Vanilla. That Enchanting Name (3)

Gordon watched Karem bend at the waist and open the oven door.

It would be a lie to say he felt no anticipation.

His time in Blackwood Village had been brief, yet picking up the large and small rumors about Karem had been easy enough. From them he had pieced together a rough picture of the major things the boy had accomplished over the past year or so.

Bringing every man in Coldon to his knees with the Red Witch's Finger. Building friendships among the Felwinter household until he became a shadow power-broker who claimed a quiet corner of the ducal castle for himself. Even that a dark-elf envoy from across the sea, after failing to recruit him, had clung to his pant legs and begged to be taught cooking by any means necessary.

Of course Gordon had filtered out what needed filtering. Without that, the last bit about the dark elves would never have held water.

And yet… perhaps it did hold water after all.

Truly delicious food announced itself by scent alone, long before it ever reached the tongue. And right now, from the oven half-hidden by Karem's body, a magnificent aroma that seemed ready to wrench gasps of pure admiration was rising on waves of intense heat.

I never imagined that scent could be this enchanting.

Even in the wild the grizzly beaver's odor was sweet and alluring. But to think that simply heating it would make the fragrance explode outward like this…

Karem, oven mitts on, drew the tray out and set it on the table.

"Mmm. Custard tart."

"I call it egg tart, though. Uh—"

As the old saying went that the scariest flavors were the ones you already knew, Gordon looked down at the tray crowded with egg tarts, set beside a large bowl of ice cream that radiated cold air.

Frankly, if you had a little money, tarts were among the easiest desserts to come by. Whenever Gordon was in a city and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠felt a craving for something sweet he sometimes bought one, and the varieties changed wildly from region to region and city to city.

The most basic custard- or egg tart with a simple custard filling. Nut tarts that added one or more nut fillings on top of the egg base. Fruit tarts loaded with fresh or preserved fruit and jam. And so on.

Yet in the end, as the saying also went that pure love always won out after all the wandering, Gordon's hand drifted toward the egg tarts.

The custard filling nestled in the appetizing deep-brown, lightly scorched tart shells would originally have been a bright yellow. But having taken the oven's fierce heat full-on, patches of it had scorched to a vivid, deep brown and black, like cooling magma. And on top of that came a smell that stabbed straight at the stomach.

"All right. I can't wait any longer. I'm eating."

"Uh, it's still hot, so your hands— Huh? Huhhh???"

"Never had a freshly baked hot custard tart before either."

Th-th-th-that—your hands and the roof of your mouth are going to get scorched! …except he looked perfectly fine.

Contrary to Karem's alarm, Gordon flicked a tart free with his dagger and tossed the still-scorching egg tart straight into his mouth. He began to crunch and chew.

"Whoa. It's not even hot?"

"Kid. Hey, kid."

"Ah—excuse me. Which would you like first?"

"Ice cream first."

Well, Gordon had eaten boiling soup and meat before. It had been a truly astonishing sight even then, Karem reflected. Come to think of it, the knights at the banquets he remembered had been much the same—grabbing chunks of meat that still sent heat haze rising because they hadn't cooled. Wondering whether every mana user was simply built that way, Karem set his worries aside and began shaping the ice cream into neat rounds.

Just as he had guessed, the heat that would have stripped the entire roof of an ordinary mouth registered to Gordon as nothing more than a pleasant warmth. Everything he had eaten earlier had long since settled; he had been nursing watered wine to keep the hunger at bay while he waited for this exact moment. And the wait was rewarded.

Under the pressure of his teeth the tart shell shattered with the dense crunch of a shortbread cookie, crumbling like a firmly packed sandcastle. Then the moist shortbread texture that had held every drop of its moisture bloomed across his tongue. At the same moment the taste and aroma of butter detonated.

Crunch! As he chewed, the custard filling erupted like magma bursting from a volcano. Soft, yielding filling surged like a wave through the crumbling fragments of the crisp tart vessel and flooded his entire mouth. Gordon shuddered hard.

Each tart on the tray was only a little larger or smaller than a fist, yet the taste and fragrance packed inside were anything but "only." Especially the sweet vanilla that exploded together with the filling as the shell shattered—more intense and more alluring than any flower.

Years of mercenary life, and the mountain of monsters that came with it, had taught Gordon all about creatures that released pheromones—scents designed to lure living things. Most were plant-types. The humanoid plant monster known as the alraune. The fat-leaved pitcher plant shaped like a morning-glory pot, the nepenthes. He had suffered more than a few humiliating experiences because of them. Back then his skill had not been what it was now, so it was only natural.

But what if he had eaten something like this when he was still a snot-nosed brat?

Gordon could swear to it: he would have laughed in their faces and driven a sword straight through their snouts.

"—Well, back then I didn't even have the coin for a tart this size, so empty talk."

"…Hey, mercenary. How long are you going to take over that tiny tart?"

"Shh. Mage. I'm savoring the aftertaste right now."

"Ha? Aftertaste—"

"Shhhhhhhhh—"

Eyes still closed, Gordon snatched another tart from the tray ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠as if he could see perfectly well, tossed it into his mouth, and chewed slowly.

"The scent is certainly enchanting, but hmm…"

"Would you like a tart instead of the ice cream?"

"No. Ice cream first. That grizzly you were so proud of—"

For the first time Karem turned a genuinely threatening look on Catherine.

"Even with the vanilla added it doesn't smell like much?"

"It's ice cream."

