With every forward step her right foot took, Ghervil heard a crisp, pleasant clinking of metal.
Beyond the practicalities of a long skirt, this particular set of robes held another gratifying detail: a small, hidden pocket sewn into the right-hand seam of the garment.
Its design rendered it exceptionally convenient and entirely inconspicuous, at least until Ghervil had taken possession of it.
She had filled it with a total of thirty silver coins and five copper coins, tallying up to 30 denarii and 5 groats.
Now, however, the loose robe bore a half-fist-sized bulge at her right thigh, a clear testament to the small pocket’s absolute capacity.
As Mrs. Keith had earnestly instructed her the previous night, a kilogram of wheat should cost, at most, between 1 denarius and 4 to 7 groats.
Unless the wheat was a special surplus intended for the nobility, any price exceeding this benchmark meant it was prudent to seek out another merchant.
Based on her estimations for other provisions, this sum would more than suffice for one to two days of decent meals, with the remainder allocated for purchasing fabric and an apron.
She would have ideally liked to carry more, perhaps even one of her five gold coins, believing it always wise to be prepared.
Yet, the wisdom of not flaunting wealth—especially as a young woman living alone—weighed on her, for attracting unwanted attention would be ill-advised.
She had roughly tallied the contents of her suitcase: seven gold coins, nearly two hundred silver, and approximately eighty copper.
With frugal living and no extravagant spending, this sum could sustain her for two or three years.
While reality often diverged from expectations, Ghervil considered her circumstances: she was fully abled and reasonably healthy, with only minor weaknesses in stamina and strength.
As an ambitious young woman possessing modern sensibilities far beyond this era, she believed finding suitable, self-sustaining employment within two to three years would pose no significant challenge.
Ghervil remained optimistic about her future.
****
Leaving Lily of the Valley Street and walking a few hundred meters north, Ghervil found a clamor stretching along the entire thoroughfare.
People, it seemed, were eager to expend their time and energy during the cool morning hours.
A carriage, its driver shouting a frantic “Watch out!”, sped past directly in front of her, kicking up clouds of dust in its wake.
Ghervil stumbled back several steps, and just as she was on the verge of falling, a pair of hands caught her by the shoulders.
“Are you alright?”
Turning her head, Ghervil saw that she had been steadied by a woman adorned with jewelry and clad in a coat.
The woman’s face was somewhat plumper than average, though still within a normal range, and a strong, yet not unpleasant, scent of roses emanated from her.
The carriage door beside them stood open, revealing a large leather trunk within, suggesting the woman had only just disembarked.
“Thanks to you, I’m perfectly fine,” Ghervil replied, straightening up and brushing a few specks of dust from her robes.
“Some fellows are always like that,” the man grumbled, “endangering others just to squeeze in a few more trips.
I truly hope these pests of the industry one day actually hit someone, so they’re forced to pay until they’re penniless, and then spend the rest of their lives rotting in jail!”
The man, whose thin eyebrows were twisted together in indignation and who wore a hat while helping to carry the trunk, must have been the coachman.
“It’s not that serious, Mr. Angeli,” the woman said, taking the trunk.
“Unless one is trampled or directly hit by a horse, people aren’t so easily injured; they are much stronger than you imagine.”
She then pulled a banknote from her pocket.
“Keep the change; it’s well-deserved.”
“You are too generous, madam!” the man exclaimed, his face, which had been twisted in anger moments before, instantly smoothing out.
He rubbed his hands together, then carefully tucked the banknote into his chest pocket, patting it twice gently.
“If you ever need a ride again, you can call me anytime.
I live on this very street and am a member of the Summer Journey Guild.”
Nodding, the woman offered a polite smile to both the coachman and Ghervil, then turned and vanished into the bustling crowd.
‘Who was she?
She doesn’t seem like a local resident.’
‘If I recall correctly, even the lowest denomination, a soldo, is equivalent to twenty silver coins.
To casually offer a dozen or so silver coins as a tip, after the fare, suggests she’s either a fool or simply incredibly wealthy.’
‘Of course, one should always lean towards positive interpretations.
Ghervil preferred to believe the woman was a kind-hearted wealthy individual who not only offered assistance but also spent money to appease the coachman’s ‘sincere blessings’ for his fellow drivers.’
“You mean Madam Rose?” the man asked, still immersed in his joy, fawning over her as he leaned closer.
