6. Traven
The cook at the overseer's residence had been replaced.
The previous cook, Pell from Leon, had long served as a sous chef in a count's household. True to his origins, he favored lavish, extravagant ingredients. He was particularly obsessive about the quality of meat, preferring dry-aging—hanging large cuts in the kitchen shadows rather than salting them. Dry-aging enhanced the flavor and texture of the inner meat, but the outer layers spoiled or withered away. Proper salting would have allowed longer storage and fresher consumption, yet he refused. The yield for steaks was minimal; over half the meat ended up as waste. The utterly rotten parts were discarded, while the desiccated sections were stewed in heavily seasoned soups to mask their foul decay.
Moreover, he had principles about desserts and snacks, disdaining long-lasting cookies or biscuits in favor of cakes meant to be eaten fresh. Mousse cakes, in particular, softened and became inedible after just a day in the western continent's climate, yet he delighted in making them.
The household staff whispered that the change stemmed not only from Pell's wastefulness but primarily from Baroness Belpharos's extravagance. Even in rural life, she ordered from Eliyum's Trevere dress shop incessantly, bought jewelry once or twice a year, and snapped up every trend among the nobility. The consensus among the servants was that her excess had led to Pell's pay being cut.
Outraged, Pell resigned, and now this new cook of dubious background had arrived.
The new cook, Lud, was stocky but short for a man. His face, however, was always wreathed in a bright smile, earning him a favorable impression.
Lud's cooking style differed utterly from Pell's. He used every scrap of ingredient sparingly, sourcing locally whenever possible except for essentials from Eliyum, resulting in simple, humble fare. His dishes weren't the elaborate courses heavy with meats and pies that true nobles craved, but rather one-plate meals from common homes or taverns.
Baron Belpharos had little interest in fine dining anyway, and the baroness was thrilled that Lud's arrival had curbed waste and slashed food costs.
On the first month anniversary of his employment, after breakfast, the baroness summoned Lud to the dining room and lavished him with praise.
Emily saw him for the first time—she'd only heard of him before, as he was always busy in the kitchen during servants' meals. Having heard he got along well with her mother, Marie, she observed him closely. Though his appearance was worlds apart from her father Chris's sturdy frame, his compact height belied a muscular upper body that exuded a masculine air.
Marie had always been renowned for her home cooking, so while she clashed with Pell's noble-focused style, she bonded easily with Lud, the expert in common fare.
"I'm most satisfied, Lud. This is the highest praise. You may go now."
Having unleashed a torrent of compliments, the baroness beamed at him contentedly.
True to a commoner's ignorance of noble etiquette, Lud bowed his head slightly in thanks. His gaze swept the room, locking briefly with Emily's. He flashed her a warm smile, and she quickly ducked her head.
Since Mark's assault in her childhood, kind or bright smiles from adult men had felt unwelcome.
He stared at her bowed head for a moment before turning to leave.
"What was that about with the cook? How old is that guy to look at you like that?"
No sooner had Olivier returned to her room after breakfast than she grumbled.
"He's too old. Even if he's single, he should know his place."
Her complaints continued. Lud was well into his mid-thirties, his youth faded, teetering on the edge of middle age.
"And who knows what he's been up to. Mom said this cook wasn't recommended by acquaintances but came through a job ad in Eliyum. Shady past, in other words. Mom doesn't seem to care, but isn't it too much? Bringing a stranger of unknown origins into a house with two grown virgins."
Emily smiled at the indignant Olivier.
"Still, his smile made him seem likable."
"Criminals don't walk around with 'felon' tattooed on their faces. How would you know? You didn't even notice the pickpocket in Eliyum, remember? Said the guy in the hat looked ordinary."
Emily fell silent. Memories flooded back: the pickpocket in Citéga, the man with gleaming golden eyes. And the kiss. The intrusive thought made her clap a hand over her lips.
Olivier shrugged at her reaction.
"Anyway, I hate it. That sticky gaze of an old man on a young girl. Rolling those dull eyes. Ugh."
Lud hadn't looked at Emily with sticky lust. His glance held faint surprise and keen scrutiny—much like how others eyed Emily and Marie together, doubting their mother-daughter bond due to their dissimilar looks. Emily suspected that's why Lud, now close to Marie, had studied her daughter so intently.
Yet Olivier's fury stemmed from projecting her own plight onto Emily.
Emily gathered the colorful envelopes from the table and handed them to Olivier on the sofa. Olivier grimaced at the names scrawled on them.
"Again? Don't they ever quit?"
The signatures read Literven, Croshyrus, and Cruybe. Literven and Croshyrus she'd met at the Loren dinner party; Cruybe at the recent Poenneu Street gathering in Eliyum. They might have been mere passing acquaintances from parties, but Literven and Croshyrus claimed repeated chance encounters amid the street's boisterous year-end festivities. Cruybe, the only one from Templton, ran a major Eliyum shop with his brother, Baron Cruybe, and had shown interest from the moment they met.
During Olivier's quiet rural days back from Eliyum, all three sent letters or small gifts weekly to express their regard. She'd ignored them at first, but at her mother's insistence on social etiquette, she'd sent curt replies.
Outraged that none were her age or even in their vibrant twenties—all pushing thirty—Olivier bristled at their romantic overtures. At fifteen, she was socially old enough for debutante balls and suitor-hunting, but personally, she felt far too young for men in their thirties. They could have daughters just younger than her if married at twenty.
"True, all the noble boys my age are off at the academia."
Olivier sighed wistfully. Emily patted her slumped shoulders.
"You'll surely enroll next year, miss. Madam said so herself."
"Yeah. Here's hoping."
Olivier let out a short sigh, then opened the letters. Midway through the florid, formulaic script, she tilted her head.
"...Hunting tournament?"
Emily peered curiously, so Olivier spread the small enclosed card on the table for her.
As the breezes of spring fade from the season of flowers,
and the vibrant green of summer awakens,
we invite you to the Elsk Hunt in Astar,
north of Eliyum.
Count Traven, Astar.
"An invitation?"
"Yeah. It was in Sir Literven's letter. He wants me to pass it to Father—mentioned talking about him at the last ball, and he remembered."
Astar was familiar to the baron's household: the west's premier wine region, whose labels fetched top bids at Eliyum's auctions that Baron Belpharos attended every few months.
"But what's an Elsk? I know elk, but..."
Olivier eyed Emily curiously. Having lived in the eastern Templton Empire until recently, she knew little of the west.
"I've seen one from afar when I went out with Father. It looks like a massive cow, covered in shaggy black fur, with a fierce face. Its antlers are huge, like thick, gnarled tree branches. They're savage by nature—get near the herd, and they see you as prey and charge. One gore, and you're torn to shreds."
Olivier raised her brows in surprise.
"Sounds huge and brutal. They hunt them? How?"
Emily recalled what she'd heard about Elsk.
These ferocious beasts, living in herds at grassland-forest edges, were monster-sized; conventional hunting was futile. Instead...
"Jumping."
"What?"
"Luring the herd off a cliff to their deaths. That's why it's called the Jump."
Olivier frowned, no doubt picturing the mangled corpses below.
"Gross. I hate that. So cruel."
She folded the letter, tucked the invitation back in, and muttered.
"Gotta write a refusal today. No more of these invitations."
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