Chapter : 18
The Single Musician Is Troubled by Noise
“I’m home…”
I, Katarina Maclaire, returned home after another day’s performance at the opera house.
The entrance was pitch-dark.
Every time I came home, there was no one to greet me, and the unlit house always felt lonely.
“No, no. I have to focus on music!”
When the body and mind are tired, people tend to think about unproductive things. I had just caught myself doing exactly that—thinking thoughts that weren’t like me at all.
I left my family estate because I wanted to make my mark in the world of music.
This is not a world where someone who complains about being lonely can survive.
Scolding my weakening heart, I took off my high heels.
“Ouch… I’ve got blisters again.”
My heels were red and sore once I took the shoes off.
During a performance, I never notice, but as soon as it’s over, the pain hits me all at once.
“I don’t want to wear these anymore.”
It happens every time I buy new heels.
I can complain all I want, but it’s something unavoidable in my line of work.
A performer must care not only about skill but also about appearance.
Especially in the royal capital—if you want to build a name for yourself, you can’t afford to look sloppy, not even offstage.
Still, sometimes I just want to wander the city wearing soft, flat sneakers.
As I imagined that carefree version of myself, I slipped on my house slippers and walked down the hallway.
When I turned on the light in the living room, the darkness gave way to brightness—
and with it, my shameful living habits were revealed.
Several dresses were draped over the sofa, cosmetics and jewelry cluttered the table, and socks were scattered across the floor.
Since childhood, I’d always believed that household chores were a servant’s duty, so my hands just wouldn’t move.
But no—that’s only an excuse. Living alone means taking responsibility for these things myself.
“…Still, I don’t have the energy right now.”
Pretending not to see the mess, I moved to the sofa and flopped down. The sofa creaked in protest, and one of the dresses slipped down on top of me.
Brushing the fabric off my face and hanging it back over the sofa, I finally let out a deep sigh.
“Ahh… I could just fall asleep like this.”
But that wasn’t an option.
I had another concert coming up next week.
Even though I’d practiced many times already, daily review is vital for any musician.
If I skip even a day, my fingers will start to rust.
Besides, I was starving.
Our rehearsal schedule includes breaks, but I always use them to practice the next piece.
I didn’t have the time—or energy—to eat lunch, so I’d only had breakfast today.
My stomach was growling.
“I’ll eat something light and then practice.”
Forcing my exhausted body to move, I stood up and headed to the kitchen.
I opened the refrigerator to check what ingredients I had. Inside were only a bottle of wine, a shriveled carrot, and a cucumber—an utterly dismal sight.
Oh no. I’d been so busy I completely forgot to go grocery shopping.
Judging by the vegetables’ appearance, they were wilted but not yet spoiled.
If only I had some meat, I could at least stir-fry them.
Rummaging through the fridge, I found a pack tucked in the back.
“There it is! Meat—oh wait, no.”
Inside the pack was a lump of meat turned black with age.
Even with a magic-powered refrigerator, it couldn’t preserve meat forever.
I couldn’t bring myself to eat only wilted vegetables either.
So, I gave up on dinner entirely.
I slammed the refrigerator door shut, a bit harder than intended, as if venting my hunger-driven frustration.
Clack. The sound echoed, and the vibration made the wine bottle inside roll slightly.
“…Still, couldn’t they have made this thing a bit smaller?”
The refrigerator dominated the kitchen, an imposing presence. It was a marvelous magical device powered by an ice mana stone, and thanks to it, food preservation had advanced tremendously.
But the size was excessive.
Of course, storage requires space, but surely it could be more compact?
The magical engineer Jilk Luren, who designed it, was famous throughout the capital. Yet, he had a terrible habit of ignoring small, practical needs.
He probably lost interest in his inventions the moment they were completed.
The magical stove knobs, for instance, were so stiff that I—being a woman—had trouble adjusting them.
And the hair dryer was so large it couldn’t be carried around, even though I wanted to use it while traveling.
If they can make compact magic stoves, why not compact hair dryers too?
I’ve sent him several letters with such suggestions, but he never seems to produce any improved versions.
For someone like me, hopeless at household chores, magical devices are a blessing.
That’s why I want him to keep creating tools that make life easier for people like us.
And to make sure he does, I’ll keep sending my requests—
since improving my housework skills would definitely take much longer.
“All right… time to practice the violin.”
Giving up on dinner, I quickly took my instrument out of its case.
After activating a soundproofing charm, I laid out the sheet music for my upcoming performance and focused my mind.
“~~♪”
But just as I drew my bow across the strings, a cheerful male voice started singing from the apartment next door.
“……”
I’d just gotten ready to focus, and the neighbor’s singing irritated me.
The soundproof charm kept my playing from leaking out, but sounds from outside could still come in.
The man’s pitch was solid and his rhythm lively—but I’d never heard the tune before.
What region’s song could that be?
“No, what am I doing? I have to practice!”
Now was not the time to listen to my neighbor’s music. I had work to do.
I reset my focus and began to play again.
But the cheerful voice kept ringing out, disrupting my concentration.
He had a strangely pleasant tone, sounding genuinely happy.
Here I was, working myself to the bone, while he sang away without a care in the world.
The carefree joy in his voice only made me angrier.
“Honestly! If you’re going to sing, at least use a soundproof charm!”
I deactivated my own charm and kicked the wall that separated our rooms.
Unfortunately, I kicked too hard. Even with shoes on, the pain shot through my foot, and I doubled over in agony.
“Ahhh—!!?”
In the end, that night, I couldn’t practice properly—
all thanks to my noisy, inconsiderate neighbor.
