Chapter 20: Annette’s Melancholy

"Nettie won't agree to that," Nancy muttered, clearly anxious. "She's so headstrong. You know she'll say no."

Grace shot her daughter a furious glare and pinched her arm hard. "And whose fault is that? You think you can hide a pregnancy forever? If she refuses, what then? She's been married three months and still hasn't conceived. By the end of the year, everyone will be talking. We're doing her a favor."

Nancy hesitated, but Grace's twisted logic did bring some comfort. With her mother's backing, the weight in her chest lightened, if only a little.

Annette, of course, remained blissfully unaware of their schemes. At that moment, she was still plotting her own rise in this strange new world and chatting idly with Stuart about education.

To her surprise, Stuart had attended university. He'd been recommended as part of a soldier-scholar program after enlisting, and studied in Eastshore City.

"Wow," she said, eyes sparkling. "That's really impressive. I loved school, but I was too wild when I was younger. Skipped out on the books."

Stuart leaned against the headboard and gave her a long, thoughtful look. "It's not too late. The policies are shifting. You might have a shot if things continue to change."

She mentally gave him a big thumbs-up. For all his quiet reserve, Stuart was sharp—an astute observer of the times.

Feigning innocence, she smiled. "Wouldn't that be something? I guess I could give it a try. Maybe I'll make it to college yet."

"You will," he said simply.

It was one of the few moments where they talked peacefully, and Stuart wasn't about to ruin it. He wasn't sure how long Annette's sudden gentleness would last, but for now, he chose to enjoy the calm.

Their rare moment was broken when Grace and Nancy returned, both surprisingly cheerful.

Grace even put on a pleasant face as she said, "Annette, you've had a long day. Go take a break. Nancy and I will sit with Stuart."

Annette didn't argue. "Sure. I'll step out to buy a few things."

"What things?" Grace asked immediately, her tone reflexively sharp.

Annette acted like she hadn't heard, grabbed her canvas bag, and walked off.

Grace jabbed a finger toward her back. "You see that? Not a shred of manners."

Stuart rubbed at his temples. "Why don't you take Nancy to the guesthouse for the night? Tomorrow, if nothing urgent comes up, you both should head back. Annette and I will return in a couple of days."

Grace blinked. "You haven't been home in four, five years—what's made you change your mind now?"

Stuart lifted his eyes slowly. The look he gave her sent a chill through her spine.

"You're not still mad about that thing with Clara, are you?" she asked nervously. "We didn't know back then. And besides, you're doing well here. Word is you're a big shot now. Your father and I were hoping we'd just move in and enjoy the ride. What's the point in going back to that miserable village?"

Nancy chimed in before her mother could keep rambling. "But Mom, if Stuart goes back, it's a good thing! Those old villagers will finally see how successful he is."

Grace gave her daughter a warning glare, but turned back to Stuart, trying to sound sincere. "You're really bringing Annette too? The village is struggling. Not even wild greens to pick these days. She won't last two days. Why not just send your father word to come here instead?"

"No," Stuart said, voice calm but firm. "I'll go myself."

That ended the discussion. Grace could see there was no changing his mind. Feeling unsettled, she huffed and dragged Nancy off to the guesthouse, not even bothering to ask if Stuart had anyone to care for him in their absence.

—

Annette made her way to the only department store in the city center. It was three stories high, wide and spacious, but blandly arranged. Uniform rows of glass counters filled the floors, and the saleswomen clustered in small groups, gossiping more than working.

She took her time, thoroughly exploring each floor. To her disappointment, the goods were limited. Ready-made clothes were dull and outdated. Only the fabric section showed promise, with more variety and color.

The wool and thick winter fabrics looked especially nice—dense, warm, with a rich texture.

Annette wasn't a textile expert, but she had a sharp eye. She knew what would drape well, what would look elegant when tailored.

A saleswoman noticed her lingering too long without making a purchase and grew irritated. "These are all new arrivals," she said. "Perfect for coats. Are you buying or not?"

Annette smiled politely. "Just browsing."

The woman rolled her eyes and jabbed a finger toward a pile of fabric remnants. "There. Those scraps are cheap—fifty cents per pile. No ration coupons needed."

Annette wandered over and had a look. The scraps were so small they wouldn't even make underwear, let alone anything wearable. Maybe she could sew a mop out of them.

When she turned to leave without buying anything, the saleswoman couldn't help but sneer, "Why do paupers even come in here?"

Annette knew exactly the type. Civil servants with inflated egos, clinging to their state jobs.

She turned back, leaned against the counter, and smiled sweetly at the woman. Her stare was direct—almost invasive.

Just as the saleswoman was about to snap, Annette spoke, voice casual and slow: "I know a little face-reading. You should be careful. There may be trouble at home—your marriage, maybe. Also, you might want to see a doctor."

The woman bristled. Her marriage was just fine! Her health too! She could eat two bowls of noodles in one sitting—what was this nonsense?

But by the time she regained her composure and opened her mouth to curse, Annette had already disappeared.

She muttered angrily, but couldn't help touching her face in worry.

A guilty heart breeds suspicion.

Annette, satisfied with her psychological warfare, strolled down a few alleyways behind the department store. There were some vendors pushing carts with basic household items, but nothing special.

This was a city, technically—but so far from the capital and major provinces that it may as well have been a backwater.

If she wanted to start a business, it would have to be small, humble, and built from scratch.

She felt like a headless chicken—moments of clarity followed by total confusion.

Books had always portrayed transmigrators as natural-born winners. They adapted quickly, blended in seamlessly, and rose like phoenixes from the ashes.

Why, then, did her own journey feel like a constant uphill battle?

With a sigh, she made her way back toward the hospital, chin tucked in quiet thought.

She hadn't even reached the front gate when someone called out behind her—

"Annette!"