7. A Rose Dedicated to Dior (7)

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Mumuno noticed Dior’s indifference and puffed out his cheeks, making his baby-fat face even rounder. Still so young, he had never truly experienced hunger and hardship, so his cheeks remained soft and plump. Dario didn’t witness the subtle exchange of glances between Mumuno and Dior; he staggered upstairs, urging Mumuno, “You fool, hurry up and follow me!” Mumuno paid no mind to his words, slowly making his way upstairs. Dior, for reasons unknown, trailed behind as well. Mumuno’s clever mind quickly guessed that Dior was there for the spectacle—and this time, the outcome would surely satisfy Dior’s intentions. After all, Mumuno lacked the skills to serve or even properly care for others. Looking at the man lying on the bed, he felt utterly clueless.

The drunken man, still dizzy, felt a belated throbbing pain in his head. Noticing Mumuno standing dazed at his bedside, he snapped angrily, “What are you standing there like an idiot for? Don’t you know to pour me a glass of water and wipe my sweat?!” His harsh words frightened the girl, causing her to take a few steps back, her eyes slightly reddening as if she were a helpless rabbit caught by a thief. The familiar scene stirred the deepest memories within Dior, who looked with disgust at the man sprawled on the bed like a puddle of rot. When Mumuno went to fetch a towel and some water, Dior had already filled a cup with water salvaged from the Thames and kindly said, “I’ll bring it upstairs for you.”

Dior’s sudden kindness didn’t make Mumuno feel flattered; instead, he eyed him warily, as if suspecting ill intent. Dior smirked but said nothing. If the cup of water were to be spilled, wouldn’t it be a shame if it didn’t reach the old man’s mouth? Mumuno held the cup with both small hands and carefully brought it to Dario’s lips. Up close, he caught the foul stench of stale alcohol—the kind of sour, fermented odor from neglecting personal hygiene for far too long. Dior glanced at the boy, whose eyebrows were furrowed in discomfort and whose flushed face suggested he was holding his breath. Forcing someone to care for such a drunkard was indeed a cruel hardship, yet Dior had no intention of helping. The little useless one, having never cared for anyone before, clumsily tilted the cup and forced water down Dario’s throat.

Dario took a few sips, his throat moistened, his tongue numb from the alcohol, unable to detect any odd taste in the water. But before he could savor the refreshing drink, he choked on the sudden rush of water flooding his mouth and throat, unable to speak. Dior noticed Mumuno’s awkward fumbling but deliberately held back from correcting him. Before Dario could curse loudly, Mumuno quickly pressed a towel over his face. It was a rag hastily grabbed from the kitchen, probably used for wiping tables and stove surfaces, redolent with a foul smell. Mumuno kept wiping carelessly over his nose and mouth without changing his approach, nearly suffocating him. If Mumuno’s small stature hadn’t limited his strength and if Dario hadn’t snatched the towel away and thrown it to the floor in time, he might have died right there.

Dario greedily gasped for fresh air. He glared menacingly at the girl standing by the bed, shoulders hunched and brows furrowed, and shouted angrily, “You’re a worthless waste; you can’t even handle something this simple!” Dior, enjoying the spectacle and provoking him further, sneered, “I’ve already told you, you just brought home a troublemaker. She can’t even cook.” Perhaps caught off guard by his spiteful remark, the girl turned her head and gazed at him with those large, beautiful eyes full of accusation.

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The old man on the bed sat up, baring his broken teeth. The scar stitched across his forehead twitched as he grimaced, making his expression even more sinister. Embarrassed by his son’s scolding tone, he raised his hand, intending to strike Mumuno. But Dior stepped in just in time: “Are you sure you want to hit her? She’s a noble-born lady. If you recklessly strike her, she could easily lose her life.” The huge hand froze mid-air, unable to even stir the air. That remark hit Dario’s sore spot hard; unwilling to lose face, he swallowed his anger and withdrew his hand with a grunt. “If it really comes to it, we can always sell her off. We can’t let her get disfigured.” “She’s not completely useless. At least she knows her place. I’ll train her properly later,” Dior added coolly, lifting his eyelids.

Only then did Dario remember why he had brought this Eastern child home—to find a wife for his nearly hopeless son out of a rare flicker of paternal affection. He chuckled lecherously, “Good. Since you know what to do, I don’t have to worry anymore.” Dior, uninterested in further discussion, turned to leave, with Mumuno quickly following, running swiftly as if his feet were greased. Mumuno feared that with Dario back, their lives might become even harder. Fortunately, the drunkard didn’t stay home long, only returning occasionally. He either carried a bottle of liquor or demanded the two children cook for him, and only then would he begrudgingly bring back some food. The old drunkard cared little that the two children lived by each other, struggling with hunger and hardship.

