of here. They shined full with halos of summer and autumn, made other maids and maidens alike envious easily. All as long as one took proper care of it.

As prettily as their Maria was blossoming, Gable misses the summers where they could sit her giggling down in a field of nothing and just…well as Ron would put it “shear her like goat!”

“Never. Again!” the girl pouted.

Not quite yet a maiden, but quickly and forcibly outgrowing the lines of childhood. It was a sensitive time for any youth, but girls more so apparently.

Gable once again does something he would never admit to the man, defend Ronald.

“He would never leave you alone. He was there in the bushes the whole time, watching over every process.”

“That makes it even worse! Boohoo…” she half shrieks, half cries.

Really now. It wasn’t ….that bad. Honestly on this aspect Gable was much better than Ron. He didn’t think it would upset her so much when in the past Maria had taken to learning from the examples of nature more naturally than the sun rose or set in the sky.

The little girl had known the beauty, and reality, of nature much longer than she has known of finely painted porcelain cups or those immoral lowbrow corrupting romance tales, told among nobles and commoners alike.

What has the disgusting reaches of ‘society’ done to their darling innocent little girl?

Sure those ‘romance’ books had got Maria’s literacy level to skyrocket from her previous lackluster efforts, but at what cost?

They were, of course, absolutely banned not only in Gable’s home, but in any place Maria could possibly have access to. None. No more of that. But of all the contraband written material that existed in the world, could not one of them have medical text on the …biological aspects of a growing young girl?

“Boohooo! I don’t wish to grow any more hair, especially not fur! Nor bloat and bleed from anywhere! Not! I don’t wanna! I don’t want to turn into a monster every full moon that goes …mate hunting…!” she sobs into her own hair, nearly bursting one of their, extra sturdy for this very reason, pillows.

“You won’t grow fur or expand up to 7 times your body size. That’s not how humans develop. I promise that was not what we intended to teach you from the tribe of blood wolves. Only the monthly process.”

“I know it was all papa’s idea! All the worst things are!”

Well….couldn’t deny that part.

There were some very good things to come out of them admittedly. Wordly trips and adventures that most people would never even hear of in their lives, let alone go on throughout their childhood. Knowledge and development that the richest of the scientific community could only throw money at to get a morsel, all hand fed to Maria in more an amount she could ever possibly comprehend.

But admittedly the craziest and worst things about Ronald’s, and admittedly Gable’s, untraditional upraising had plenty of effects on the girl. Including but not limited to her isolation from her status peers.

To be fair, other noble children were terribly nasty things. Gable would know that best, for he was one once.

“Oh it’s too late! All the other pretty fancy flower-like girls were right. They go to fancy lady school and balls while I go to a pack of wolves or worse. Oh, I’ll never be a lady. They’ll be romatnically courted and given flowers! I’ll be covered in pain and blood and I’m gonna have to chase down, hunt and bite mark someone to ever to marry me.” the child sobs so.

“No. Of course not!” Gable shushes her from that utter nonsense.

Besides, it was far too early for her to be thinking of such things.

Marriage? She barely sometime over a decade old! All the marks of a mere child. Who got her those horrible books, introduced her to the notion, in the first place?! Someone in the troops? Gable swears he’ll turn them all into flightless birds and throw them off the mountains to the wild descendent chicken pack outside the leprosarium.

“And it’s all papa’s fault!” Maria still cries, for she really has a lot of pent of tears in there. They do keep her properly hydrated and stored on fats and energy. Just in case.

“Well….” Gable starts, for she’s not exactly wrong. “How so?”

They would work on it slowly. Processing. Talking out. As humans, and not wolves, do.

“I’m too much like him! He gave me too much, but I’m a girl. And other girls aren’t as unladylike as me. And and-….”

“What? What else is wrong Maria?” Gable immediately senses something deeper to that.

Something he knows he won’t like hearing.

“Freed’s new fiancee is so pretty…..not as pretty as him but….like…for a girl? She has skin like a boiled clean bone! Hair as flat and fair as stalks of drooping rice. They say she never’s never got a wound, not even a little cut, in her whole life. And and and she knows how to speak all fancy, even fancier than the last one. …And she told him I’m too dirty to play with…” Maria drawls off, curling into herself.

Oh.

Well then. No big deal. They’ll just find out who this girl’s family hails from and send a freak series of storms, plagues, and inconvenient policies to their home.

Oh wait.

“Does your papa know about this?” Gable asks gingerly, hoping against his expectations to maybe hear no.

