Bad woman, am I pretending to be bad?

The beautiful woman paused in her reading.

Article 37 on the paper is specially marked in red ink: [The association's inspectors are elected by a vote of all workers, and opinions will be combined each month to decide whether to continue in their positions.]

Unlike Watson's past biased opinions, this charter is more standardized and fairer. Subtly, a simple sparrow is drawn next to each clause, creating a subtle contrast with the document's rigorous format.

"Did the Steam Supremacist Church approve the case?"

“The stamp was just applied yesterday, and the bishop praised my approach to the matter.” Winnie took a brass badge from her shirt pocket, the craftsman’s plaque now bearing an enamel stripe symbolizing her supervisory duties. “Now I have the authority to borrow many books from the church’s library.”

The wind and rain outside the window, the clamor and strife, suddenly became somewhat noisy. Charlotte realized that she was unconsciously stroking the edge of the document, a gesture that usually occurred when she felt pleasure.

The little sparrow did indeed surprise her, giving a brilliant reply in the most rational way: those terms clearly contained a complete revision of Watson's style of doing things, and a straightforward proof of what he said that day.

The firelight from the fireplace danced on her earrings, and she noticed that Winnie's gaze kept avoiding the hearth—where some ashes from letters still lingered.

“I thought you would be more… gentle,” Charlotte heard herself say.

“Moderation and urgency are measures for different periods. When the workers’ association needs to rectify the atmosphere and reshape the rules, it is natural to take the necessary tough measures.”

Their eyes met, and those emerald green eyes, now as clear as new leaves after the rain, said, "Just as you taught me, the power of choice must be in your own hands."

She stirred the black tea with a silver spoon, the rose petals settling at the bottom of the cup swirling. From this distance, she could clearly see Winnie's long eyelashes and the new ink stains on her clothes. These qualities, which Watson had once deliberately cultivated, were now flourishing in this girl.

"So you're here today to show me your work?" Charlotte deliberately raised the last syllable of her voice, like a tremolo playing on a vibrato.

"No, I'm here to express my gratitude."

Winnie bowed slightly, humble but not subservient.

She untied the plaid silk scarf and took out a small square box from the inner pocket of her clothes. "It contains pencils that have recently come onto the market. You can use a rag to wipe and correct smudged writing, and you can regret your choices. I think you might find it useful when you're writing."

It was a deliberate emphasis.

A hint of turpentine fragrance lingers within. This high-end product would cost at least half a month's salary for an ordinary worker. Given Winnie's current position, she would probably have to tighten her belt for a long time.

"It seems the Craftsmen's Association offers decent salaries?"

“I also worked part-time as a quality inspector in the typesetting workshop, working alongside the other workers.” Winnie’s fingertips still had a few specks of ink on them, like freckles. “At night, I helped the printing factory proofread the manuscripts.”

This reckless part-time job is clearly a rebound from restraint, but compared to the detective's willful behavior, Winnie's desperate efforts carry a hint of restraint.

"Similarly, this is for you: the copy of 'The Relationship Between Spirituality and Evaporation' that you borrowed the other day and haven't returned."

The act of returning the books inevitably brought the two women together, each feeling a sense of similarity and dissimilarity. Charlotte could feel the thin calluses on the girl's palm; those new calluses, worn down by gears and rivets, were now trembling slightly, telling the story of hard work.

"The metaphor in the third line of page seven contains an error."

After a brief, cursory touch, Winnie released her hand and pulled a diagram from her pocket. "Spiritual transmission is closer to the properties of mercury than electricity. I've verified this seventeen times using the appropriate equipment..."

Without rushing to speak, Charlotte carefully perused the almost brand-new book. Several improvement notes had been added to the engineering examples inside. Some were written in neat and elegant handwriting, while others were written in a messy and unkempt style, clearly flashes of inspiration.

After a long pause, she smiled again, her face beaming.

"I thought we parted on bad terms that day. Using the knowledge I taught you to prove that the books I gave you were wrong, Winnie, you really don't understand feelings."

Sparks suddenly burst from the fireplace. The girl's ear tips were illuminated red by the firelight, but her eyes remained perfectly still, without even blinking. "You said that only through the pain of trial and error can one learn a lesson, and I deeply understand that."

This reply made Charlotte truly laugh.

As she stood up, her skirt brushed against the newspaper on the corner of the table. The headline read, "Frequent Conflicts Erupt on First Day of Implementation of New Regulations in Port Area," and the accompanying photo showed a blurry, petite figure standing between shoving workers.

"They've grown so fast," she murmured, almost with a sigh, reaching out to brush the still-damp raindrops from Winnie's shoulder. "Just two weeks ago, this little squirrel hesitated for half an hour even before knocking on the door..."

