Greasing the Wheels, Part 2
A true genius never neglects their studies, no matter the time or place.
After all, there's no reason I can't study while watching over Freed.
A day had passed since Freed was born. I opened my book in the room where the baby and his mother were resting. Back during my residency, I used to study while keeping an eye on patients, so there was no reason I couldn't do the same in this world.
I was tracing the numbers with my finger, double-checking the calculations, when—
"Julian."
My godmother, who had been resting in bed, suddenly called my name. I looked up from my book. Cradle-holding Freed in her arms, her face still pale, she was staring at me.
"What are you studying so diligently?"
"I am reviewing how to identify loopholes in double-entry bookkeeping, using the merchant guild's revenue ledgers that the Lord Patriarch permitted me to examine," I replied, turning a page.
"And what do you plan to study this afternoon?"
"Hmm... I will probably review alchemy."
Turning my head, I met my godmother's gaze. A deep furrow had formed between her brows. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, as if something displeased her.
Is she upset that I'm not focusing on Freed?
It was certainly a reasonable grievance for a guardian to have. Here I was, casually studying in the same room as a baby who had barely survived a crisis just yesterday. Reflecting on my lack of consideration, I closed the book.
Just then, she broke the silence.
"Why 'godmother' and not 'Mother'?"
"..."
My hand froze as I was slipping the book back into my bag. Ah. So that was the issue.
My godmother, Rinie, had fixated on the strangest thing.
"Julian."
"Yes, godmother."
"..."
She was trying her absolute best to coax the word "Mother" out of my mouth. I could guess why she was suddenly acting this way. How could I not, when she started doing this the very day after I saved Freed, the late-born child of the House of Nihilit?
She's trying to buy low on the protagonist.
A child barely over ten years old had effortlessly pulled off something even seasoned healers couldn't manage. Of course she'd be greedy. She wanted to stake her claim on me while I was still young, perhaps also as a way to repay the favor of saving her newborn.
I'm glad she recognizes my genius... but I still don't want to change my last name.
But there was a problem. The title of the novel I had possessed was The Memoirs of Schnabel. If I started calling my godmother "Mother," the title of the work would have to change.
Of course, that was a joke. The real reason was simply that it felt too burdensome. We had spent ten years living behind a wall of mutual indifference. Ten years. For that wall to crumble overnight because of a single incident was a bit... too cringeworthy for me to bear.
"Do you dislike me that much?" Rinie's voice lacked its usual strength.
I waved my hands in frantic denial.
"No, of course not, godmother."
"Then why, after all the years we've spent under the same roof, do you still call me that?"
To be fair, more years had passed than I could count on both hands. And as the protagonist, I couldn't just keep pushing her away like some petty contrarian. So, I compromised.
"M-Mother?"
Her expression shifted subtly. It was a complex mix of lingering regret and profound relief.
"...Yes. That will do for now."
She spoke with a sigh and closed her eyes. It might have been my imagination, but her arms seemed to tighten around Freed, as if she had finally found peace of mind.
That aside, Mother needs to recuperate.
I had put out the immediate fire, but there was still work to be done. Specifically, postpartum care.
Of course, postpartum care exists in this era too, but...
The problem was that their methods would make any modern person scream in horror. In this fantastic, dark fantasy fusion-punk world, mothers who had just given birth were encouraged to drink beer or wine. Unbelievable as it sounded, it was the absolute truth. By the common sense of this world, alcohol was considered safer and more nutritious than water.
Thus, they had a postpartum recovery food called Coddle—an oatmeal porridge mixed with ale or wine, eggs, and heavy spices. The logic was that mixing highly nutritious alcohol with highly nutritious eggs and flavorful spices would stimulate milk production.
I still remember how horrified I was when I first saw that...
My heart had nearly stopped when I first witnessed postpartum care in the Red-Light District involving Coddle. They fed the mother alcohol, kept the room tightly sealed without any ventilation, and handled her without even washing their hands. And then, if the mother died of childbed fever or other complications, they simply chalked it up to fate.
...I tried my best not to look down on the people of this world as savages, but whenever I saw things like this, the thought inevitably crept up on me.
This is why I always have to take matters into my own hands.
Naturally, I wouldn't let my mother, Rinie, recuperate with such nonsense. To prevent that, I had to prepare her recovery meals myself.
As for the menu... I decided on seaweed and abalone.
It wasn't because I possessed some fierce "Korea is the best! The East is supreme!" mentality. It was simply because I was Korean, and I didn't know any other postpartum recovery foods besides seaweed soup and abalone.
However, there was a minor issue.
I can't just serve her traditional seaweed soup and grilled abalone out of the blue and expect her to eat it.
Even in this decaying world, seaweed was easy to obtain. It was just that, given the cultural sphere, it wasn't recognized as an actual ingredient. True to its Western moniker of "seaweed," people here treated it as mere ocean weeds, eaten only by starving paupers in coastal fortresses who had no other choice.
For the mothers in the Red-Light District, forcing them to eat seaweed soup hadn't been too difficult. I had simply told them it was a "green potion" and made them gulp it down.
But that method wouldn't fly in a Baron's household. If I served it on the dining table, it would probably be treated as some Lovecraftian feast, and I'd get scolded.
So, how should I package it? After a brief moment of thought, the answer came to me. Risotto. I could use a cream base, add plenty of cheese, and finely mince the seaweed to blend it in. If I topped it with thinly sliced abalone, it would look like a plausible, high-end dish.
A Seaweed and Abalone Cream Risotto. Just the name alone sounds quite fancy.
Even commoner ingredients could be adapted to suit noble palates if you changed the cooking method. There was a reason French cuisine put on such grand airs using random, leftover cuts of meat.
