Chapter 76
Chapter 76
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 76
Chapter Title: The Chef's Kindness
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“Many thanks for all your help.”
“We all help each other out. That said, she looks much better today. Your wife must be in good spirits.”
Gillwood took his wife’s hand as she smiled faintly. Just yesterday, she’d been crying until she collapsed from exhaustion, only to wake and cry again. The long carriage ride must have worn her out terribly.
“It’s all thanks to Mr. Maxime.”
“No need for empty flattery.”
“I mean it. Thanks to you looking after us these past few days, my wife and I could travel comfortably.”
He bowed his head with genuine gratitude. He truly meant it.
Even inside the carriage and during their rest stops, Maxime had taken care of his wife.
Once, she’d wandered off into the woods while he’d blinked, and it was Maxime who found her.
“If it’s not too much trouble, why not join us for lunch? Dune has some famous restaurants, they say. It’ll be my treat.”
“No need to trouble yourself.”
“Is it your schedule? You mentioned being busy…”
“It’s not that.”
Maxime rubbed his short hair with his hand.
“Then let’s go together. My wife would love it.”
His wife, gazing up at Dune’s towering buildings with her chin raised, whimpered that she was hungry.
“Then I’ll humbly accept a free meal.”
“Good choice. Let’s go.”
It wouldn’t be right to send him off empty-handed. At least treating him to a good meal would ease his conscience.
He wished he could prepare something himself, but his circumstances didn’t allow it.
“That place over there is one of the Alpaci spots.”
Gillwood pointed to a restaurant in view. Maxime asked what an Alpaci was.
“Alpaci are these food critics who travel the continent, tasting dishes and rating them. Their palates are so discerning that any place they endorse is considered a must-visit. Those spots are commonly called ‘Alpaci’ restaurants.”
“First I’ve heard of it. You know a lot, Mr. Gillwood.”
Know a lot? He pondered Maxime’s words for a moment. Where had he heard that?
He’d explained it, but couldn’t recall the source. A tavern? Or overhear on the street?
“Daddy, food. Now.”
His wife fussed. He let go of needless suspicion and headed to the restaurant. He’d expected it to be packed, but the front was quiet. He spoke to the server by the entrance.
“Can we dine now?”
“Do you have a reservation?”
“No, we don’t.”
“I’m sorry. The Fairy’s Atrium operates by reservation only. We can’t accommodate walk-ins today.”
“I see.”
He glanced at Maxime beside him, then asked the server again.
“What about reserving for dinner, then?”
“No. The earliest opening now is four months out.”
Four months. He’d underestimated the prestige of a famous restaurant. No wonder it was so empty.
“Shall I make a reservation for you?”
“We’ll come back another time.”
Regretfully, he turned to leave. That’s when it happened. His normally docile wife rushed at the server.
“I’m hungry! Food now. Hurry!”
She shook the server’s arm, throwing a tantrum. He slipped his hands under her armpits and pulled her back.
The server’s eyes widened in surprise but quickly composed herself.
“Sorry about that.”
“It’s fine. Really.”
His wife wailed and collapsed, babbling unintelligibly through her sobs.
It’s cramped, let me out, no smelly food, give me something else.
“Alright, dear. I’ll get you food, so let’s stand up, okay?”
No coaxing helped. Dune was famous for its crowds, and eyes gathered quickly.
Embarrassment mixed with anger. He knew she couldn’t help it, yet he resented her endless crying and screaming.
“Dear!”
He gripped her arm hard and spoke sharply. She twitched like she was seizing, then went limp.
His vision whitened briefly, then cleared to the murmur of voices and his wife’s head lolling.
“Dear! Riselra!”
He called her name, shaking her gently, but got no response.
Is it my fault? Did I yell too loud? His lower lip trembled uncontrollably.
This had never happened before. It wasn’t like when exhaustion put her to sleep. She lay like a doll with cut strings, utterly limp.
“What’s wrong with her?”
Maxime came close.
“I don’t know. This has never happened.”
“What do you usually do? Any treatment?”
“I don’t know. It’s never been like this before…”
Sounds blurred. Like ink spreading, clarity faded to haze, then silence fell.
He mechanically shook her body. I’m the bastard. The bastard who yelled at his sick wife in a moment of irritation.
As his thoughts froze and he stiffened like his silent wife—
A burly hand entered his view. Human, but bear-like—thick, large, rough.
The hand touched her neck. What’s that hand? He forced his jumbled thoughts straight and looked up. A man in chef’s whites.
