Even in the United City Lord’s City, which was rich in agricultural resources, fruits were quite expensive. Even well-off families hadn’t reached the point of fruit freedom.
“Feeding good fruit to prisoners? There are still so many starving poor people in the city—does that mean they’re not even as good as prisoners? If I ever become the head of the Tribunal, I’ll turn the prison into a funnel sand pit, make the prisoners labor at the bottom all day long. Forget fruit—they won’t even get water. I’ll hang a block of ice from a rope for them to lick, and to reach it, they’ll have to climb up like goats!”
In Amber’s imagination, Ashley was already shackled with heavy chains, sprawled over the ice block, desperately scraping at the cold, rough ice with her little tongue to get the moisture her body needed.
In reality, these juvenile offenders only got a whole large fruit on the day a newcomer arrived. Normally, seeing a small piece of apple or banana in their meal tray was a pleasant surprise.
That evening, the juvenile offender being transferred to the Saint Dormer Community was Donahue Dick, who had set his neighbor’s house on fire, killing one person and injuring two. He was a skinny boy with a gaunt face and abnormally excited eyes. One sleeve hung empty—he had only his left arm. He was arranged in the side hall while the relevant procedures were being handled.
The Nabris Avenue arson case had happened recently, and Amber knew the details.
The victim was a middle-aged shoemaker who, after rescuing his daughter and wife from the fire, succumbed to lung infection from smoke inhalation.
He was a skilled craftsman who took his work seriously and never cut corners. Shoes he made lasted for years without wearing out, and after replacing the soles, re-stitching, and oiling them, they were eighty percent as good as new.
The victim who choked to death on hot smoke lay in the graveyard, while the killer ate sweet, cool oranges. Just thinking about it made her want to vomit.
Amber ground her little teeth in anger, a metallic clanging echoing in her chest.
At that moment, Flora noticed someone standing at the window and came out, asking their purpose.
After Amber identified herself, Flora nodded slowly. “I’m willing to cooperate with the investigation.”
The two walked to a secluded spot under a tree and began the questioning.
Her colleagues had already investigated the case details; their professionalism was beyond doubt—far better than her own half-baked skills.
What Amber wanted to know was what kind of person Ashley was.
She wanted to learn some hidden secrets, to find weaknesses for the interrogation later, to catch that girl off guard and make her show her true colors.
“Is she… okay?” Flora’s tone was strained as she turned her face away, her slender body swaying slightly.
“Don’t worry, we’ll definitely bring her to justice!”
“She… she’s innocent…” As soon as the words left her mouth, Flora remembered something and quickly covered it, lowering her head with a dazed expression. “I was just talking nonsense. I don’t know if she’s innocent or not.”
Amber didn’t mind and glanced at the small chapel before asking:
“I’m very curious—did she get a ‘big orange’ on the day she arrived?”
Flora shook her head gently. The ‘Christmas oranges’ had never been successfully replicated; those guys never listened to her. Perhaps they only helped each other during the crime, but turned on one another when it came to dividing the spoils.
“I always set aside some fruit for the new kids—apples or oranges, sometimes grapes.”
“What kind of person is Ashley? She hasn’t been here long, but you can go by your intuition and say whatever. What was your first impression of her?” Amber pressed.
The blonde little girl clasped her hands in front of her chest, her eyes downcast as her memory returned to that time, the image of first meeting Ashley appearing before her.
…
The wind rustled the treetops, rain pattering softly against the windows.
In the side hall of the small chapel, government workers in grey uniforms handed Ashley over to Flora.
“What crime did she commit?” Flora asked as usual, then pursed her lips, bracing for the psychological shock of hearing about some cruel offense.
She would often tremble violently, her mind going blank with physical discomfort.
Unless someone patted her back to remind her to breathe, it took her a long time to recover.
She hated this from the bottom of her heart, but she had to do it.
“She didn’t commit a crime and has no criminal record,” the grey-uniformed worker said.
“…Huh?”
Flora still shuddered reflexively from conditioned response.
“She’s an innately evil sort,” the worker explained, apparently realizing how unconvincing that sounded, and added, “It’s more like house arrest. The remnants of the Jenkins Family will surely try to contact her. This is to protect her from the influence of her evil birth family.”