Come to think of it, cream and cheese were excellent sources of calcium and protein, which a postpartum mother sorely needed, so it was nutritionally sound. As a bonus, the white cream would mask the potentially off-putting green color of the seaweed.
Decision made. While Mother closed her eyes to rest, I left the head maid in charge of the room and headed to the kitchen.
On my way to the kitchen, as I walked down the hallway, I ran into someone at the corner. A child with striking silver hair and blue eyes. It was Freya, a young lady a year younger than me.
She was the young lady of the House of Nihilit, the biological daughter of my godfather and mother. So, what would you call us? Adoptive siblings? Foster siblings? I wasn't sure of the exact term, but we were essentially siblings.
"...Brother," Freya said, looking up at me. Unlike her usual self, the rims of her eyes were red and swollen.
She's been crying. How terrified she must have been while Mother was in labor. In this era, it was common for mothers who went to give birth to never return, so her worry was entirely justified. On top of that, she must have heard that her newborn brother was in critical condition all night...
I instinctively went to comfort her, but then a sudden realization struck me. Ah, right. We aren't actually close.
Though we had lived under the same roof for ten years, I had barely any memory of us having a proper conversation. I was always buried in my studies and research on Quinine, while Freya had her own life to lead. At most, we would exchange a brief nod when passing each other in the hallway, or offer formal greetings during family gatherings. That was the extent of our relationship.
But now that I think about it... a misunderstanding-trope protagonist shouldn't be cold to his younger sister.
How could a character destined to be hailed as a saint be cold to his own family? Even if we had been awkward until now, I needed to cultivate the image of a warm, caring older brother from here on out. Thus, I decided to use this opportunity to get closer to her.
Gentle and gentlemanly. I consciously softened my tone and relaxed my expression, channeling the face I used to make when dealing with patients' guardians back in a 21st-century hospital. (The fact that I had been a trauma surgeon who spent more than half the day wearing a surgical mask was entirely irrelevant.)
"Freya."
"...Yes?"
"Are you on your way to see Freed?"
Freya nodded. After a brief pause, I spoke.
"Both Mother and Freed are doing well. So you don't have to worry so much."
"...Really?"
"Yes. I looked after them myself, so of course they are." I answered with absolute confidence. The baseless confidence of a misunderstanding-prone protagonist was meant to be used in moments like this.
Freya's expression softened slightly, but a trace of anxiety still lingered in her eyes.
"Brother, I... I want to help too."
"Help?"
"Yes. Is there anything I can do?"
It was only natural to feel frustrated when a family member was sick and you were powerless to help. I thought for a moment before making a suggestion.
"In that case, would you like to help me?"
"Really?"
"I'm heading to the kitchen now to make something for Mother..." I rolled the still-unfamiliar word on my tongue for a brief second before continuing. "I'm going to prepare a meal for Mother to help her recover. I think it would be a huge help if you could assist me."
Freya's eyes widened. "You're going to cook, Brother?" It wasn't that she was eager to help; she seemed genuinely shocked by the mere concept of me cooking.
Admittedly, a noble son wielding a kitchen knife isn't a common sight.
In an era with tiny windows, poor ventilation systems, and a severe lack of hygiene, a kitchen was a far cry from a modern cooking studio. It was closer to a grueling, hazardous workplace where one had to constantly battle rats and flies. Naturally, kitchen work was deemed menial. For nobles, whose dignity was as precious as their lives, the kitchen was a forbidden zone.
In that sense, a perfect noble protagonist frequenting the kitchen might seem like a character inconsistency. But on second thought, my character concept actually needed a hobby like cooking.
A genius protagonist needs to be versatile. I, too, wanted to be an isekai Da Vinci—a painter, sculptor, architect, anatomist, and inventor all in one. That had been the ideal of an intellectual since the Renaissance, and this world wasn't much different.
The problem was that I possessed absolutely zero talent in the arts. So, I compromised with cooking. As it turned out, I actually had a knack for it. Handling ingredients on a cutting board wasn't all that different from handling organs on an operating table.
I know people might call it vulgar, but I can always cover that up with dignity later. I knew that my frequenting the kitchen might look like a lowly act. But in the end, dignity was not a matter of what you did, but who did it and how. If a commoner dug up the earth, it was labor; if a noble did it, it became gardening. In the face of overwhelming achievements and class, prejudice had no choice but to fall silent.
Thus, I could say with absolute confidence, "There's no need to be surprised. It's just a hobby."
"...A hobby?" Freya tilted her head. She still didn't seem convinced. Well, what was the point of explaining the concept of overriding prejudice with dignity to a ten-year-old? Realizing this conversation would go nowhere, I simply changed the subject.
"Anyway, Freed is sleeping right now, and Mother is resting. Even if you go there now, there's nothing you can do. That's why I'm asking you to help me."
"Then, what should I do...?"
"While I'm cooking, I want you to be my taste tester."
"...Pardon?" Freya blinked.
"Since it's for Mother, I need to make sure the taste is right. I want you to try it first and let me know if it's good."
She would be my official taste tester. I couldn't exactly make the young lady of the house do actual kitchen labor, so this was the perfect compromise. Besides, it was a genuinely necessary role. My own palate was practically that of a stray dog, so there was no guarantee I could satisfy the refined tastes of this world's nobility on my own.
"Am I... really allowed to try it first?"
"Of course. Who else would do it?"
Freya's face brightened subtly. She seemed to feel as though she had been entrusted with a highly important mission.
"I understand." Freya nodded. Her eyes were still red, but her expression was much brighter than before.
"Let's go, then." Taking Freya with me, I made my way to the kitchen.