Chapter 1

　　Prologue

　　Letting the hem of my dress puff out like a freshly baked bun, I flopped onto the expensive tapestry that adorned the floor. I made sure to cross my legs demurely, allowing just the tips of my shiny patent leather shoes and lace-trimmed socks to peek from beneath my skirt.

　　Then, I spread a large sheet of white paper before me and clutched my crayons.

　　Time to begin.

　　I held my head high, keeping my perfectly curled golden hair from falling onto my face. Angling my face down toward the paper tilted my cheeks up just so, putting them on full display for the camera.

　　Got to look pretty for the camera.

　　A sigh escaped me as I stared at the blank white page. I’d been ordered to keep smiling, no matter what, and the constant, vacant grin fixed to my face allowed a soft whoosh of air to slip between my teeth.

　　Posture, check. Camera angle, perfect. Now, what does a fourteen-year-old girl even draw?

　　It had been seven years since I was fourteen, so I didn’t really have a clue.

　　My vision blurred slightly as I took a yellow crayon to the paper, attempting to draw a chicken leg.

　　Excellent. A chicken leg looks just like a gourd. Close enough.

　　With a surge of optimism, I picked up an orange crayon. This time, I would try a pizza.

　　I sketched a distorted circle, then slashed four lines through it to make eight slices. Or… hmm. With six intersecting points, I’d unintentionally created eleven misshapen slices.

　　The more slices, the better, I guess!

　　As I scribbled away, flashes erupted from all directions.

　　An antique-looking camera was capturing the scene: a portly man on the drawing room sofa, the orphanage director beside him, and me, posed like a porcelain doll at his feet.

　　After several shots of our perfectly composed tableau—me feigning conversation with the director with idealized gestures and expressions—the man finally turned his gaze on me.

　　Looks like he’s finally wrapping things up.

　　This was the final act. My legs were numb, but I held my pose like a statue, praying for the ordeal to end.

　　The man smiled, an overly affectionate expression that reminded me of a politician on the campaign trail. “Your name is Fredia, correct?”

　　“Yes, sir.”

　　“Is there anything you need at the orphanage?”

　　“Thanks to your generous sponsorship, sir, I want for nothing.”

　　I recited the lines the director had drilled into me, my voice clear and bright. The Count laughed heartily, clearly satisfied, and pointed at my masterpiece.

　　“Your artistic talent is truly remarkable!”

　　I stared blankly at the drawing, which couldn’t be called remarkable even as a cheap compliment.

　　Well, I’m glad I’m not the only one trying to get this over with.

　　“And what is your dream, Fredia?”

　　I gazed at my creation with unfocused eyes before turning a sweet smile on the Count.

　　“My dream is to be a painter!”

　　The words had barely left my lips when another flash seared our vision.

　　Tomorrow’s paper would probably run a headline like: Orphan Girl with a Dream of Painting: “Thanks to Count So-and-So’s Sponsorship, I Can Finally Dream.”

　　I feel like a circus elephant.

　　I glanced at the orphanage director, who beamed as benevolently as the Count. Her expression was radiant, no doubt because I had successfully pulled off her little fundraising performance.

　　Good. I’ll get to eat my fill tonight.

　　The thought of finally putting something in my aching stomach made me feel a little better. The director had starved me since yesterday to make sure I looked pretty for the photos, and I was ravenous.

　　Ugh, my life is so pathetic.

　　How did I end up here?

　　I was also an orphan before transmigrating, but at least they never starved me!

　　That’s right. This is the world of a romance fantasy novel called ‘The Suspicious Duchess’, and I’ve been transmigrated into it.

　　My role here is to be a professional beggar.

　　For now, anyway.

* * *

　　Part 1: I Transmigrated into a Transmigration Novel

　　At first, I was certain it was a dream.

　　A bizarre, nonsensical fever dream brought on by reading a novel right before falling asleep.

　　A new body, new scenery, new people—everything was different.

　　It was exciting, like being on a trip abroad. I roamed around, greeting everyone I met with a cheerful “Hi!” or “Hello!” and was promptly dismissed as a madwoman.

　　Then the director of the orphanage found me and practically threw a rag into my arms. She ordered me to get to work scrubbing the stairs, but I just splashed some water around and went back to my wandering.

　　I worked myself to the bone in my real life; my hands were always chapped raw. Why would I work in a dream?

　　But when someone slipped on the wet stairs and got hurt, I was whipped for it. The sharp sting of the switch made one thought flash through my mind with searing clarity: this was not a dream.

　　Did I really get transmigrated into a novel…?

　　It hurt too much. What kind of dream feels this real?

　　From that point on, a fog of confusion settled over me. Still, it was easier to believe it was all a dream than to accept this as my new reality.

　　If I’m not crazy, this has to be a dream. When I wake up, I’m buying a lottery ticket. This is no ordinary dream.

　　That evening, as punishment for my laziness, the director locked me in my room without dinner.

　　It was an attic room at the very top of the building. The moment the lock clicked shut, my jaw dropped.