It’s too much of a coincidence that Ron chose this time period to really get into ‘work’ again. Specifically by ‘blessing’ one particular tract of land with his inspection. There was no evidence of dungeons, monster invasions, or natural energy stones but Ron said it was a ‘hunch’ and they had to uproot the area right away….

Maybe Gable should pay a visit too, perhaps in disguise.

“….I don’t know….I don’t care anyway. I’m never speaking to papa again! Only then can I rub off some of him and be closer to a real ‘lady’. I can’t change my hair but I can do betters. That’ll show them. And then we can all play…together…” Maria crying was nothing new, the louder the better. That meant she was strong enough to cry, it’s when she grew quiet that they worried.

“If anyone. I don’t care how ‘fancy’ they claim to be, if anyone dares insult you in such a manner. You shall have nothing to do with them, for not only are they not good enough for you to bother with- they are the filthy ones. Filthy dirty corrupt souls. You don’t want to play anyone who treats others like that. You’re far too noble, look. ” Gable instructs, twisting and pinning the ties of braids into place. Pulling out and sparkling reflective brush in the air so she could see herself.

No updos, not yet, not for a long time. She was just a little girl. A strange and sensitive one, almost new in her slow but expected growth, but oh so lovely for that. So the childish half-crown, and twirls of laurel flowers in her hair, suited her more than well.

“…It really is a lovely new dress.” she sniffs, feeling just a bit vain. Just a bit less like ‘dirty’ or whatever it was they called her. They all meant the same thing, wild and unlady like. Maria knew that much.

“Well since you’re not talking to your papa, I guess I’ll have to tell him you do like this style.”

“….who gave it him? Papa doesn’t know how to pick out things. ” Maria frowned again, pouting herself full of hot air.

At this particular moment, she was having even more upsetting flashbacks to her youth. Ahhhh to be so old and wise now, she can’t stop flushing in shame at the days her dearest papa would let her roam naked in the rivers, cliffs and plains. In fact, he thought it was all the better. To “build up resistance”!

Only by watching papa get yelled at and berated repeatedly by not only Gable but others in the troops, did a younger more foolish Maria slowly come to understand it just wasn’t normal for children to be naked or in nothing but a hunted loincloth all the time.

If she thinks back specifically to many times in their childhood that Biccheriri boy raised a perfectly pretty eyebrow but said nothing at all to her about it…well she feels like dying.

She doesn’t know why it gets all the worse if she thinks Frederick might come to find her distasteful, no dirty, but it makes her starts crying again. This time even quieter. She’s still such a crybaby, even though she’s already so grown. It wasn’t fair.

Was he going to marry that pretty boiled bone girl and never come play with her again? Was it because she smelled like wolves or chickens or whatever it was? Was it because she going to grow into a bloody monster every month?

It all really wasn’t fair.

“Well…technically she’ll turn into a ‘monster’ as well. If that’s your definition. All women go through bleeds, as do many females in other species. That was the point of taking you to see see the blood wolves ritual.” Gable responds easily to the mumbling woes that come out from under Maria’s pitiful little cries.

“….WHAT?!” she screams.

Ah strong lungs. They were still good.

“All. Women. Bleed. After a certain age, you will do so every month. Of course not to the extent of the blood wolves but, every maiden you have ever met does so. It’s nature.” Gable awkwardly states out.

Maybe he should have just listened to Ron’s first idea? Wait no, Gable takes that back, taking her to the brothels because ‘Those girls know a women’s body the best! Much more so than those quack doctors that think jumping up and down prevents pregnancies’. There are many things Gable is willing to suspend all his known beliefs and knowledge for when Ron says it. But others are just too questionable. Prostitutes being better authorities than doctors could just be one of them, but he’s not letting Maria step foot anywhere near there.

Just look at what romance novels did to her already?!

“Subtle is not one of your forte’s dear. Your papa and I….both…yes both of us…thought that …well blood wolves were the most obvious examples. Trust they’re not the …cleanest…creatures. ”

“They were exploding in blood and fur howling at the moons Gabbey! Why do girls have to do that? Do Men?! Do you!?!!”

“….No.”

“OH, IT’S NOT FAIR! Noooooo! I don’t want it! Booo hooo!”

He lets her cry, for there is really nothing to say to that. Just because it’s natural did not mean it was quite fair. Once again the Ventrellas have quite the knack of saying things that weren’t necessarily wrong, odd as they were.

