Even Reckonings Come After a Meal
Ayawn stretched wide, Lady Estelle arched her back in a luxurious full-body stretch — and at Vincent's question, her expression froze solid.
Holy Lady Kiara turned her head away, and Princess Emily shut her eyes and lapsed into meditation as though nothing had happened at all.
The common thread among the three of them was simple: not one of them could look me or Vincent in the face.
Suspicion hardened into certainty.
They saw us….
Then and now, my face burns right along with theirs.
But that puddle — what exactly did it mean? If it was just an accident of sight, fine, they saw. But what on earth did they do over there?
Don't tell me…!
They were crying?
It wouldn't be surprising, honestly.
From where they stood, the three of them had surely made a gentlewoman's pact — each carrying feelings for the Hero Vincent, competing fairly for the seat beside him.
Then along comes a black-haired woman out of nowhere who claims that seat for herself. And not only that — she has the gall to insist she has no interest in sitting beside Vincent at all.
She cheers them on, wishes them every success… and then spends the whole night moaning and gasping right where they can hear, sharing a night of thick, unbridled passion. Who could hold back tears after that?
On the parlor table, the bottles still reeking of hard liquor stood with their insides drained dry.
Ugh, my head. They drank on top of everything else?
Their gazes prickled against my skin like needles. Standing here a moment longer, I felt I'd be sliced to ribbons by the hatred in their eyes, so I seized on an excuse and slipped away.
"I'll prepare some food and brew some tea."
I needed to shave off even a fraction of the wariness they'd built up against me.
These women came from three different lands — the Empire, the Holy Kingdom, and the Republic.
Each would want her own way of chasing away a hangover.
Thankfully, years of life as a mercenary had dragged me across the continent, and I'd entered all three countries at least three times apiece. The hangover dishes I'd picked up back then would do just fine.
As for Vincent… well, this whole mess started because of him in the first place, so he could eat whatever happened to be left over.
I brought out beef and cured pork, chicken and shellfish.
I lit the hearth and the stove to warm them through, rinsed the clams, and set them soaking in saltwater to purge the sand. Then I washed the vegetables and trimmed the meat and seafood, readying everything for cooking.
Into one side of the stove went the dressed chicken and vegetables, left to simmer for a good hour; on the other, I set beef to boil with celery, potatoes, and carrots.
Meanwhile I set a pan on the hearth, melted butter in it, added onions and olive oil, and let them sweat. When the onions had browned, I splashed in red wine to deepen the flavor and left it all to simmer with the chicken stock I'd already set boiling.
I rigged up a separate brazier, set a pot on it, and boiled water to blanch tomatoes, peeling away their skins. I crushed red chili into olive oil, sliced in more onions, and fried everything until it turned sweet and fiery. In went the seafood with a pour of white wine, boiled hard to burn off the alcohol and the fishy reek, followed by the blanched tomatoes crushed into a pulp.
Chicken stock went into this pot too, and I skimmed the froth patiently as it simmered down alongside the other soups.
Once I'd seasoned each soup with salt, I laid thick slices of crusty bread in the bottom of a deep bowl, ladled the onion soup over them, blanketed everything in cheese, and slid it into the oven. Done.
From the beef soup I fished out the chunks of beef, sliced them thin, arranged them in bowls, and poured the broth over. A scatter of chopped red chili and parsley, and the beef soup was ready to serve.
Into the last bowls went the tomato soup, finished with a dusting of baby bok choy greens and basil.
Between soups I toasted bread and grilled the cured pork, cracked eggs into sizzling pork fat to fry, and set them glistening atop the plates.
The smell of good cooking drifted through the room, and the queasy guests scrambled for their seats at the table. With Vincent's help, I served each of them their own bespoke hangover soup.
"Lady Adela? And this is…?"
"Yesterday and now this. You really can cook, Adela, can't you?"
"I feel I keep placing myself in your debt. Forgive me."
If only this would thaw their hearts, even a little. This was all I had to give — all I could do was hope it suited their refined palates.
"When you travel alone, I suppose the only pleasure left to find is in eating."
Vincent, for his part, had gathered onto his own plate not just his portion but samples of every soup the others were eating — his meal fully assembled and ready.
"I threw these together in a rush, so I can't promise they'll suit your taste. Please, try them first."
Everyone's stomach must have been in genuine distress — they downed the tea I'd served in one grateful gulp and each tasted their soup.
"Mm? What's this?"
"Oh my. That flavor's… familiar, somehow?"
Lady Kiara and Lady Estelle had apparently taken to their soups — their spoons lost all hesitation.
Princess Emily, on the other hand, hovered over her bowl, visibly uncertain.
"Your Highness? Doesn't it suit you?"
When I asked quickly, the princess answered in flustered embarrassment.
"In my country, we haven't the custom of curing hangovers with soup…. No — forgive me. I'm the one being fed here, and I'm being choosy."
She apologized, then took a spoonful. As the soup slid down her throat, Princess Emily's eyes flew wide open.
"Your Highness?"
"It's deli… ahem! It's excellent."
She'd nearly squealed her delight like a schoolgirl before catching herself and reassembling her royal dignity.
Little by little, I found her… rather cute.
Wait, no, that won't do.
Satisfied with the taste, she showed no further hesitation from the second spoonful onward.
"I hear in the Empire you cure hangovers with salty or hearty fare. Please, have this alongside."
I set out the extra cured pork I'd baked for Vincent's breakfast, along with bread and eggs, one plate apiece before each of them.
"What do you think? My bride's quite the cook, isn't she?"
Vincent, you absolute brat. I cooked my heart out trying to smooth things over with your women, and this is what you do?
I turned toward him — and caught sight of the sauce smeared around his mouth.
