People Aren't Meant to Be Fixed! (4 Chapters Left to Complete) - Chapter 200

‘You look as startled as if you’d seen a ghost or something.’

Was it because I appeared in a nightgown? Or because my hair was slightly messy, unwashed and unstyled as usual? Either way, I’d at least washed my face, so I wasn’t exactly filthy. I shrugged and trudged forward.

The closer I got, the more I noticed Ronowe, Beris, and Carlisle were all neatly dressed—and since it was the weekend, I couldn’t help but wonder why they were being so unusually diligent.

After all, weekends were when the Fleur Family stayed at their estate in their territory to spend time with family, so they didn’t even visit the capital, Freyrie moved more leisurely than usual, and I myself would sleep in an hour or two later.

Carlisle, being an exceptionally hardworking type, likely dressed in his formal uniform even on weekends to continue his training—making me the only one in pajamas, which felt a bit awkward.

But really, how was this my fault?

As I’d said, I hadn’t drooled on my clothes, and since I bathed daily, I certainly didn’t smell.

It was just that, as their future sovereign standing above these three, my attire lacked dignity—embarrassing, perhaps, but certainly not shameful or humiliating. If anything, had I truly disliked appearing like this, wouldn’t I have immediately turned and fled the moment I spotted them from afar?

And if I’d really cared, I’d have begged the Messenger of God for something to change into. If nothing else was available, I’d have at least thrown on a long coat in a hurry.

“Crown Princess?”

Right—I’d approach naturally. As naturally as possible. I waved casually at Carlisle with my usual indifferent expression. Since he’d been the first to notice and recognize me, a small gesture like this shouldn’t be a problem.

“What are you all doing over there?”

Next, almost unconsciously, I sniffed the air, savoring the scent of roasted mushrooms—only to wrinkle my brow slightly at the burnt smell. At first, the aroma had seemed delicious, but as I drew closer, the pungent scent of the blackened mushroom Ronowe held hit me sharply.

It reminded me of a rare Eastern spice I’d encountered long ago, when I was born as the child of a merchant who traded in every spice under heaven—a strangely invigorating sensation that momentarily cleared my sinuses.

‘Mushrooms that smell foul if cooked poorly, huh.’

Read full content of this chapter on r e d c a t t y . c o m