Flora looked sympathetically at the slender, frail figure standing in the doorway.
The little girl’s face was pale, her eyes dim, her hair wet from the rain in damp strands, her whole body shivering like a sparrow soaked by a downpour.
Flora took her icy little hand and led her home. After a bath, she dried her hair with a soft, fluffy towel, let the weak-legged girl lean on her, and took her to the bedroom, where she fell asleep as soon as she touched the bed.
The next day, Flora prepared some tasty food: lye bread, onion rings, hot soy milk, and a large orange she’d carefully selected from a basket.
It was like raising a pet—she just wanted to see if she was eating…
Flora peeked in several times until she finally saw the girl get up, cradling the orange in her hands, her delicate fingers like flower stamens.
The way she ate the orange was unique. She first scratched open a circle at the top with her nail, peeled off the lid, then painstakingly separated it into segments.
“What are you doing?” Flora asked curiously.
“Thank you for taking care of me,” the girl’s voice was soft and ethereal. “But I have nothing to give in return.”
She turned around, her small, pale feet peeking out from the bedding.
She threw off the covers and landed lightly.
Her soft soles padded silently across the cold floor like a cat’s.
She went to the table, picked up a candle stub, placed it in the hollowed-out orange peel, and brought it to Flora with both hands.
“This is the only thing I can offer as thanks—my little orange lantern.”
“Ah, this… no need to be so formal… I-I didn’t do much… I… um…” Flora waved her hands frantically, her fingertips trembling, utterly flustered and honored.
She had given out countless fruits, whether placed in front of them or handed directly, and not one of those guys had ever said thank you.
She didn’t actually need a return gift or thanks—just a bit of positive feedback, which she’d never gotten.
“I owe my survival to others’ help, yet I have nothing to repay them with. I’m truly ashamed.”
The girl bowed her little head sadly, as if apologizing for her powerlessness to return the favor.
…
…
Amber listened dumbfounded. Was this the same person?
Such a polite, soft-spoken child who made you want to kiss her cheeks—yet she was the one passed out on the interrogation room floor, spouting sarcastic filth!
That damn girl, playing different tunes for different people…
Amber ground her teeth, thinking that tomorrow she’d bring an orange for her too and see what she gave back.
After hearing Flora’s additional details, Amber learned that Ashley kept a very low profile among the juveniles—she was almost invisible most of the time. But she was extremely polite, and everyone in the community had a good impression of her.
Seeing no breakthrough on Ashley, Amber shifted to asking about the victim.
“I don’t want to talk about him. I’ve seen the body—talking too much gives me nightmares,” Flora shook her head hurriedly, her face paling as she struggled to breathe.
“Then that’s it for now. Thanks for your cooperation.” Amber closed her notebook, put it in her satchel, and thought of the stew bubbling on the stove at home.
After she left, Flora stood under the tree for a long time, her face blank.
It took a while for her to snap out of it. She clasped her hands tightly, spun in place a few times, momentarily forgetting where to go. She paused, realized it was getting late, and headed home.
The Doma house was not far from the small chapel. Lush golden cassia bent the low fence, like a field of swaying golden butterflies ready to take flight. The red-brick house had a large-span red-tiled roof—simple and elegant.
As usual upon returning home, she reported the results of her ‘one good deed a day’ to her father, who was reading the newspaper on the sofa.
Her father’s standards for a daily good deed were high. Picking up a cigarette butt, giving a penny to a beggar, or helping an old lady cross the street didn’t count. It had to be something worth mentioning, something that made listeners marvel in admiration.
Flora vividly spun a lie.
Aubrey Doma folded the newspaper on his knee, listening with delight, nodding repeatedly, his pointed mustache twitching at both ends.
His daughter was becoming a living saint, gaining a divine aura of universal salvation from educating those wayward children.
Aubrey firmly believed that these sparks of divinity would accumulate into a holy light for the soul, soon attracting the summons of a great angel. His daughter would become a figure like Saint Joan of Arc.
Moving to the Saint Dormer Community had been an incredibly correct decision. Not only did it get him a job at a charity organization, but it also made him renowned in upper-society parenting circles. Letters poured in daily asking for child-rearing advice. Hosting a salon with fifteen people earned him ten gold pounds easily—just by proclaiming his daughter’s deeds.