Sometimes Dior thought that if that old bastard were gone, their monotonous life might be easier. Their existence was like a calm sea before a storm—the surface serene but beneath, raging waves had already stirred. All it needed was a trigger for the towering waves, terrifying storms, and tsunamis to surge forth, engulfing the ignorant souls on the surface.

*

Mumuno happily munched on pudding, holding sausages and bread—items he had exchanged points for through a system. Such common foods were plentiful and required few points. He pretended to have brought them from outside, treating them as rent paid to the antagonist; the two would keep to their own, and he would no longer be bullied by Dior. Mumuno’s luck was clearly poor today, perhaps because he hadn’t consulted the almanac before leaving. Upon entering the house, the first thing he saw wasn’t the confident blond boy but the drunkard snoring soundly at home.

The man had just been woken from sleep and, upon seeing the Eastern girl clutching a pile of food, cleared the alcohol from his mind and immediately demanded, “Kid, what are you holding? How do you have so much food?” He didn’t go back to sleep but jumped up from the sofa, scrambling to Mumuno’s side and ordering, “Hand over everything you have!” Mumuno, always sensible, had already eaten his fill. The food in his arms was all for Dior. Without hesitation, he handed it all over. The man was pleased with his obedience, grabbing a piece of bread and stuffing it into his mouth, eyes sparkling with delight at the taste. “Where did you get such delicious food?” Dario’s eyes darted suspiciously, obviously up to no good.

Mumuno recited the same excuses he had given Dior. Dario smiled with satisfaction, “I didn’t expect you to be this useful. My money hasn’t been wasted.”

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When Dior returned, he saw Dario’s smug face. The food that should have belonged to him was now being wolfed down by Dario—what a disgrace! The stolen food darkened his mood, and his gaze toward Dario grew colder. But the man was too engrossed in the food to care about his expression. Dario even commanded the frail Eastern girl, “From now on, all the food you beg for outside must be handed to me. Try to go more often, and make sure to wear rags.” If not for the fear of being too rough, he might have slapped her a few times to make her look even more pitiful.

This man was far greedier than Dior; now that he knew the girl’s usefulness, he intended to squeeze every last benefit from her, leaving nothing behind. Mumuno rolled his eyes internally but meekly agreed in front of Dario. The little useless one knew how to adapt, unwilling to risk being beaten or scolded over such trivial food. This scoundrel could truly swing his hand and hit someone, and he was skilled at reading faces—Mumuno had noticed the fierce glare Dario gave him earlier and felt uneasy. Mumuno tried to keep his distance from the old man but was suddenly yanked upstairs with surprising strength. He never realized Dior was so strong; the blond youth carried him all the way to the second floor.

The sneaky blond boy glanced downstairs at the man still lying asleep, then quietly shut the door. The gentle and harmless Eastern child trembled in fear, shrinking into a corner, too scared to cry out. Shadows fell heavily over her as the handsome, slender boy lowered his voice and whispered, “How about we poison that old bastard together?” Mumuno blinked in surprise. Was this really happening? Were they about to conspire to commit murder?

The Eastern girl’s dark, wide eyes stared at him, her lips pressed tight. It was unclear whether her expression was surprise, fear, or both. Her eyes were bright, soft, and clear—no indication she was capable of evil. If she could choose, Dior wouldn’t want to partner with her for such a deed. Rarely gentle, Dior patiently explained, “He sees you as a tool to exchange for food. Soon, he’ll watch you closely when you go begging and probably steal all your food, eating the best himself and leaving you with rotten scraps. Can you stomach that?”

Dior continued persuasively, “If we poison him, this house will be ours. We won’t have to worry about him stealing from us anymore. We can support ourselves and live better lives.” The girl hesitated, then asked, “Why don’t you just have your men beat him to death? Why go for such a middle ground?” “You think I want to drag you down with me? That would be the stupidest move—it would draw attention. The sheriff wouldn’t just ignore it. I don’t want to become a fugitive,” Dior said impatiently.

The little girl clenched her palm, looking up at him. “I’m still scared.” Dior didn’t disdain her fear but said, “When you come back, just give me the food. I’ll poison it and give it to that man. You don’t have to worry about anything else.” Mumuno obediently nodded this time.