I picked up the hem of my apron and called out to him.
"Vincent, hold still."
I caught his face in my hand as he looked at me and wiped the seasoning from the corner of his mouth.
"Look at you, covered in food clear up to your lips. What am I going to do with you?"
Vincent waited patiently, perfectly still, until I'd wiped it all away. When I finished, smiled, and told him he was good to go, he smiled right back — and for a moment he was nothing but the little disciple I'd raised from childhood.
"You're still a child, I'm telling you. And this is the one who wants to get married."
I gave his beaming face a light scolding, then turned my head toward the three women — and found all of them watching me with tight, brittle smiles.
I replayed what I had just done in my mind.
…Ah. So the fool here was me, wasn't it?
The meal ended, and the hour for tea arrived.
"Adela, be serious with me — any interest in becoming my personal chef?"
"I'll graciously decline your offer, my lady."
"Sir Hero, you are a man blessed beyond measure."
"Isn't he?"
"I've never seen the Hero eat with such happiness, myself."
The conversation swiveled entirely onto my cooking, and my face went hot.
What is this? Pump me full of praise and then drop me — what's the play here?
Could I steer the topic somewhere else?
"Did you all know Vincent never used to smile during meals?"
There. That'll do for a start.
"Yes. He never seemed to enjoy his food much."
"If we're being honest, Vincent was the type to process meals mechanically."
"To the Hero, eating was simply something one did because the body required it."
It must have been all those years spent shuttling between enemy battle lines — no chance for quality ingredients, no chance for careful cooking.
"When I lived with Adela, though, I absolutely loved mealtimes."
"Well, naturally — those were the only hours of the day you had to rest."
Before Vincent kicks off another catastrophe, I need to cover for him.
Brushing aside the dangerously misconstruable remark, I answered the women as though offering an explanation.
"You needn't trouble yourselves making excuses on our behalf."
Her Highness Emily abruptly switched the subject — and cut straight to the heart of the matter.
"Adela, when I watch the Hero's face when he's beside you, even I — dense as I am — can see the truth."
It came so abruptly that I had no ready response.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Adela. I told you this morning that I had words for you, didn't I?"
Princess Emily's eyes met mine, straight and unflinching.
She intended to throw her true feelings at me, raw and unvarnished.
"Lady Emily…?"
Lady Kiara, too, looked taken aback.
Is this her acting unilaterally?
"Yesterday, when you made your proposal to us. We can no longer accept it."
"I… beg your pardon?"
"Are you aware that we courted the Hero for the entire length of our journey?"
What? What is she saying?
"I'm sorry. Even knowing that you stood as his wife, we could not give up the Hero. Not for our own happiness as individuals — not for the prosperity of our nations."
"Hey, Emily, how far do you intend to take this!?"
Judging by how flustered Lady Estelle had become, the three of them courting Vincent was never a simple matter of the heart.
"Each of us, bound by the circumstances of our own countries, had set our sights on marrying the Hero."
"Lady Emily! That's not — I never—!!"
"Saintess. Perhaps you did not, but it remains true that the Holy Kingdom backed your conduct with exactly that aim, does it not?"
"Th-that's…!!"
The Saintess and the Princess trailed off, unable to finish, while the Duchess glared at them both.
What Her Highness the Princess said appeared to be the truth.
"Forgive me — to you, the one who becomes his wife. But that duty was the first and only freedom ever granted to us."
Her words came out like a confession wrung from a grieving heart.
"I above all — my line is the very culprit who robbed him of his parents. I dared to want what I had no right to want."
"That isn't true."
"This is not a matter that changes simply because you deny it…."
"No — I will say it plainly. You need not flog yourself as though you lacked the right, Your Highness."
She stared back at me, her face bleak and desolate.
"I was there that day. I know better than anyone what losing his parents did to Vincent. My own circumstances, once, were not so very different from his."
At this glimpse into the long-veiled story of the Hero's parents, the other two pricked up their ears.
"Vincent owes the Empire a debt of blood. And a debt owed by a disciple, by a son, is not a matter apart from me, his teacher."
I looked straight at the Imperial Princess and spoke without a shred of restraint.
"If he turns against the Empire, then I turn against it with him."
For the first time in an age, the expression of my days as the Black Witch surfaced on my face.
The three of them, catching sight of that cold mask, flinched for a heartbeat.
"But you are different, Your Highness."
"What is that supposed to mean…? They did commit the crime. But they are also my family."
The Princess pushed back against the pressure bleeding off of me, loosing her own killing intent in answer.
"If you two intend to exterminate the imperial bloodline, I cannot simply stand by and watch. No matter how deeply I may hate them myself."
The old me — the me before Vincent warped my demonic core — would have stopped right there.
But my body, still not fully mended, had improved enormously compared to before. This was no stray leak of menace. This was my killing intent, bared in full.
Come on, then, little girl barely out of her teens. Come at me.
Crushed flat beneath that overwhelming pressure, the Princess staggered. And with her, the Duchess and the Saintess — who had leapt up in alarm — felt their legs give out and sank to the floor.
As the whole house began to tremble, Vincent took my hand and gently held me back.
Very well. For my disciple's sake, I'll let it go.
When I reeled the pressure back in, all three were left gasping for air, groping at the empty atmosphere around them.
Good. That's enough fear for one morning, I think?
They gazed up at my face with something close to awe.
Good. Shall we call a halt to this staring contest and its little warning?
…Hold on. Didn't I just spend the whole morning cooking hangover soup because I wanted these three to like me?
I went and terrified them into the ground instead.
A strange sense of déjà vu crept over me.
A war of nerves between women.
N-no, wait. I was doing the stern mother-in-law thing! This was absolutely, positively NOT a battle of wives and concubines clawing at each other!