Before her fingertips could even touch her, Winnie had already grasped her slender wrist. This offensive gesture made the maid gasp, but Charlotte merely raised an eyebrow at their touching skin—the veil couldn't block the warmth of Winnie's palm, which was rather scalding.

“You’re wrong.” Winnie shook her head lightly but firmly. “Squirrels store food for winter, but sparrows…” She loosened her grip, revealing a small section of silver watch chain in her hand, “dared to snatch grains of wheat from the beak of a falcon.”

That was the chain of Watson's pocket watch, the broken end showing signs of a fresh file.

Charlotte's breath hitched slightly, and when she put her smiling mask back on, she found Winnie had retreated to the edge of the porch where light and shadow met, half of her face hidden in the shadow of her newsboy cap.

"See you later, Miss Charlotte." The girl's bow was impeccable, and although she was still charming, she now exuded confidence.

The sound of the door closing startled the birds outside the window. Charlotte stood there, suddenly realizing that Winnie hadn't touched the tea and dessert the whole time—she was no longer the little girl who could be soothed by delicious drinks and sweets.

The maid came over cautiously to tidy up the tea set and noticed that the books were wrinkled from being held so tightly by their master.

Even more surprisingly, Miss Earl began humming a song, her fingers tapping a cheerful rhythm on the edge of the table—

Although sparrows are small, they are the best at distinguishing between grains and bait.

Unexpectedly, the girl silently advanced to Sequence Eight, completely changing her past mediocrity and perfectly realizing her talent in reading, surpassing the other two birds.

Through observation with her hands and eyes and the perception of those around her, she realized this fact and was pleasantly surprised and excited.

What an interesting transformation.

......

When her eyes and brows opened and closed again, she was already walking among the crowds in the streets and alleys of the capital city as a kind-hearted doctor.

Today is the day she made her promise to Eliza.

The spacious theater in the distance was now packed with people from all walks of life. The afterglow of the setting sun filtered through the curtains, casting dappled patterns of light. Since the Renaissance, art has taken deep root and flourished on this continent.

Art is another heart of this city. From the poor in the slums to the high-ranking officials and nobles, they are fortunate enough to reach a consensus on the pursuit of aesthetics.

Before the main character even appears on stage, the audience's eyes are fixed on the stage curtain, awaiting its unveiling. Meanwhile, the other protagonist of the story will not be deterred by the bustling crowds and noisy clamor.

Ms. Valenti, a paragon of healing, a selfless saint—she was surrounded by such titles, yet as soon as she approached, the world spontaneously stepped back, bidding her farewell with eyes of admiration and reverence.

With clear visibility and the commotion subsiding, the front seats, which should have been packed, were left empty for one person, thanks to the lead actor's selfishness.

She belongs only to Isabella.

Before the curtain was even drawn, the singing already filled the theater. It was like a breeze passing through a forest, like water crashing against rocks, like the withering and flourishing of plants, like the coming and going of migratory birds.

The song contained boundless emotions, drawing the audience into the imagined world.

Everyone was captivated by the opera's opening performance, especially the healer, whose amber eyes gazed at the center of the stage. Suddenly, the lights came on, illuminating the beautiful leading lady who had suddenly appeared.

She wore a dark blue gown with a tiered skirt that shimmered like ocean waves under the stage lights. Her snow-white shoulders and neck extended from the velvet collar, like morning dew clinging to a forest.

Her long, dark hair was braided into a Hera-style bun, with a few stray strands curling into the shape of musical notes near her ears. When she raised her hand, the lines of her wrist bones, faintly visible beneath her gauze gloves, were reminiscent of Botticelli's Spring Goddess in the Florence Museum.

As the song began, the lights followed Eliza's steps, like twinkling starlight, illuminating the path ahead and painting a dazzling night sky with each step.

"And so a long-forgotten yearning arose within me—"

"I yearn for that silent and solemn spirit world."

The first act depicts a stage and the people on it, and at the end, it foreshadows the upcoming second and third acts.

The second act presents the characters on stage with contradictions and dilemmas, forcing them to choose their path and move forward.

The third act ignites irreconcilable conflict, showcasing the characters' final choices and leading to a conclusion that may be good or bad.

Every story is like this, including the opera that is now taking its final bow amidst thunderous applause.

The only difference is that, compared to before, those scenes of transitions are no longer a monologue by her alone. The horrific dead no longer descend upon her beautiful body. Her voice belongs to herself, her dance belongs to herself, and her emotions belong to herself.

"Brava! What a wonderful performance!"

More cheers. So monotonous, how boring.

They were merely spectators, distant observers. People gazed at her face, her expressions, her body language, and listened to her singing.

Their understanding is one-sided.

Of course, that's a one-sided view.