“So…um…it’s not…all your papa’s fault. And. And he ….*sigh* he does try. You know that. He’s awful, absolutely a wild beast at times, can’t get him to act civilized if he doesn’t feel like it, can never predict a single thing from him but trouble…..but he does….love you…and try. ”

For god’s sake that’s why they built a damn strange villa out of an ancient temple’s ruins. For Maria. For Ron’s reputation too yes, but all for Maria. It was a very strange sort of home. Gorgeous yes. Impressive and never before seen, as was often Ron’s style. It felt oddly ancient, in a reverently imposing way. And somehow that villa was only getting bigger.

Yes. You may call Gable a hermit or any of the sort but he still preferred his humble moving cabin in the woods.

“Papa doesn’t do it right!… But I don’t know how to do it right either…” Maria looks down. Feeling that odd swirl of negative emotions she doesn’t know quite what to do with.

It all makes her so frustrated, but if she gets too mad things go breaking, and she doesn’t want to do that anymore. She’s grown now! Practically the age of a lady! Not a child with a monstrous tantrum.

“Alright…I’ll talk to papa again when he comes back home…I’m no better….” Maria pouts, knowing her wrongs. Even if she’s still too puffed up mad about her father’s.

“He’s been back.” Gable points out to the window, rolling his eyes and sighing when Maria practically hops over and out.

“…WHAT?!!! Papa!? Oh papa what are you?! You can’t just! Were you really here to whole time?! I’m a lady now and you’re not allowed to crouch under my windows! Oh papa don’t look so sad, papa? What is all this? ”

When Gable puts away the combs and pins, vanity table ever getting fuller of stuff, he looks out to see not only the strongest, strangest, most foolish and oddly…dare he say it, loveable, father-daughter pair. But wagons and wagons of…stuff.

“You wouldn’t believe it baby girl~ Oh and you did so well, didn’t faint at all against not one but two warring packs of blood moon wolves- and all without your hammer too! SO-” the man below starts to explain, spinning his still pouting daughter into his arms.

“Ahem.” Gable calls from the window. “Ron. Explain. Now. ”

“Gabe! remember that hunch I found in that one family’s noble territory! Ahaha turns out they were some embezzlement and a bit of an underground kidnapping and se- err other illicit things going on! So we saved the day and confiscated all this property to pay reparations and redistribute!! Ahhhh, Maria look look, papa’s really bad that lady stuff so I just grabbed absolutely everything for a ‘lady’ around your age! What a coincidence! ”

“Oh papa I don’t want the stuff of a girl from such a bad family! Kidnapping!” Maria gasps in her father’s arms. Oh, such a thought.

“But lookie, shiny.” Ron offered specifically at the pretty luxury items indeed in the trend for a girl about Maria’s age range.

The dresses were a bit too large for her still but it didn’t stop her eyes from sparkling.

There were so many shiny things. One of Maria’s weaknesses, as evidenced by her barely held back squealing. From delicate jewels to furniture. It looked like they robbed and raided a noble’s household blind, specifically the rooms of any young ladies of the place.

Gable sighed and Ron cheered when Maria smacked her papa in a crushing kiss and hug, then scampered off to explore the treasure chests just for her.

Well, at least they didn’t have to worry about shopping for her the next season.

They spoiled her. Too much so.

“Do you not know the definition of restraint? Hmm Ron?” Gable poked and prodded.

“Wasn’t all me. Their alliance sold them out, full records, then it was easier than acid cleaning an outhouse with a level 7 mutant beetle orgy. ” Ron shrugged.

Gable rolled his eyes at that.

“Let me guess. The Bicchieris. And the youngest soulless boy of theirs lost his betrothed match. Again. ” the not as fun parent stated. Not questioned. Stated. The signs of prediction all there in place.

“Yep. They’ll just get another one. Pity the poor girl that’s next. Hey, how do you always know? You literally do not leave the house, but damn do I find what’s inside attractive. It was also kinder of me to get to them first before you go storming in, though you are amazing when you’re really mad. Ow. Ow, Gable put down Maria’s brush down. That thing is sharp! ”

“Exactly. When was the last time we cut your hair? Ron? Ronald? ”

“Oh ho ho ho Gabbey look! Look at this one! Oh it’s so pretty! Does this suit me? And papa, I can’t open this chest without breaking it! Papa help? Please papa! Pretty please papa!”

One day this little girl would grow up.

She would cry and struggle, and she would grow. Perhaps, hopefully, strong enough to leave their strange hazard of a nest. One day she may even raise one of her own. Have a child, a family, children in the plural sense?

One day both Gable and Ron were going to have to come to accept that and move on with their lives. The same way tides of the seasons unexpectedly brought them all here. It was going to be a disaster. It already was.

But today is not that day. It won’t be coming for a long time. Not for them. That is more than enough.

———