Chapter 8
Chapter 3. Life Is a Continuous Series of Hardships
Is there anyone who can explain life in a single sentence?
Her dark hair, scattered across the white pillowcase, absorbed the morning sunlight and shone glossily. Annette R. Bonnel, buried completely under the covers, burrowed her face deeper into the pillow with a groan. The highest quality goose down pillow, whose fluffiness was proportional to the money spent, was her comfort pillow, capable of bringing back even lost sleep.
I could sleep like this forever and have no regrets, she thought, sinking into this preposterous comfort, but soon she began to sense a presence.
The presence, which she initially thought was just footsteps, gradually became more bustling, and the slightest irritation, like a foxtail tickling her nose, made her unable to bear it. Annette R. Bonnel sprang up from the bed, sitting upright with disheveled hair, and whined.
“Oh, come on! Maeva, does it have to be this way?”
Maeva, holding a basket, was tidying up the clothes Annette R. Bonnel had haphazardly tossed aside yesterday. Maeva, as the nursemaid to her and Benedict Bonnel, wielded considerable authority with nonchalance, and she was now enjoying the golden age of her authority abuse in this mansion.
“You must get up. It’s noon.”
“Ah—, ah— I went to bed late yesterday.”
“Does the sun rise late because you came home late, Miss? Is the world at your beck and call? You skipped breakfast, and if you skip lunch, your skin will suffer. You don’t know it now because you’re young, do you? Just wait until you’re past thirty, you’ll see fine lines appear every day, and regretting it then will be useless.”
“I might die from pain all over my body before I even get to regret it.”
“Who was it who said she’d die in the field? Didn’t you plan to go out to Soles Street with Mr. Riebner today?”
Maeva seemed to no longer respect her need for sleep. Annette R. Bonnel reluctantly forced her groggy mind awake and irritably rubbed her face. As she stepped out of bed, her foot hit something.
It was a fur slipper, completely unsuitable for the season.
“What is this?”
As soon as she spoke, she made another discovery. Her feet were covered in cuts and bruises.
“And why are my feet like this?”
“You’re the one who drank so much that you lost your shoes, Miss. Honestly, you need to break the habit of taking your shoes off just anywhere. I was so surprised… I doubted my own ears, thinking, ‘Have I gotten that old?'”
“Mav, you’re old, but young enough for your hearing to be fine.”
“I’d like to pinch those annoying lips, Miss.”
Ignoring the haughty voice of Maeva, which seemed to say, ‘I don’t care what you say,’ Annette R. Bonnel put on the slippers with a displeased expression. She wondered why she was wearing fur slippers when the weather was hot, but her feet were so cut up that she knew she couldn’t wear hard shoes.
“Are you going to wash up?”
“I’m hungry.”
Wearing the fur slippers and only a thin gown, Annette R. Bonnel left the room, yawning widely, and looked out the window. The square-cut noonday sun shone down on her injured ankles.
Everything felt distant and vague. Somehow, the ridiculous night had passed, and another day had begun.
The ‘Joyful House of Bonnel’ was a three-story building. The first floor was used for entertaining guests and relaxing, the second floor for offices and bedrooms. The third floor served as a combination of storage, an attic, and sometimes a utility room.
Annette R. Bonnel had tomato soup, chicken salad, and several soft loaves of bread prepared to soothe her hangover, and then headed to the first floor.
The family drawing room on the first floor was bathed in the cheerful sunlight of Lenore. When she opened the large glass sashes, three paired on each side, a dry breeze blew in.
In the center of the garden, visible directly from the family drawing room, grew a massive tree, an old specimen whose trunk was so thick that it would take three grown men stretching their arms to encircle it. Annette R. Bonnel had liked this tree since she first came to the house. It had an aesthetic appeal, but she also liked the fact that it had a long history. An employee who had worked at the mansion for a long time said that the tree had been there even before the mansion was built and was the subject of several ghost stories.
Now, though, she could only see Benedict Bonnel circling the tree on horseback.
Sitting on the sofa, she shuffled through the day’s newspapers and magazines. Annette R. Bonnel’s daily morning routine was to read newspapers and magazines after some light stretching and exercise. Today, her condition was terrible, but it was still better than wasting time.
[Lenore Post
The conflict in Hannasy is intensifying. Which path should Beloff choose?
Last night, in the basement of the Litmert Mansion in Brenova, Central Hannasy, a large group of lawless individuals was arrested. Investigation revealed they were planning organized firearm incidents for looting, targeting both the wealthy and common folk. Upon hearing of the incident, members of the Bonnet Party in Hannasy emphasized the need for firearm control legislation… [Omitted]… Incidents related to firearms are a persistent problem even within Beloff. To prevent possible future accidents and crimes, an interview with Mr. Robin Gaudreau, former Vice President of the All-Beloff Firearm Association, will be presented…]
The Kingdom of Hannasy, in Annette R. Bonnel’s memory, was a country with magnificent lakes. Its people were rumored to be so dull that there was a saying, ‘Quiet people are Hannasyans.’ But recently, they were being seen as troublemakers. Should she say the quiet cat climbed onto the stove, or that bad thieves are good at stabbing you in the back?
‘I feel nauseous.’
Reading the complex content made her eyes twitch, and her stomach lurched again. Putting down the Lenore Post, she picked up the Romerto Journal. She skipped the front page and went straight to the back, looking for light gossip, tabloids, or practical information pages.
The sound of hooves approached beyond the open sash.
“Your face is dark. Did you want to be the best expert in the field of relative underestimation?”
“I have no energy. I have no energy, so don’t pick a fight.”
Benedict Bonnel’s beloved horse, De Vilpain, carrying him, snorted beyond the white wooden railing of the terrace.
“You’re spaced out in the middle of the day.”
“It’s a good noon. De Vilpain, I’ll give you carrots marinated in special honey tonight, so would you mind tossing your rider to the ground?”
“Look at the way you talk. Vilpain wouldn’t do that.”
Dismounting, Benedict Bonnel tied De Vilpain’s reins to the railing and lightly jumped onto the terrace. He pushed aside the billowing curtains of the open window and sat across the table from her. Taking off his riding helmet and setting it on the adjacent seat, it looked like he was planning to sit there and bother her.
“Why do you use the window when there’s a perfectly good door?”
“A window is a door, too. You certainly drank a lot. Why are your feet like that, and on such a hot day?”
“I hurt them.”
“Riebner brought the Tourneur financial statement this morning. I left it in the study. Once that acquisition is finalized, Mother will be somewhat finished with her work and might be able to come up next month, possibly sooner.”
The Tourneur Company was a large usury firm in the eastern region needed for the Bonnell Central Bank establishment. It served as both a pawnshop and a bank, a necessary step before officially initiating the ‘Integrated Finance’ project in Lenore. It was good news, if anything.
“That’s good.”
“Did you resolve the Baron Cobain matter?”
Wince. Annette R. Bonnel tightened her grip on the Romerto Journal and pressed her lips together. Benedict Bonnel, who scrutinized her closely, began to ask questions as if he had found his target. It was clear he wouldn’t give up.
“Gervais said he thought the man showed up. But you didn’t manage to meet him, did you?”
It wasn’t easy to ignore the repeated provocations. In the end, she had to recall the memory of last night, which she had planned to postpone under the guise of her hangover.
…Last… memory…
Yesterday… night…
