If You Can't Avoid It, Enjoy It!
"Take it off!" the young lady yelled at me.
Such provocative words from the young lady. I hugged my body and said to her, "Eek! What am I supposed to do with you saying something so naughty?"
She snapped irritably. She insisted she never said that, then looked at my gloved hand and declared, "I said take it off! I'm returning it!"
Take it off—such naughty words. I fiddled with the mittens on my hands and snorted at her words. They were small but useful, so why take them off? Returning them felt like it would erase those memories, so I firmly refused her demand.
"Why bother with a return? It's such a hassle."
"It's too small!"
"It'll stretch if you wear it."
"That's not why I bought them!"
"I thought you bought them small on purpose for that."
I waved the snug mittens in front of her, showing off. "They're warm and nice. What's the problem?"
The young lady glared at me. Her eyes blazed like she wanted to devour me, but the corners of her mouth twitched up in a smirk. I smiled back at her grin and said, "Clothes are like that—they stretch when you wear them and shrink when you wash them, right? Might as well stretch them out good and wear 'em."
"Still..."
She looked apologetic. She'd bought me these small gloves because my hands hurt. She said tight gloves would mess with my circulation and weren't good for my health, but returning them felt like fading those memories. It was a shame.
-Sigh... too small?
Just looking at the gloves made me chuckle. I remembered her snot-nosed determination to cram them on somehow.
Judging the negotiations hopeless, she sighed deeply and stared at my gloved hand. "Ricardo."
"Yes."
"The chick turned into a chicken."
She was pointing at the stretched-out chick embroidery. I'd forced my hand in, so the distortion was inevitable. I stroked the mitten's embroidery and told her, "This one's gotta grow too. That way we can raise it up and eat it."
"...You can't eat gloves."
"I know."
She pouted and popped a chocolate in her mouth. "You're mean."
"I know."
The day started with that little mishap. We holed up in the mansion for a week. She begged to go to Forest Friend, but those faces I didn't want to see would be showing up in Hamel soon. We'd growl if we met, and she'd get splashed for sure. Protecting the master's dental health was part of a butler's duties, so I decided on seclusion.
Her wanting to go out was a welcome change, but I hoped she'd hold off a bit longer. I wiped the chocolate from the corner of her mouth.
"By the way, young lady."
"Hm?"
"Remember that wheeled chair I made you before?"
"Wheeled chair?"
She pondered, having erased the monstrosity from her memory. I wasn't sure if she'd recall my ill-fated masterpiece, Benx No.1, which had vanished into the dustbin of history. I cautiously brought it up, thinking of the Pexri 1 set to debut in December.
Even if she hated it, I planned to force her on it anyway. Still, it was polite to hear the client's thoughts. I waited tensely for her answer.
"Hm..."
Crunch. She bit into her chocolate and chewed thoughtfully. To jog her memory, I grabbed a nearby chair and mimed pushing it.
"Like this—I push from behind, and you steer with the wheels."
"Hmmm... Oh! The wheeled firewood?"
Firewood? As the proud papa of that firewood's creation, my ego cracked.
"Not firewood—Benx No.1."
"...You named a piece of wood?"
"Benx No.1... Anyway, what do you think of that firewood? I thought it was pretty great."
She shook her head firmly. "Hate it."
"I haven't even said anything yet."
"You're not making another one, are you?"
Her insight was sharp where it didn't matter. I countered carefully. To get her to joyride happily, I needed to reshape her mindset now. If she ripped open the packaging and hated it, that'd be a problem too. Picturing 3 million gold, I began persuading her.
"This one's different." With a touch of madness. "Using the latest magic engineering and massive capital..."
Letting the fruit of my sponsor's soul and possessed inventor's genius rot unseen in a warehouse would be rude to the world.
"A whopping... 3 million..."
"3 million?"
She was quick on the uptake today. To cut off questions, I shoved chocolate into her mouth. "Mmph... too sweet."
"It's fine. Eat more when it's like this."
She nodded and nibbled. "Anyway, this one's different. I put real effort into it, so I dare say you'll be satisfied."
She asked me, "Not made of wood like last time?"
"Don't even compare it to that trash. It's mithril..."
"Mithril?"
"No, intricately forged steel for a nice design, and in black to match noble tastes—you'll love it."
Her eyes lit up with interest. She murmured "Oh..." and set down her chocolate. She was almost hooked.
To my passionate pitch, she said, "Faster than a carriage?"
She had an eye for vehicles. I puffed out my chest. "Obviously."
"Ooh...! Does it shoot fireballs too?"
"I wouldn't mention it if it couldn't."