　　“Whoa, an attic! This is the kind of thing you only see in rich people’s houses in movies. I’ve always wanted to live in a place like this.”

　　The room contained nothing but a thin bedding roll, a change of clothes, and some junk I couldn’t distinguish from trash. On the inside of the ragged clothes, I found the name “Fredia.”

　　That’s the main character’s name from the book I was reading.

　　Things you read before bed can sometimes appear in dreams, so I didn’t think much of it.

　　How weird. In the book, the story starts when a woman from modern times gets transmigrated into Fredia’s body.

　　‘The Suspicious Duchess’ was a story about a modern woman who possesses the body of an orphan named Fredia and slowly begins to change the original plot. I had to get up early for my part-time job, so I’d skimmed it, but it was an easy, breezy read.

　　I skipped most of the descriptions, but this dream is so vivid. I must have a great imagination, haha.

　　I felt a strange sense of comfort in the low-ceilinged, narrow space as I lay down. The pleasant smell of the old wood wafting from the unpapered walls was soothing.

　　“When I wake up, my crappy reality will be waiting for me. It’d be nice if I never woke up.”

　　I pushed the wistful thought aside and tried to sleep.

　　Little did I know that my words would come true.

　　The next day, contrary to my expectations, I didn’t wake up in my old world.

　　I was still Fredia, a shockingly beautiful fourteen-year-old girl with blonde hair. It was deeply unsettling.

　　What’s going on? Why can’t I wake up? Am I that deeply asleep? Or has not much time passed in the real world?

　　Or maybe I’d simply gone mad overnight and was hallucinating a fictional world. For all I knew, my real body was wandering around like a dementia patient.

　　If that were the case, someone would find me and call the police or an ambulance. Since I had no family, a social worker would probably take care of me. I decided I’d worry about the consequences after I regained my sanity.

　　But days passed, and I never returned to my senses. I had no choice but to accept my reality.

　　So… this is a novel, and just like the protagonist, I’ve been reincarnated? Does that mean I’m her?

　　At that moment, a hymn I’d heard once before echoed through my head, its lyrics rewritten for the occasion.

　　I am now reborn as Fredia…!

　　This was my chance.

　　A chance to throw away my difficult, burdensome old life and start fresh!

　　In reality, I was an orphan, raised in group homes and institutions. After aging out of the system, I was thrown into a harsh world, unable to find my footing, just drifting from one thing to the next.

　　I worked like a dog at a factory, getting paid in “experience” rather than actual money. I finally quit, deciding anything had to be better than that. Since then, I had tried just about every part-time job imaginable.

　　Twenty-one years old, living paycheck to paycheck. My most recent boss had stiffed me on my wages, so I was behind on rent, and my landlord’s glares were becoming unbearable.

　　It was a life with no future. Desperate for an escape, I took a part-time job at a comic book cafe and devoured every novel and comic I could get my hands on. It was my only refuge.

　　And now I’ve been transmigrated into a novel! This is the ultimate escape! It’s incredible. I’ll start a new life in this fantasy world. It has to be better than my old one.

　　My head was filled with rosy fantasies.

　　Now, what should I do first?

　　What do protagonists in these reincarnation novels usually do? Scramble for survival? Tame the villainous male lead and turn him into a golden retriever? Abandon their wicked family?

　　I’ll do it all!

　　This was clearly a gift from God, a chance at a perfect life. Why else would I be reincarnated as the protagonist and not some random extra?

　　Or so I thought.

　　“Fredia, I have been watching you for the past few days, and I can no longer tolerate your behavior.”

　　The orphanage director, whom I’d conveniently forgotten, summoned me, her face a mask of fury. This was the direct result of my acting like a carefree spirit for the last few days, oblivious to my new reality.

　　“You are well aware that you are too old to remain here. I was considering keeping you on as a maid, given how helpful you used to be, but seeing your recent conduct, I believe it would be best to send you elsewhere immediately.”

　　“Elsewhere?”

　　“At fourteen, you’re old enough to work. You will serve as a maid at Mr. Hamel’s house.”

　　Mr. Hamel?

　　The owner of the farm that supplied our food! He was a lecherous middle-aged man I always avoided. He was constantly trying to hug me or coax a kiss on the cheek, saying things like, “I have a daughter just your age,” or “You’re just like a child to me.”

　　Seeing the color drain from my face, the director offered a cruel smile.

　　“He said he needs someone to live at the farm and work. The conditions are perfect for you. You will be polite to Mr. Hamel.”

　　She knows exactly what he’s like, and she’s trying to throw me to him anyway!

　　I couldn’t take it anymore. I shot up from my seat and shouted, “Ma’am!”

　　Then, I threw myself onto the floor at her feet.

　　“I’ll beg twice as hard from now on, I swear it! Please, just overlook it this once,” I pleaded, forcing a sob from my throat.

　　My new life as Fredia came with two primary responsibilities: orphanage maid and professional panhandler.

　　Most protagonists who find themselves in a novel strive to change the future. As for me? The moment I inhabited this body, I was forced to start begging.