63 A Friend

Orwell has been observing all along. Through his round spectacles, he watched how they were in the outskirts of the capital via a carriage, and then to the capital itself; Orwell noticed a patterned behavior—something he had expected even before coming to the capital. He had expected this more than anyone did.

The inquisitive eyes of commoners, and the prying ears of nobles.

Orwell knew how it works—given the fact that he was a noble himself. He knew the hierarchy work inside their social circle. Hidden beneath the sweet, gentle smiles of women were their taunting giggles. Among the comforting and sweet lies of gentlemen were their disrespectful mocks. Yes, this was the social spectrum he belonged to.

Faustina.

Of course, that girl could not possibly know how the nobility works; he had thought about this ever since he taught her back in the castle. It is almost a pipe dream to just suddenly shove her in a life she isn't accustomed to. She was obviously a naive girl.