Fly Away, All My Aches and Pains
The mansion's kitchen was wrapped in an untimely silence. The mere fact that the employer's daughter had stepped into the kitchen was tension enough for the servants.
It wasn't the first time a lady of House Mirhane had set foot in the kitchen. Frederica Mirhane, the eldest daughter and the manager who effectively oversaw the staff, occasionally made appearances there. But though Frederica could be strict and demanding, she never treated her inferiors carelessly. She scolded when scolding was due and praised when praise was earned—a woman of clear rewards and punishments, always consistent with her gentle demeanor. She was the ideal master to serve.
Frederica visited the kitchen for one of two reasons: to reprimand or to commend. And it was usually the latter. Years of experience working in the mansion had honed their skills to the point where they could whip up dishes to the master's taste with their eyes closed.
...Gulp.
But Bathory Mirhane was different. Arrogant and utterly lacking in humility, her treatment of those beneath her was so abysmal that even calling her the villainess of House Mirhane felt like an understatement. During the time she lay unconscious, the mansion's atmosphere had grown noticeably warmer and more harmonious—her reputation was that severe.
And now, that Bathory had appeared in the kitchen, a place she never deigned to enter.
Was the food not to her taste? Had she come to throw a tantrum?
That was everyone's initial thought.
Hmm...
But the first thing Bathory did upon entering was... prepare a kitchen knife and cutting board. Then she chopped onions, sautéed them in a pot, added broth... and began making soup.
The head chef thought: What am I seeing right now?
Some kind of protest? A silent demonstration that their cooking was so poor it couldn't even match something she whipped up herself?
But for a noble lady's protest, it looked far too professional. Tying on an apron and donning a hairnet was something most nobles wouldn't dream of. Yet Bathory went further, handling ingredients herself and immersing herself in the cooking with natural ease. Her knife work was deft, her flame control precise. As if she'd done this many times before, she focused calmly on simmering the soup.
And when the finished dish was ladled into a bowl... the head chef couldn't help but be astonished.
Perfectly cooked solids, neither overdone nor underdone. Onions caramelized to perfection, melting into the soup, releasing a mouthwatering aroma. The plating was amateurish enough that you'd dock points for presentation, but it didn't diminish the appetite. If anything, Bathory's soup looked delicious. Incredibly so—enough to make you doubt it came from her hands.
...Would you like to try some?
M-Me, milady?
The head chef, staring blankly at the soup, startled at Bathory's words as she turned, but also sensed that the moment had finally arrived.
Yes. You're the head chef, right?
Yes, but...
Then no one here knows more about cooking than you.
This soup must be poisoned. He'd watched the entire process from start to finish—no opportunity to slip in poison—but still, he was convinced it was laced. Because it was Bathory. Bathory Mirhane.
Not deadly, perhaps, but enough to guarantee days of stomach cramps and diarrhea, he figured.
Eat it. Then tell me honestly what you think of the taste.
U-Understood...
Swallowing hard, the head chef scooped up some soup with a ladle. Resigned to the inevitable, he downed it in one gulp and...
...?
This... this is...
The taste was familiar. For the head chef, raised in humble circumstances, it evoked childhood memories.
I-It’s... delicious...
Not perfect. It would have been better topped with croutons and Gruyère, then broiled. But that simple, subtle depth—clean and unpretentious like home cooking—had a nostalgic charm that stirred the past.
The onions, the buttery notes, the rich broth... they all come through so vividly...
Is that so.
Bathory tilted her head indifferently at his words.
Then that's a problem.
――When you're feverish, people usually eat porridge. Solid food won't go down a swollen throat, strong flavors make your head throb just from the smell. Above all, you don't even want to eat, no matter how empty your stomach feels. Still, to take medicine and rest, you need something—so you go for something soft and mild: plain white porridge. Eating medicine on an empty stomach is just asking for trouble.
The problem was, this game's setting was a fantasy world, and fantasies are generally Western-inspired. In the West, rice is grown in Mediterranean climates like Italy, the Iberian Peninsula, or Greece. Even there, wheat is the staple—rice consumption pales in comparison. Of course this mansion's kitchen was stocked with flour instead of rice.
Haa...
When pondering porridge alternatives, risotto came to mind first. But risotto was more like spicy kimchi or fire chicken porridge—mutant varieties, loaded with ingredients and bold flavors. Besides, no rice meant no risotto anyway.
So, plan B: soup. French onion soup, specifically.
Even toned down as much as possible, the ingredients prevented it from being as bland as white porridge. So, she gave up.
What remained was this—the dish now on the plate she carried. The closest thing to porridge... and thus the most precarious. Food? Was it even food?
Urtic, I'm here.
Ugh... cough...
A raspy cough from her parched throat greeted me as I entered Urtic Mirhane's room. I'd had the maids move her, sparing me the indignity of carrying her myself.
Phew...
Eclair's medicine would work faster and better, but I'd prepared some anyway. First things first: food.
Time to eat.
No... desire...
You still need to. Line your stomach before the medicine.
I sat beside Urtic, wrung out a damp cloth, lifted the lid, and stirred the contents onto a plate.
What's... this...?
Just think of it as easy to eat.
What I'd brought was porridge—oatmeal, basically. Except with wheat instead of oats. Could you even call it oatmeal in this era? Their oats were inedible, like soggy cardboard. No one, sick or not, would want that. So, wheat it was, sweetened with a touch of honey to ease the aversion.
Here, ahh. No need to open wide.
Ughhh...
I propped up her upper body at an angle and fed her the mystery porridge.
Don't spill—never mind. Spill if you have to, just eat a little at a time.
Mmm...
Half of it dribbled, but nagging a sick person felt wrong, so I laid a towel and fed her slowly, steadily, bit by bit.
Let me wipe that.
Grumph...
Now, medicine time.
Okay... ugh... bitter...
I cleared the half-empty bowl and towel, wiped her face, dosed the medicine, and coaxed water past her grimacing face.
...My little sister suddenly came to mind. Maybe because I'd spent so much time nursing that kid.
All done. Now sleep.
Any longer here, and idle thoughts would torment me. As I moved to leave...
Don't... gooo...
Urtic's hand clutched my wrist. Feebly.
I could shake it off easily. Even healthy Urtic was weak; feverish, her grip couldn't crush a banana.
Haa...
Yet somehow, I couldn't. That frail hand felt heavier than anything right now.
...Okay.
In the end, I sat back down and clasped her hand in mine.
I'll stay until Eclair au Chocolat arrives. Sleep easy.
Eclair was still nowhere to be found. She felt close, but no guarantees. She might be gone a day, two, longer.
...Mommy in the island shade...
Still, for building rapport, it was worth it.
Goes clamming...
All this groundwork to win Eclair to my side.
Leaves the baby alone...
That was all.
Watching the house...
...That was all.