Bad woman, am I pretending to be bad?

Her high-top boots clattered rhythmically across the stone steps as the silver-haired girl moved with graceful steps, yet she refused to focus her gaze on anything else.

It wasn't that their signs weren't catchy enough; it was just that the gloomy sky and the cold air made Charlotte lose interest, and she had no desire to waste her energy on these boring entertainments.

She's incredibly busy these days, not only running around as a criminal investigation assistant but also working tirelessly to improve her skills, leaving no time to waste.

While the Winter Tea Party is indeed a bridge to high society, the way to obtain clues is never through idly waiting. The remaining days are not only for those clumsy girls to prepare, but also for the fleeting moments of a young woman's free exploration.

In addition to workplaces and private residences, and also including public spaces, every city has a third space, namely bars and cafes.

People often socialize and have conflicts in these kinds of places, making new friends or forming new grudges. Topics that straddle the line between public and private are never hesitated to be shared here, and sensitive or exaggerated information can inadvertently linger in one's ears.

Nowhere is better suited to gather the latest news, whether it be noble secrets or gossip from the common people.

So Charlotte decided to head to a nearby tavern. Of course, before that, she would have to reluctantly change out of her clothes and disguise herself properly to blend into the crowd as much as possible.

Pushing open the door to a clothing store, the girl soon changed into a thick gray sweater and put on a dark-colored work coat under the surprised gaze of the shop assistant.

She pulled down her brimless soft hat, and out of some kind of obsession, she even padded her boots to achieve the perfect disguise she envisioned.

It's not about that pitiful aura and majesty; the gait and posture are equally important in eliminating the inconsistency in the performance.

Arriving at the central intersection on time, they waited for the public train to arrive. In the Hastings Empire, apart from horse-drawn carriages, there were two types of public transportation: trackless and tracked. The former was pulled by two horses and could seat about twenty people, including the roof of the carriage. It only had a general route and no specific stops, operating flexibly and stopping whenever needed.

The latter, operated by a rail company, first lays a rail-like device on the main road, with the steam locomotive at the front and the wheels arranged in sequence. It is easy and labor-saving, so it can pull multiple carriages and carry nearly fifty passengers. The only problem is that the route and stops are fixed, and it cannot go to many places, making it rather rigid.

Before long, the hoarse sound of the wheel rubbing against the track grew louder as the train approached, and then a train billowing black smoke pulled up to the station at the intersection.

Stepping onto the middle section of the carriage, I found that most of the men and women on this level were dressed formally and sitting upright, while others were wearing work clothes and leisurely reading newspapers. However, almost no one spoke, and it was quite quiet.

Ignoring the passengers coming and going around her, Charlotte simply closed her eyes to rest and recharge. The ticket seller would announce the specific stops, so there was no need to worry about missing her stop.

From the lush greenery to the sea-breathing dock, about half an hour passed? I didn't give a precise estimate, but in the blink of an eye, we arrived at the port area.

Carrying her ever-present suitcase, she slowly stepped out of the carriage, welcoming the unique, fishy smell.

It's not that the pub in the city center is inappropriate; it's just that the burdens and changes of life are often more evident in the hands and eyes of the lower classes, and the O'Shaw family's relocation of their businesses will inevitably affect the local economic environment.

When Charlotte stopped on this narrow street again, the sun was already half-hidden on the horizon, and the roar of the furnace and the high temperature had become increasingly faint. Only the towering chimneys and the docked ferries were still spewing out thick black residue.

At this time, it was the workers' short rest time. Almost everywhere along the roadside, you could see men and women wearing vests and with their arms exposed. They were not strong; their limbs had some muscle, but more of them were sallow and dry, showing signs of malnutrition.

Looking around, you can see groups of three or five sitting on the steps, clutching bread, cheese, and a little bit of smoked meat, eating them with gusto, without caring about their image in the slightest.

Subconsciously pursing her lips and lowering her head, Charlotte hurriedly moved forward, trying her best to blend in with the haggard, solitary pedestrians around her.

As she walked, she saw a thin man ahead of her who looked no more than thirty, but whose temples were already gray. He looked exhausted, his eyes were sunken, and his chin was covered with green stubble.

Are these local homeless people?

Upon closer inspection, the man was pacing back and forth, shivering, trying to keep warm, and shakily pulled out a cigarette and an empty matchbox from inside his clothes.

He had just opened the box when his right hand gave way, and the crumpled cigarette fell to the ground, rolling down to the girl's toes.

Charlotte stopped abruptly as she leaned forward, forcibly halting her steps, and picked up the item, handing it back to the other person.

Looking up blankly along the cigarette, the man first saw a slender, pale hand, then a pair of clear, bright eyes, and a strand of silver-gray hair brushing against her cheek like soft silk.

Angel?

Despite the breathtaking scenery, for some reason he felt that beauty was the least noteworthy of the former's advantages.

My thoughts were in turmoil until a calm, straight voice, slightly somber, reached my ears.

"Sir, aren't you going to accept it? I'm about to leave."