Her eyes sparkled like a car-poor kid pulling the lever on a foreign luxury ride at a used lot. She was sold. In my past life, I should've been a used car salesman instead of a company drone. If I'd realized my sales talent early, I could've escaped the triangle kimbap life sooner.
Taken by my eloquence, she asked, "Can I ride it up mountains?"
"Mountains?"
"Yeah. The air's nice."
"You want to go hiking?"
She gazed at the sunny Hamel Mountains and shook her head. "Nah, too tiring."
"Then why ask?"
"Don't mountains have chocolate trees? Fresh ones would taste better."
"No such thing."
She tsked and lost interest. No need then, she said. Looking at the blue sky, she asked one last thing. "Can it fly?"
"No. Only grand archmages can do that."
"Not even that?"
"..."
I'll ask the sponsor. Her reactions suggested she liked it. The astronomical cost compared to the first flop raised expectations. Maybe the failure was a blessing—it laid perfect groundwork.
She looked at me. Specifically, my right hand. She glanced at the bandage-wrapped fingers, then dropped her gaze and mumbled softly, "I'll ride it. Ricardo's arm hurts."
A butler doesn't ignore his sulky lady's words. I looped the mittens around my neck and squatted to meet her eyes.
"Why slouch like that? Think I can't carry you?"
She nodded. "Yeah. I'm heavy."
"No. You're super light."
She shook her head, saying not to lie. "You called me a pig last time. Heavy and fat. What if your arm hurts?"
Such a considerate master. I could still piggyback her easily. My dulled senses were sharpening, my black magic resistance up—maybe that's why the pus and cracked scars on my hand were fading. Shortest estimate: a month. Longest: a year. I waved my right hand to show her not to worry.
"It's fine. You're a tiny bit heavy, but manageable."
"Liar."
"If I'm lying, I'll take you to Forest Friend at sunrise tomorrow."
"..."
She spread her arms wide. Come try carrying her. She'd shock me with her weight, she threatened. I chuckled lightly and turned my back.
-Hya!
She clambered on with a loud whoop. Lighter than a feather. If she felt heavy, I'd quit being a swordsman-butler and retire. My body wasn't that wrecked yet.
I smirked arrogantly, about to flash her a grin—
-Squish...!
A more vivid sensation than usual pressed against my back.
"Huh..."
No way. Nah. I looked at her with trembling eyes. Her pale face strained, holding her breath to lighten the load. It should've been funny... so cute I wanted to laugh.
But...
"Young lady."
"Wahp! (What?)"
"Um..."
She urged me on, holding her breath. "Hurry... suffocating (speak quick, can't breathe)."
"Um... young lady, by any chance."
'Did you forget your underwear?'
The blunt words wouldn't come out. Instead, black panties stuck in the bed corner answered for her. Ferociously sized ones.
Oof.
I set her down on the bed. "I lose."
"...Ugh."
Leaving her declaring a diet, I fled the room to cool my flushed face.
On the way to Forest Friend.
-Rumble rumble...
The young lady rode in the handcart with a pleased smile. Handcarts like this were common on the road. She looked thrilled, scanning around.
"This is fun."
"Young lady."
"Yeah?"
"Just let me carry you."
In her black dress, dressed up for once. I said it carefully to her in the cart. She wore her hat low to hide her face, but we couldn't avoid people's stares.
She told me, "Your arm can't hurt."
"Isn't it uncomfortable? And the people..."
She pressed her hat down firmer. "It's fine. Better than you hurting."
My heart swelled. She worried less about stares than on our first outing, but change wasn't instant. She'd flinch and pull her hat low when eyes met. We stuck to less crowded paths, but avoiding glances entirely on streets with a few folks was impossible.
I feared spoiling her rare outing. She refused piggybacks, scolded me for breaking promises if we stayed in—as her butler who wanted only good for her, it gnawed at me.
Gotta hurry.
I sped up—until I overheard some rich passerby's chat.
-Daddy... that looks fun.
-Yeah... huh?
-Daddy used to play like that.
-Really? Do it with me!
-No, Daddy's back hurts lately...
-Why not!
Thinking back, I'd played like that—handcart king games, speedy downhill runs that ended in scrapes. Cruising openly drew stares like we were some spoiled noble miss's prank. It worked.
If you can't avoid it, enjoy it! The maxim flashed, boosting my confidence.
I tossed her a meaningful line. "Too slow for you, young lady?"
"Huh?"
"Don't you want to go faster?"
"...?"
She eyed me tremblingly. "N-no?"
I pressed her hat down and gripped the handles. "Third gear."
"Hiet?!"
-Vrooooom!!!
Her scream echoed.