“I don’t know the specifics myself, only that I heard she might be from Florence.
If you wish to inquire further, you could try asking at a flower shop.
I’m sure you noticed the strong scent of roses; I’ve only ever smelled such a rich aroma from true Blood Roses, a flower that is exceedingly expensive and possesses extraordinary properties.
I once had the good fortune to acquire one at a very low price, though it was nearly withered, almost scentless, and its quality wasn’t particularly good…”
“Forgive me for taking up so much of your time.
Would you like a ride?
I’ll give you a twenty percent discount…”
Snapping out of his reverie, the man suddenly realized the nun in front of him had vanished without a trace.
****
While listening with interest to the coachman’s self-indulgent ramblings, Ghervil’s attention was drawn to a carriage passing through the middle of the road.
More precisely, it was the driver: a man so gaunt he seemed almost unnatural.
The carriage wasn’t moving particularly fast, allowing her to jog with her basket, barely managing to keep it in sight.
The street was bustling with people, and as Ghervil rounded a corner, a small boy and girl, playfully squabbling, dashed out of an alley, nearly colliding with her.
The boy couldn’t stop, and as Ghervil sidestepped to avoid him, he slid to a sitting position right before her.
His clothes were clearly patched-up cast-offs from adults.
The girl, stopping beside him, was dressed a bit more delicately in a small floral dress with her hair tied in a ponytail.
“Wow!” the little boy exclaimed, standing up from the ground, mud and dust still clinging to his hands.
He immediately grabbed Ghervil’s robe with both hands, his eyes wide and sparkling.
“It’s Sister Nun!
Why aren’t you at the church?
You’re even prettier than Elena!
Prettier than anyone I’ve ever seen!”
“Hmph, so what if she’s… prettier than me!” the little girl huffed, crossing her arms.
She glanced at Ghervil, then pouted and turned her head away, a look of defiance on her face.
“My sister said she met a very beautiful person at work, also a nun, and she’s definitely prettier than her!”
“You haven’t seen her with your own eyes, you’re lying!” the little boy scoffed, casting a disdainful glance before his eyes once again lit up.
“Sister Nun, what’s your name?
Which church do you work at?
Can I see you at the next service?”
‘This little rascal, instead of learning good manners, he’s trying to flirt!
Didn’t your parents teach you to introduce yourself before asking for someone else’s name?’
A sudden urge to strike someone welled up within Ghervil.
‘While it was true she wore a nun’s habit and was nominally a nun, and it was acceptable for others to respectfully address her as such, this brat’s incessant “Sister Nun” sounded particularly awkward.
Moreover, his gaze was practically oozing!’
A tug came from her waist, and following its source, she saw those small, dirty hands clutching and repeatedly crumpling her robe.
‘How could this be…’
‘This is my only wearable nun’s habit!’
“Hey!
You two, stop bothering the nun!”
Just as she was about to explode in anger, a furious roar echoed.
A middle-aged man from the bakery across the street leaned out, hands on hips, a fierce expression on his face.
“Hee hee hee,” the two brats chanted, sticking out their tongues at the middle-aged man as they darted back into the alley without looking back.
“Run, Uncle Sam is about to explode again!”
Ghervil’s mouth twitched.
Her clothes were truly soiled!
Two elongated, hand-shaped mud prints on her robe pierced her heart.
Black was not forgiving of dirt, and she had only worn it for a single morning…
She truly wanted to chase after that little brat and teach him a lesson about respect, and to break his nasty habit of flirting and grabbing things at such a young age.
However, she had matters to attend to.
“Alas.”
Casting a look of gratitude toward the bakery, she sighed briefly and scanned the flow of carriages.
She had lost him.
“You wretched little brat!” she muttered under her breath.
“Next time I see you, you’d better pray I don’t notice you!”
The crowd grew thicker, and after walking a short distance, the street became congested.
Coachmen behind her urged their horses forward, and people formed a circle.
A man’s shouting, louder than the surrounding din, mixed with the general clamor.
Listening closely, Ghervil could discern a familiar voice, stammering apologies repeatedly.
Pushing through the crowd, Ghervil saw a carriage parked askew.
Beside it, the coachman, Scard, his hat on the ground, nervously picked at his nails, being thoroughly reprimanded by a man pointing a finger at his nose.