"Ah, thank you, thank you!"

The man's thanks were quite sincere, and carried a hint of piety.

Although she sensed this unusual emotion, Charlotte had no intention of exchanging pleasantries at the moment. She simply took a step forward, intending to leave. Just then, the man who was speaking haltingly bent down and picked up a dark object from the sewage.

This appears to be a cleanly gnawed apple core.

Swallowing hard, the person in the eye stuffed the mud-covered fruit pit into their mouth, chewed it to pieces in a few bites, and then skillfully swallowed it all without leaving any residue.

Seeing the girl's surprised look, he casually wiped his mouth and spoke with a hint of bitterness.

"I haven't eaten for almost three days."

These words struck Miss O'Shaw's heart unexpectedly, causing her eyes to widen slightly and her carefully maintained composure to crumble.

A heavy feeling of melancholy rose in her chest, and the girl sighed silently before raising her voice again.

"Excuse me, I didn't introduce myself earlier. I'm a reporter from the Tingen Daily, currently reporting on the situation in the port area. Would you mind taking the trouble to explain?"

The man paused for a moment, then forced an awkward smile and said.

"It is clearly my honor,"

Without rushing to ask questions, she bought two loaves of bread and a cup of warm tea from a nearby store and placed one of them next to the former.

"Eat up, you can only do the interview if you're full."

"For me?"

It was an incredulous yet expectant question.

"Except for the time you squander, everything else is yours."

Upon hearing this, the man wiped his eyes and uttered the words with a slight sob in his voice.

"...Madam, you are such a kind person."

"Yes, if you've been fasting for a long time, don't eat too quickly."

She turned her face away and whispered a reminder, refusing the other party's enthusiastic praise. Charlotte knew she wasn't someone who was overly kind-hearted; she just wanted to take the opportunity to ask some questions about the original owner of this body.

It's nothing more than a relationship of mutual exploitation.

“I know, once upon a time, an old comrade died in this way.”

He tried to slow down, occasionally picking up his teacup and taking a big gulp; his words were filled with nostalgia.

"Phew, I haven't eaten this much in three months, no, six months! I..."

Bathed in the evening sea breeze, occasionally brushing aside the stray hairs that fell to her forehead, the girl waited quietly until the other stopped chewing before asking a question.

"Do you remember the O'Shaugh family, who were publicly hanged just two weeks ago?"

"Madam, I don't have any pennies to go to the city center, and I don't know who you're talking about. All I know is that ever since the rich tycoon in the newspaper was publicly executed half a month ago, and ever since those guys loudly proclaimed 'We've won,' ginger wine and draft beer have become several times more expensive throughout the port area."

Listening to the former's sentiments, Charlotte pondered for a moment before pursing her lips and speaking.

"So, how did you become a homeless person?"

“That was a long time ago. I wasn’t very tall, but I was a decent worker with a wife and lovely children. But a few years ago, the plague that swept across the entire North Yanin Peninsula took them away, and I was bedridden for a long time.”

The man's words carried a hint of reminiscence and sadness.

“The factory owner laid off a large number of workers, and as a result, I lost my shifts, my savings, and my family. Since then, I have been unable to find stable work, had no money for rent, no money for food, and could only wander the streets. This made me even weaker, and even more unable to find work... I should have been a good laborer.”

Speechless for a moment, looking at the gloomy sky above and the hungry faces all around her, Charlotte, who was not a professional reporter, suddenly didn't know what to say anymore, and lost the interest in questioning herself.

Black smoke enveloped Tingen. Those who were still conscious were residents of the port area, while the numb, exhausted, and beast-like figures were homeless vagrants.

There's no clear distinction between the two; the former can easily become the latter, just like the man in front of her...

Coming to her senses, Charlotte realized that the man had curled up and fallen asleep on the side of the street.

After a few minutes of silence, she finally snapped him out of his reverie and gave him thirty pence.

"This is the interview fee."

"Okay, okay, thank you so much!" Only after watching the girl walk away did the man realize what was happening and called out, "I'll go to a cheap hotel to take a shower, get a good night's sleep, and then find a stable job..."

Charlotte could barely hear anything more, but through this conversation, she developed a near-delusional idea.

By invoking the veneer of high society, attaching oneself to the power of the aristocracy, and using self-interest to manipulate minds, thus inciting a bloodbath, and then clarifying oneself amidst the chaos, this is undoubtedly the fastest way to break the deadlock, but Miss Watson doesn't quite like it.

Yes, I really dislike it.

Because that is too passive, and life and death are in the hands of others. Not only will you have to obey orders, but you will also end up unknown and leave in disgrace.

Indeed, she wanted to break free from her cage, and even more so, to nod slightly amidst flowers and applause, raise her arms, welcome the cheers of the crowd, step across the red carpet paved with blood, and be reborn amidst everyone's celebration.

—No need to hide it, in the name of Charlotte Earl, in the name of the people of Tingen, return to the eyes of the world.