“Massage her hands and feet.”
The man said. Amid the chaos, he obeyed.
He rubbed her hands and feet alternately. Maxime helped.
The man tilted her head back, pried her jaw open, and slipped fingers into her mouth.
What are you doing? The words hit his upper molars and burst out fiercely.
“If the tongue rolls back, it’s dangerous. Not yet, but…”
The man expertly checked under her nose, her neck, her chest. No lewd intent.
Soon, she heaved her chest with a rasping breath. Her eyelids fluttered open. The first words from her recovered wife: she was cold.
“Come inside the restaurant.”
The chef said. He supported her and went in.
He sat her in a chair. She stared blankly at the table, then murmured she was hungry.
A hollow laugh escaped first. Then guilt followed.
Gillwood hugged his wife and whispered apologies. She pushed him away, complaining it was stuffy.
“Here’s some warm water.”
He gave her the water the man offered. Watching her gulp it down, he turned to the man.
“Thank you.”
The man nodded silently in response.
“Food!”
She said it to the man. Gillwood gave an awkward smile and soothed her.
“Oblivion, is it?”
“You know it.”
The man watched her mutter for a moment, then went to the back. He’d be right back.
Clattering sounds came, along with a savory aroma.
“This’ll settle her stomach.”
Soup arrived in an ornate silver bowl like fine craftsmanship. He scooped some with a spoon and fed it to her.
She slurped it eagerly. Then she grabbed the bowl with both hands.
She buried her face and licked it clean. He wanted to stop her but couldn’t, her fainting spell flashing in his mind.
After eating, she smiled contentedly, serene. Satisfied, it seemed. He pulled out his coin pouch and approached the man.
“Thank you so much.”
He tried to hand over silver coins hooked on his fingers.
“It’s cold out. There’s a cheap, decent inn across the street—get a room first. Neila, show them the way.”
“Here’s payment for your trouble.”
“No need.”
The man turned away firmly. His stubbornness made Gillwood’s hand with the pouch feel awkward.
“I’ll guide you to the inn.”
“Wait. After all this help, if I don’t show my gratitude…”
“If the chef says it’s fine, it is. Don’t worry about it. He might seem gruff, but he’s not—don’t misunderstand.”
He left the coins on the table. He smiled at the server’s reassurance, then called toward the back.
“Thank you again. We’ll visit when we can.”
He followed the server out. Only then did he remember Maxime and looked around, but he was gone. Damn.
He asked the outdoor server. Had she seen the short-haired man?
“He asked me to pass on a message. Said he had to go ahead due to his schedule and we’d eat next time.”
“I see.”
Regret tugged at him. He should’ve gotten a contact method. Come to think of it, he hadn’t asked Lander either. Just vaguely said he’d find him.
“Let’s go. I’ll show you the inn.”
The inn the server led them to was cheap yet decent, as the chef said.
He sat his wife in the warm room. Perched on the bed, she dozed off and slipped under the covers.
Rest time at last. He leaned back in the chair and sighed deeply.
It was a long way from Dune to the Holy City. Would his wife hold out? Could they make it safely?
No, snap out of it. He shook his head to dispel the negativity.
When he needed to stay sharp, here he was with pathetic thoughts. No wonder her condition worsened.
He washed his face dry and planned ahead.
The warm room made him drowsy. Her soft breathing lulled him further.
He fought to stay awake but leaned toward a short rest. Taut nerves dulled at once, forgotten fatigue crashing in.
His eyelids drooped. He pulled the chair to the bedside. He’d wake if she stirred, head resting there.
His back would ache later, but so be it. Monitoring her was priority.
His eyes closed. In the dream, he sat in a field with his wife. Plump sheep grazed nearby.
Sheepdogs circled, herding them. Woof woof—the sound was dear.
Suddenly, fire. The flock plunged into flames. Horrid screams.
The scene shifted. A reed field ablaze. His wife lay inside, hands folded neatly.
Beside her, a young son. Barely past baby fat, charred black in the inferno.
Son?
His eyes snapped open. Not because of the random son.
“W-who are you?”
People in the room. They ignored his question, exchanging glances, then approached him and his wife.
They clamped his mouth before he could shout. Hands and feet restrained.
“How’s her condition?”
The man by his wife spoke. She looks stable.
“Good.”
He glared with bloodshot eyes. A middle-aged man whispered in his ear.
“We’ll take care of her now. Rest easy.”
With those words, he blacked out. The last sight: his wife stuffed into a black sack.