"Hey! Is this a real performance? It seems a little different from before?"

Some people lowered their voices and murmured amidst the waves of cheers.

"No, that's not what I want to see. Where's the vivid séance? Where's the beautiful witchcraft? Where's the almost manic public performance?"

Praise, slander, and so-called fair judgment, once they lose their special nature, become like a raging fire or a freezing wind.

People like Dikbatov, without a doubt.

People adore Eliza, the smiling, doll-like artwork. Within that empty shell lies a self heading towards madness, a twisted form of kindness.

However, the true leading lady would no longer linger for these others. She simply bowed to the audience below the stage, her tender gaze never leaving the beautiful woman in the center of the first row.

The starlight faded into the night.

"Dr. Bella, did you enjoy my performance?"

Backstage, the woman gently took the doctor's hand, her joy and anticipation hidden in her sweet smile.

The approval of the person in front of you is better than a thousand words of praise, and better than the admiration of ten thousand people.

“Of course, Eliza.”

"What could be more heartwarming than the smile of a dear friend? Perhaps only a hug, if you need it."

It was a timely little joke.

It was late at night when the theater performance ended. The two walked out of the building and strolled together through the sleeping city of Florence.

Fortunately, for tonight alone, the black smoke from the factory and the streetlights along the roadside are not enough to block out the sky.

The Milky Way descends from the horizon and rushes back towards it, casually scattering countless stars along its path. It surrounds a bright moon, casting its moonlight like a carpet onto the road ahead of the two.

"Eliza, aren't you planning to go home?"

The lights gradually dimmed, and the slumbering city breathed slowly behind them. The inky hills stood firm against the night as the two climbed the steps to the summit.

"Doctor... I have something I want to say to you, so I specifically chose this opportunity to be alone with you."

Eliza sat down slowly on the lawn, hugging her legs. A gentle breeze blew, and her black curly hair swayed along with the dark green grass.

"......What?"

"Hmm, how should I put it?"

A blush crept onto the girl's cheeks as she squinted at the person beside her. The night was a natural veil, subtly enveloping her emotions, which then floated in the surrounding air.

The two of them just stood there quietly, gazing at the city and the starry sky.

People say that the most beautiful thing about Florence is the night sky before the Industrial Revolution, when the sky was clear and every star was exceptionally bright and beautiful.

"Doctor, you are truly the gentlest person in the world... Thank you for wading into the mud to save me. Perhaps, this night scene is the intertwining of fate."

She lowered her slender neck and gently rested her head on the doctor's shoulder.

She raised her fingertips and gazed at the starry sky with the person beside her.

she says:

“Look, doctor.”

"Tonight, the stars are shining brightly."

Chapter 189 Love

"Dr. Bella, a person's heart is really small."

A soft sigh echoed across the dark hills, resonating again and again in Charlotte's heart. The mountain breeze ruffled the girl's black hair, which clung to the doctor's white collar like ink spreading on rice paper.

She felt the weight on her shoulder sink slightly, and Eliza's breath brushed against her neck, carrying the fragrance of tuberose and citrus.

"Humans are too fragile, so their hearts are only so big, and their love is only so much. If they have more love in one person, they will have less love in another."

The girl slightly raised her head, the moonlight casting soft shadows on her delicate face. "My heart once held many things: the stage, songs, the gaze of the audience..."

She reached out her fingertips and picked up a stray lock of hair belonging to a doctor, "But now, it seems to have no room for anything else."

Such words, though uttering no explicit emotion, direct an overwhelming love toward the person before them—the most affectionate and purest confession.

“Eliza…”

As a manipulative and ruthless person, Charlotte could naturally sense the deep and pent-up emotions in the former's words. However, she was now a kind doctor, a passive party in the doctor-patient relationship.

Therefore, the choice of whether to accept it or not is not up to oneself.

"Shh—" Eliza whispered, pressing her slender fingers to Bella's lips. "Let me finish, Doctor. I'm afraid I won't have the courage to do it again after tonight."

In the distance, the lights of Florence resembled fallen stars, while only the rustling of the wind through the grass accompanied the mountaintop. Eliza turned to face Charlotte, her eyes, which could captivate audiences on stage, now reflected only one person's image.

"Before I met you, my heart was empty, like a theater without an audience. People only care about the illusion on the stage, no one cares about the reality behind the curtain. When loneliness and darkness flood in, even the smallest joy is squeezed out."

The distant chimes of the clock tower echoed through the clouds, and the girl's skirt spread out on the grass like a dark blue wave.

“Until a poor but resolute figure stood before me,” she continued, her voice growing firmer, “you don’t look at my makeup, you don’t listen to my reputation. What you see is… Eliza, whom I myself have almost forgotten, the patient born with hysteria.”