In this era of unenlightened people, going against the tide is undoubtedly difficult. It is wishful thinking to want to cross the gap, unite people, and form a force. But how can we deny it in advance if we don't even try?

Having been given a second chance at life, why not take the role of a puppet and earn your own living, even if it means breaking your spine? It can become a chapter in history, a source of fuel for future generations.

If I don't reach the summit, I will die on the way to it.

She pursed her lips, harboring lofty ambitions. Of course, before that, Charlotte had to proceed step by step based on the current situation, just like opening her wallet and counting her current wealth.

For the sake of appearances, I spent a soule; for the sake of meager dignity, I spent ten pence; for the sake of pity, I spent thirty pence.

The more the girl looked through the thin wallet, the more aggrieved she felt, her earlier ambition and generosity completely gone.

Ugh, am I stupid? I was determined to indulge in pleasure, so why did I give in and lend a hand? If my weekly salary is paid too slowly, won't I soon be sleeping on the streets?

Unwilling to dwell on it any longer, she took a step forward, approached the peeling paint on the tavern's sign, and slowly pushed open the dilapidated door in front of her.

"Excuse me, do you still sell the O'Shaw family's fine wines here?"

It is a question that is completely undisguised and frank.

Chapter Eight: The So-Called Instigator

The dilapidated wooden door was crookedly open, and a kerosene lamp hanging outside illuminated the tavern's peeling signboard. Several rough voices came from inside, making the light flicker intermittently.

This was the tavern's peak business hours. As Charlotte stepped inside, she felt a wave of heat, smelled the faint stench of alcohol, and heard a noisy commotion.

A sense of atmosphere arises spontaneously.

A group of disheveled, flushed men were sprawled out on dilapidated tables and chairs, and on the damp floor.

They roared and screamed, sometimes cursing injustice, sometimes laughing at funny things, their voices filled with all sorts of vulgarities, occasionally gulping down a mouthful of cheap beer and burping to release the bloating in their lungs.

The pungent smell of alcohol, mixed with the unique fishy odor of the harbor, rushed towards Charlotte, causing the young girl to frown.

She closed her eyes, then opened them. After a moment of adjustment, she was no longer moved by external factors. She focused her attention on observing the various drinkers in her eyes.

Sweat-stained blouses and disheveled, soaked hair—among them, some were temporary workers seeking opportunities, while others were idle, numbing themselves with alcohol. But the most distinctive were the group of burly men with armbands on their shoulders and relatively robust builds.

Is he a member of the union or a gang thug?

Even without knowing the other party's identity, feedback from informants can form a preliminary profile.

Wrapped tightly in her thick gray coat to protect her belongings, Charlotte moved forward, pushing past many drunkards lying in the road, and squeezed her way to the vicinity of the bar.

"Excuse me, do you still sell the O'Shaw family's fine wines here?"

Just as she had envisioned, she asked the bartender a question directly, as if she were a naive young man who didn't know the rules.

This is not just the role I play, but also the image that is put in the open and shown to everyone: a young, thin lamb with only a little bit of fat left.

"Pfft, kid, that damned tycoon has already been hanged. You can't possibly not even afford a newspaper and still be thinking of currying favor with him to try and get some benefits?"

The man standing nearby gave a mocking laugh, his yellow teeth exposed to the air, revealing a bit of flesh between them.

"You do have a youthful face. If you stood on the street, you'd be much more relaxed than you are now. Why don't you consider it? Who knows, I might even patronize your shop someday?"

These lewd remarks seemed to ignite desire. After they finished speaking, the entire tavern erupted in unrestrained and vulgar laughter. Some even stubbornly resisted their drunkenness and staggered closer to the girl, just to take a look and mock her.

Fortunately, thanks to her deliberate disguise and elongated figure, coupled with the effects of intoxication, Charlotte looked more like an underdeveloped, pale, and sickly young woman.

Perhaps, among the crowd, only the old man standing at the bar, wiping the table, did not join the conversation. Only after the whispers subsided did he straighten his appearance and speak slowly and deliberately.

"Sir, if you are referring to the original wine, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed. In Tingen, they've been renamed India Red Wine."

"...I'm sorry, I failed to find out properly."

With a flushed face and anxious eyes, Charlotte twisted the hem of her clothes to avoid being seen by many, making her weak and timid feel even stronger, as if she were a hamster.

This was clearly not the truth. Through a previous interview, she learned from the homeless man about the price changes before and after the O'Shaughnessy family's defection, and she naturally wanted to use this as an excuse to obtain more information.

"Sir, would you please have a glass of India red wine?"

Forty pence.

He rattled off the price with practiced ease, and the old man in the old suit brought over the cup, his eyes still seeming to hold a hint of emotion.

"To be honest, compared to it, many beers can't even be called alcohol; they can only be considered beverages."

As words and money were exchanged, the dull thud of pennies hitting the table echoed frequently. Seeing the former holding a stack of gleaming coins, the previous playful laughter vanished instantly, replaced by several greedy and envious glances.