A Hunger That Was Not Hunger
The Head Chef fell silent, as if the words had been struck clean out of him.
But a moment later he read it in Odelli's blue eyes: a certainty that did not so much as waver.
Does she truly have something to fall back on, to stand there like that?
When she made it plain she would bear the whole of the responsibility herself, he wavered a little longer, then seemed to steel himself and spoke with grim resolve.
"…Very well. I'll prepare it as you say, my lady."
He turned and gave his orders to the kitchen hands.
"Get the blackberries, the wild raspberries, and the barley ready."
The smoked meat they could manage well enough, but barley and wild berries were not the sort of thing the kitchen kept on hand, and the staff seemed to scramble at once to procure them from outside.
Odelli slipped quietly out of the kitchen so as not to be in the way. An outsider, she had done all she could for now. Only one question remained—whether he would so much as lift a single spoonful of that porridge. All she could do was wait, and watch.
Knock. Knock.
A short rap sounded at the door.
"I told you I was finished."
Ludville spoke without looking up, as if he had already guessed who stood on the other side. He made no effort to hide his irritation.
"…Your Grace."
The one who opened the door and stepped inside was, as expected, the Head Chef. He came in carefully, a silver tray balanced in both hands, only to be turned away at the threshold, where he halted.
Ludville did not so much as raise his head. His eyes stayed fixed on the papers as he flicked a hand, dismissive.
"Take it away."
The moment the words left him, Edwin—the archduke's aide—flashed a sharp look.
"Don't tell me you still haven't eaten breakfast. Then eat it now, at least! What are you doing, shooing the Head Chef off like a bug?"
His gaze landed on the bottle and the half-drained glass sitting on the desk. Drink again, in place of a meal. There was a limit to how thoroughly a man could neglect himself. The scolding that had climbed all the way to Edwin's throat was about to burst—
The Head Chef hesitated, then spoke with care.
"The young lady said that if you refused another meal, I was to offer you this."
At the mention of a name neither of them had expected, both faces changed at once. The aide's eyes went round. Ludville's brow twitched, and he lifted his head.
"…Lady Cardel?"
The low voice slipped out like a thought spoken aloud. The girl he had given a fortnight and told to amuse him—the one who had shut herself in the annex and never come out?
With a thoroughly unimpressed face, Ludville let out a scoff.
"Ha."
I thought she'd taken fright and gone into hiding, and then word comes that she caught a thief in the meantime… She seemed to be nosing into every corner of the place, and yet he could not begin to tell what she was actually doing.
"Yes. If I may say so… she seemed worried about Your Grace."
It was rare for the Head Chef to venture an opinion of his own. He, too, had been thrown at first. When the young lady appeared in his kitchen out of nowhere and began issuing orders about the menu, he had found the whole thing impossible to accept. And yet there had been unmistakable confidence in the way she said she would take the blame herself. Whatever her intentions, that was a separate matter. In all honesty, he did not care whether she was a spy or something worse—so long as His Grace the Archduke finished a meal to the end.
Hah.
That the Head Chef should quietly take Odelli's side left Ludville dumbfounded. Had the man no pride at all? An outsider who had only just set foot in the Archducal Castle had meddled in his kitchen, and he had simply gone along with it?
The Butler was already looking off, and now it seems she's tamed the Head Chef as well. It wasn't even funny. He had given her a mere fortnight—so why was she spending her effort on other people? He had thought she approached him because she wanted power. Was she meaning to win over his household first? And yet…
She can't be stupid enough not to know that the decision still rests with me. If she wanted a chance, shouldn't she be trailing after him day after day and making a nuisance of herself, the way the other women did?
And shouldn't she have brought the thing herself, and made a show of how she'd prepared it for His Grace?
Displeased, Ludville glared at the meal beneath its silver lid. For a long while he said nothing. At last he jerked his chin.
"…Set it down and get out."
The Head Chef bowed in silence and withdrew, and stillness settled over the room once more. Only the bowl of barley porridge left upon the table kept its place, unmoving.
He lifted the lid. Steam rose in soft curls, and a savory fragrance spread slowly through the room. A clear barley porridge. Over the plump, moisture-glossed grains lay a few neat slices of smoked meat, cut thin. Dark crimson wild raspberries and blackberries ringed the edge, and a thread of honey had been drawn across them, lending a faint sheen.
"…This is dog— ahem."
Edwin, who had been watching quietly from behind, coughed into his fist. What he had nearly said was plain enough. He had been about to ask whether this was dog food. For a meal set before an archduke, it was pitifully plain—closer to a serf's breakfast than anything that belonged on a noble table. That a young lady of Duke Cardel's house should have thought up such a menu herself made no sense to begin with. There was something unmistakably malicious about it…
"Ahem. Your Grace. Have you done the young lady some great wrong?"
"It rather seems you've earned her thorough dislike…"
Even at that, Ludville gave no reaction. Something familiar and unpleasant was stirring in his head—the sense of having known this before—and it would not settle. He stared down at the bowl for a long time without a word, then quietly took up the spoon.
The first spoonful met his tongue with the deep, salt-cured savor of the smoked meat. Then the nutty barley grains softened and spread, filling his mouth. Before he could settle into that harmony, the faint tartness of the wild raspberries and blackberries lifted its head. The bright snap of bursting fruit cut a lively crack through the current of flavor, and into that opening the honey's subtle sweetness slipped last of all, settling quietly at the tip of his tongue. Salt and savor, tart and sweet, mingled without a seam. Nothing jutted out of place. One note flowed into the next like water.
Why is this…
Why did it taste good?
Frowning, Ludville lifted another spoonful.
Barley porridge was a thing he had eaten often enough in his days as a slave. But this combination was new to him—familiar and strange at once, and strangely compelling for all its strangeness. He had no memory of ever eating anything like it, and yet, unaccountably, he felt no resistance at all. A peculiar food. One that called up a homeland he had never had, and stirred a longing he could not name.
Quietly, Ludville raised the spoon again. Another mouthful. And another. The texture softened and spread. Warmth slid down his throat. And then, all at once, he stopped.
His body answered first, as if he were a man putting food to his mouth for the first time after starving for a very long while. It was not hunger. It was the feeling of shattered feelings that had lost their way, thrashing without knowing which direction they were meant to turn.