Catherine eyed the spoon Karem held out with open suspicion. The near-white yellow was simply the color of cream mixed with yolks. But the little dark flecks that had no business being there looked exactly like a pinch of pepper stirred into white soup. Those flecks were unmistakably the grizzly-beaver vanilla her favorite personal chef had been raving about.

No—vanilla, nothing. Just something dried, powdered, and what-have-you. Damn that cheeky little brat Karem.

Even knowing it was nothing special, the particular body part it came from left Catherine with a faint, lingering reluctance. Then she found herself absurd for feeling reluctance over something so trivial. After all, she had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠handled far worse—media for magic and alchemy, materials for potions and spellcraft. The more extraordinary and surprising the effects, the more extraordinary and surprising the ingredients tended to be. By ordinary standards, of course. She used monster and animal guts without batting an eye, yet here she was flinching at mere grizzly-beaver vanilla.

Thinking that way did not lighten her heart in the slightest. Using something that had simply been dried and powdered, without any proper refining… Even if her mind had accepted it, her chest still felt heavy.

I'll have to extract just the pure essence later or something. For now…

Catherine stared down at the ice cream with a sour face. Then she squeezed her eyes shut.

Chomp.

She finally took the spoon Karem offered.

A flash of realization.

As a master of ice magic, Catherine could often—no, frequently—enjoy all sorts of ice cream at the Mage's Tower, and ice cream made with cream and yolks was among them. But just from changing one single scent, to this degree?

No. Thinking about it carefully, it was never "just one scent." Even the foulest potions were edible enough if they simply had no smell; you held your breath and got them down. But this—

"Mmmmmmm."

Catherine let out an unconscious nasal hum of pure admiration. Karem smiled as if to say "See?", and she could only return a small smile of her own and nod.

First, the texture. The cold, soft sensation that began melting the moment it touched her tongue and coated the inside of her mouth was deeply familiar. If anything, the near-total absence of impurities made the cream's silkiness stand out even more boldly.

And that was where it began.

That was when the vanilla started to show off.

Warmed a fraction by body heat, the vanilla that the cold had been suppressing finally revealed its true self—exactly as if summer had arrived after shoving winter and spring aside. Every time Catherine inhaled and exhaled, the fragrant, sweet aroma of vanilla swept through her lungs, her throat, her nose and mouth like a gentle breeze.

Yet the winter cold the ice cream still carried put up resistance. The ice cream melted little by little and slid slowly down her throat. As the soft ice cream dissolved and passed, the vanilla aroma locked inside the sweetness reached her not only through the mouth but through the nose and throat as well.

Just as the old saying went: food—cooking—was never eaten with taste alone.

A sweet fragrance that matched the flavor perfectly, and a texture soft as a dream. If only it hadn't come from a grizzly beaver, it would have been perfect.

"To think a mere cosmetic ingredient could taste this good."

"How is it? Think this will catch on like the Red Witch's Finger?"

"It won't spread without regard for high or low the way that spicy powder ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠did."

Seeing that Catherine's mouth had gone still, Karem quickly scooped another spoonful of vanilla ice cream and held it out. Perhaps because the first bite had already broken the dam, the second came with far less reluctance.

Ha-up.

"Mmm. Supply will never keep up with demand."

"Well, we can only obtain a limited amount at a time."

"But if you restrict it to the middle class and above—people who can already afford to use spices reasonably freely—it will become a massive trend."

Catherine could swear on her life. If the Red Witch's Finger had drawn popularity regardless of wealth or rank, this would establish itself as a way for the middle class and higher to flaunt their riches. Exactly the way pepper once had when it was rare. Exactly the way cream and eggs had once been symbols of wealth in old Iceland.

"Ha!"

Suddenly Catherine let out a sharp exclamation.

"Mage? Did you suddenly get a headache or something?"

"What? Hey, mercenary. Looking for a fight just because we haven't seen each other in a while?"

"No, no—geez, you're impatient. I'm asking if eating that much cold stuff gave you a headache."

"Ha. I'm a master of ice magic. I couldn't get brain-freeze even if I tried."

Catherine shot Gordon a look that clearly said, Why are you asking about something so trivial?

"You can think of it as something like Atanitas-nim's… that. That that that… what was it called. Ah, right. Racial trait. Racial trait."

"Like a troll's regeneration or an ogre's toughness?"

"Yes. Exactly that feeling. Archmages and Sword Masters and people like that have some special peculiarity that sets them apart from ordinary folk like me."

Karem spoke with open envy. At the remark Catherine glanced at him with a complicated expression. She hadn't given it much thought, but "racial trait"… Frankly it sounded cheap, and it did not sit well. To reduce the power she had built as an archmage to something so dismissive. It felt like one of those monster entries detailed in academic bestiaries.

Ordinarily she would have warned him to choose his words more carefully and rapped him on the head, but today Catherine decided to let it slide. How could she get angry with such a splendid creation sitting right in front of her? It would have been a waste of time.

"Ah."

"Hmm? Atanitas-nim. Is there something you don't like?"

"No. Objectively speaking there is nothing of the sort. Yes. This is something that can become the most basic foundation of ice cream. That close to perfection."

"Then—"

"A rather more demonic idea just occurred to me."

Catherine pointed first at the vanilla ice cream, then at the egg tart.

"Kid. What if you eat this together with that?"

A pure thrill ran through him.

Karem slapped his forehead.

"Whoa—I never even thought of that."

These are pictures drawn by ChatGPT.