Chapter 2: The Baby Contemplates His Circumstances

Afterwards, what I learned was this.

It seemed that almost all the care for me was handled by a single young girl.

She must be the one assigned the role of caretaker, or ‘nanny’ as they might call it.

If that’s the case, then my birth family might lean somewhat toward the upper class.

However, having only one young nanny looking after me didn’t quite suggest great wealth either.

When my stomach began to grumble, a different woman came over and let me suckle.

Her manner felt somewhat businesslike, so she probably wasn’t my mother. 

She must have been the nursemaid.

“××××, Bettina.”

“××××.”

From this exchange, the nanny’s name seemed to be Bettina.

The word ‘Western’ crossed my mind again.

When I was lifted up, I got a good look at her—blue eyes, pink hair, and delicate features.

My ‘memory’ told me that this was something very far removed from the world I came from, even more so than just being ‘Western.’

When the nursemaid left, Bettina held me for a while and walked around the room.

Looking out the open window, I saw a peaceful scene of trees lined up, bathed in the warm hues of what must have been the setting sun.

After being laid down in the bed for a while, Bettina took me by the arms and led me out of the room.

Ahead, through a dim corridor, I saw stairs going down. 

So this must be the second floor.

Instead of continuing down the stairs, Bettina turned toward a door nearby.

At that moment, I sensed a strange presence, so I glanced up and down the hallway. 

But no one was there. 

Perhaps it was my imagination, so I looked back at the door.

Knocking and entering, I found a small woman in a negligee half-sitting up in bed, welcoming me.

This must be my mother.

Her blonde hair and fair skin, though still youthful, made it clear she was quite beautiful.

Judging from the middle-aged maid’s attentive care by her side, she seemed frail and bedridden.

Whether it was because of the family’s status or my mother’s health that childcare was entrusted to the nanny and nursemaid was unclear, but the way she lovingly took me in her arms gave me a sense of comfort.

“××××.”

“××××.”

“××××.”

The exchange with Bettina seemed to be about how I was doing, and the tone of concern for her son was clearly present.

I couldn’t stay with my mother for long.

Soon I was back in Bettina’s arms, returned to the bed in my original room.

The room was never lit after dark; once Bettina confirmed I was settled quietly, she left.

It seemed the nanny had her own room elsewhere.

I was left alone, thinking about things, but such is the fate of a baby—I fell asleep before I knew it.

From the following day onward, my interactions were mainly with Bettina, as I devised little strategies.

Though nothing complicated.

When Bettina tried to soothe me to sleep, if I showed a little stubbornness or displeasure, she—lacking other ideas—would just leave the room and walk about the house.

That gave me chances to gradually learn the layout of the house, the people within it, and snippets of their conversations.

What I quickly discovered was that the household staff consisted of the nanny Bettina, the maid who attended my mother, the cook and her family, and one man whose figure I saw walking about—apparently that was everyone.

Even after several days, I hadn’t met any family members other than my mother.

Whether my father existed or not was still a mystery.

My routine seemed to be meeting with my mother every evening after dinner, though a few times we missed it, likely due to her health.

Bettina spent most of her time in the kitchen, where either the cook or her wife—or both—were usually present.

Incidentally, the cook’s wife was the nursemaid who fed me.

Besides that, when Bettina carried me and wandered, the route was fairly fixed: from my bedroom on the second floor, down the hallway, the staircase, through the kitchen and dining room, to the floor near the front entrance.

There were quite a few rooms on the second floor—at least eight.

Both the dining room and the floor near the entrance were spacious.

My ‘memory’ told me this was quite different from the world I knew: a somewhat smaller but still noble mansion.

Yet it also warned me that, compared to its size, the decorations and furnishings seemed rather sparse.

No matter how much I reconsidered, I had no choice but to accept the coexistence of this baffling ‘memory’ inside me and this reality that was largely incompatible.

I had hoped the ‘memory’ might grow clearer over time, but it remained vague, lingering in my mind and suddenly presenting things through associations with my current reality.

Whether it was my own past self or another person’s, I had no doubt it was the memory of a single human life—but no further specifics emerged.

I barely understood it myself, but the phrase that came to mind was something like ‘memory loss.’

It seemed to mean that while general common knowledge came to mind, personal memories nearby did not return.

I thought to myself, ‘Maybe that’s how it is.’

Well, in any case, as someone who spent most of the day in bed, I had plenty of time to think.

I was more than willing to examine this ‘memory’ in detail.

But something like an instinct told me otherwise.

I needed to prioritize recognizing this reality clearly.

In any case, my current state was that of a baby a few months old, most likely.

There was no need to worry.

I was cared for by my nanny and nursemaid, spending my days peacefully with no complaints from anyone.

I was fed by the nursemaid and cleaned by the nanny.

That alone was enough for basic survival.

Besides, I had been born into a family of some standing.

It seemed I could continue this baby life without any real issues.

Yet somehow, on an instinctual level, I sensed something ominous.

If asked to explain why, I couldn’t answer immediately.

Forcibly squeezing out reasons, they might be as follows:

– Where is my father?

– Compared to the expected status of this household, isn’t the actual living situation a bit poor?

The first point was important, but since it wouldn’t be resolved quickly, I set it aside for now.

The second point—though I knew nothing of the customs or realities of this world—somehow bothered me.

One reason was the small number of servants, given the size of the house.

What concerned me most were the maids.

Only Bettina, my nanny, and an elderly maid named Isberga, who attended my mother, seemed to be present.

I once saw Isberga come to my room and appear to instruct Bettina on how to hold a baby, suggesting a superior-subordinate relationship.

As I had felt before, Bettina was still a ‘young girl’—according to my ‘memory,’ probably nine or ten years old—and looked unmistakably like a Maid Apprentice.

In other words, as far as I could tell, only two maids worked here: the Head Maid and the Maid Apprentice.

For a house this size, that was far too few.

The age and experience imbalance also seemed extreme.

One more thing.

As I mentioned before, I had sometimes been carried by Bettina into the kitchen.

There, I saw the dinner preparations nearly complete.

My impression was:

—How utterly modest

—too modest, really.

There was a single piece of bread, blackened and looking tough, and a dish that appeared to be stewed vegetables.

That was all for one person.

From the several portions lined up, it seemed there was little difference between what the masters ate and what the servants ate.

Even considering my mother’s illness, the modesty was extreme.

There was a huge gap between the scale of the house and the meals served.

Judging from the scenery outside the window and the temperature I felt, the season seemed to be autumn, according to the common knowledge in my ‘memory.’

If the ‘harvest autumn’ concept applied here as well, then this state now made me worry about how we would fare come winter.

Well, that’s the situation.

But what can a baby only a few months old do about such concerns?

Still, it nagged at me.