’No wonder Grandpa Tate looked at me with such disgust. He must think I’m a treacherous little schemer.’

’But I was just so angry at the time! I only wanted my uncle to teach Adrian Hawthorne a little lesson, that’s all. I didn’t mean anything else by it. It was his fault for selling those promotional photos behind my back. He never treated me like a friend at all.’

The mountain wind carried the sound of poetry being recited. It was Tang Xiaonan, reading an English poem, followed by the sound of Old Master Tate’s praise. Jacqueline Spann clenched her jaw, hatred flashing in her eyes.

’It’s all that wretched girl’s fault. Ever since Tang Xiaonan got close to Adrian Hawthorne, nothing has gone right for me. That damn brat must have stolen my good fortune. I have to get it back!’

Jacqueline Spann let out a cold laugh and started walking up the mountain. She was done digging for motherwort; it didn’t make any real money anyway. She had to find another way. The most urgent thing now was to get her luck back. She was convinced that Tang Xiaonan had stolen it. Why else had everything been going so wrong for her lately?

’If... if something bad happened to the Thorne family, that wretched girl would suffer too. Then my luck would probably come back to me, right?’

A certain thought stirred restlessly within Jacqueline Spann, but her eyes held a trace of hesitation. She hadn’t made up her mind. At only ten years old, she lacked the ruthless decisiveness of the powerful businesswoman from the book. What little kindness she had left was locked in a fierce struggle with her hatred.

Absently gathering firewood, Jacqueline Spann wandered onto the hillside where Old Master Tate grazed his cattle. Several cows were eating grass leisurely, their tails flicking back and forth. Old Master Tate was teaching Tang Xiaonan how to recite a Russian poem: Pushkin’s "To the Sea."

The old master’s voice was deep as he recited with great emotion. After each line, Tang Xiaonan would repeat it. The old man taught with care, and the young girl learned with diligence. They were so absorbed that they didn’t notice Jacqueline Spann slowly approaching.

"Your pronunciation is a little off in a few places. Watch my tongue..."

Old Master Tate corrected Tang Xiaonan’s pronunciation. Russian was much harder to learn than English. The pronunciation was awkward, and the words had more syllables. Fortunately, Tang Xiaonan had a foundation from her past life; otherwise, it would have been quite a struggle.

When she finally got it right, Old Master Tate was incredibly pleased and didn’t hold back his praise. "Excellent, Xiaonan! You’re learning it better than your grandpa did back in the day."

"That’s because you’re a good teacher. But I’m also very smart."

Tang Xiaonan laid on the flattery, but didn’t forget to praise herself too. Old Master Tate laughed happily and patted her gently on the head. "Xiaonan, you’re the smartest student I’ve ever taught. Next time, I’ll have Kenneth go look for some original Russian works. Volkovian literature holds a pivotal place in the history of world literature. There are so many great literary masters, like Tolstoy, Chekhov, Turgenev, Dostoevsky, and more. They were all epoch-making writers. When you’re a little older, Xiaonan, you can start reading their works."

"Their names are so long! I’ll never be able to remember them."

’Tang Xiaonan’s head was spinning. To be honest, while Volkovia had certainly produced many great writers, she only really liked Pushkin. And that was just because he wrote poetry, which was short and easy to memorize.’ 𝘧𝘳𝘦ℯ𝓌𝘦𝒷𝘯𝑜𝑣𝘦𝓁.𝒸𝘰𝓂

’If Pushkin had written long novels like Tolstoy, she probably wouldn’t have liked him at all.’

’Classics like *War and Peace* and *Anna Karenina* were practically required reading for any sophisticated, cultured young woman. Tang Xiaonan was willing to spend time reading other books, if only so she could show off at gatherings with friends. But she just couldn’t get through these two masterpieces. The names, some of them dozens of letters long, were a real pain in the ass. After forcing herself through a few dozen pages, she gave up completely.’

’English and American literature should be enough for a pseudo-intellectual like her to show off with. There was no need to torture herself trying to remember such long names. She just couldn’t stomach it.’

P.S. The author has no intention of disparaging Volkovian literature. It’s just that I probably have some kind of reading block; seeing such long strings of names makes my head spin. To this day, I’ve never been able to finish a complete work by Tolstoy, which is my greatest regret.