And Thus the Problem Was Solved
To a house elf, butter, milk, and flour were matters of the gravest importance.
Mary could never surrender the butter.
The one-sided master-and-servant quarrel, with one party refusing to let go, stretched on without end. In the end Karem had no choice but to haul Mary bodily toward the kitchen.
"You've been eating desserts without butter just fine this whole time," he said, looking up at her with a thoroughly fed-up expression. He had seen her work herself into a frenzy more than once, yet he never quite got used to it. "Why the sudden excitement?"
"It's your fault—and the chefs of Winterhome's."
"You followed me around eating plenty of—"
Huh? What did she just say?
Mary looked down at the blinking Karem.
"I've gone from meal to banquet eating every dessert in sight, and every last one was underwhelming. The pastries were soggy, the cream was limp, and... ugh..."
"So they tasted so poor next to what you used to eat that they only sharpened the craving?"
"An exact description. Yes."
Karem thought it might be that serious; after a moment's reflection he decided it made sense. With Jigmeser at their head, the chefs of Winterhome's kitchen stood at the absolute summit of Iceland's culinary world—there was scarcely anyone better to be found. The kitchen staff of Afterglow Fortress might not quite reach that height, yet serving a margrave implied formidable skill. And the Mage's Tower? Though Karem had stepped away, Mary's baking remained nearly peerless in Winterhome. Yes.
"So where do I come into it?"
"Puddings, crêpes, jam doughnuts—aren't those all recipes you spread?"
"I only passed the recipes along."
"When a necromancer's creation attacks the innocent, is that not the necromancer's sin?"
Well, artificial undead generally did not move without their maker's command, so the comparison was fair enough.
"Does that really apply to me?"
"Regardless—take responsibility. My tongue demands proper butter."
"Haa... damn it. Stack Gordon's request on top of this and it's going to be rough."
"Hm? Lord Stark's demand?"
Karem scratched his head. "He said he'd like cheese in it."
"Oh, that does sound difficult."
"Listen, house-elf. You're mixed up in this too."
"But inventing the menu is a junior's job, is it not?"
True enough—yet she could be insufferably smug about it.
A certain chef had once declared that a proper dessert should be drowning in cream and butter and sweet enough to melt the tongue. Removing the butter itself was no great feat. The final condition was the real snag: it had to be refreshing. The instant cheese entered the picture, every trace of freshness would vanish.
"So? Have you thought of a menu?"
"Quiet for a moment. I'm thinking."
"Then think carefully."
"Look at this fairy spouting off because it isn't her problem."
Leaving Catherine's chamber, Karem climbed the fortress's broad corridors and stairs beside Mary, turning the riddle over and over. A dessert without butter, containing cheese, yet still refreshing.
What kind of nonsense is that—like a fatty sirloin that somehow isn't greasy and is dry instead?
The whole dilemma felt absurd. If even one condition could be dropped...
"That's it."
He could not satisfy every demand, but there was one choice that flung the menu wide open. The original idea had been foolish from the start. When you already lacked enough options, who removed an essential ingredient? Put that one thing back in and the possibilities multiplied overnight. It flew straight in the face of the request, but he would deal with that later.
"Looks as though something has occurred to you."
Karem nodded. "We put the butter in."
He simply ignored the troublesome demand. And thus the problem was solved.
"Good. Wait—what? Just like that?"
"First problem solved. Now we only have to worry about the rest."
Mary stared at him with a blank face and eyes full of sheer disbelief. She had insisted butter was indispensable, yes—but to toss the request aside so casually?
"I shouldn't say this, but is it really all right to surrender that easily?"
"Hm? You said butter would be better. You ought to be pleased."
"I'm so rattled I've come full circle and regained my senses. Removing the butter was the contractee's explicit demand, was it not?"
"Right?"
And yet he said it so lightly. Glad as she was, wasn't this going too far? She fixed him with a hard stare.
...Well, it was hardly unprecedented. Junior Karem had a reckless streak. He would taste something without knowing whether it would poison him, run experiments whose reasoning she could not follow, throw ingredients in and then feed the results to other people. The notion of serving oats to a ducal heir and a beloved youngest daughter—or offering his employer the pre-extraction state of beaver vanilla—still made her head spin. Looking at him sometimes, she caught a flash of madness: the moment cooking was involved, his eyes rolled back and he charged ahead without looking left or right.
"What a foolish worry."
"What? Who's the fool?"
"I said you sound foolish."
It truly was foolish behavior—yet she felt no real concern. After all, had the results ever been bad? Someone's nerves would certainly be ruffled head-on, but even that posed no difficulty. Unlike the years that had passed over her, the contractee still sometimes behaved exactly like the age her appearance suggested. Once the taste hit the tongue, it was finished. She would grumble, keep eating, and simply forget.
"I don't particularly want to hear that from someone who flips out the moment dessert appears in front of Lord Atanitas or the guests."
"That is not a remark someone who feeds oats to a great noble's heir and youngest daughter, and monster glands to his employer, is entitled to make."
"...Draw."
"Agreed. Draw."
Clap. Shuffle. Tap. Without either prompting the other, Karem and Mary thrust out their arms at the same instant, shook hands, and walked into the kitchen.
Mealtime for the fortress staff and chefs had ended long ago, so the broad kitchen no longer reeked of meat and grease; instead a subtle, alluring fragrance hung in the air. Only a dozen or so chefs still cleaning and the crackle of sparks from the hearths filled the space.
"Damn that captain bastard, telling me to bring in newbies—huh? Sir Karem?"
"Hard work. Mind if I borrow the kitchen a while? Looks like you're cleaning."
"It'll get dirty again soon enough—use it as you like."
Humidity, heat, and soot were constants here. They cleaned after every service for a simple reason: leave the soot and grease to pile up and it became unmanageable. Under those conditions no one minded an early visitor. Dirt was inevitable; better it arrive a little sooner. Besides, the head chef had already given permission. Still, courtesy required a greeting.
"Keep up the good work."
"Only a few days and you've grown quite friendly, haven't you?"
"When those three stranded me here I showed off a bit. Popularity might have something to do with it too."
Karem's shrug trailed off into a mumble. Jigmeser's oily hand-rubbing was one thing, but this sort of attention was hard to get used to. The companion walking beside him heard every word.
"Quite the popular man," Mary muttered, quoting Gordon.
"Shut up."
"Have you decided what to make?"
"...That's the snag."
"Well, with requirements attached, the contractee's waiting time should be generous enough."
"Even so, if I show up with something she always eats she'll be furious. And I'm planning to use butter anyway."
"Then lemon pie is out."
"No cheese in that."
At Mary's words Karem folded his arms at the table and tapped his forehead. Lemon pie—more precisely lemon meringue pie. Considering only Catherine's request, that was the perfect answer. Fold lemon juice, zest, and the rest into the cream, leave the work to Mary, and most of the process would be over in moments; the meringue needed only baking. Butter would not even be necessary. But Gordon's demand changed everything. Cheese ruled that option out. Which left only one path.
"...Cheesecake?"
"A cake with butter in it fails the condition, doesn't it?"
"We already decided to put the butter in."
"Ah."
Mary flicked her fingers as though she had momentarily forgotten.
"Still, we can't just recycle the usual cake. Crush shortbread, add a little butter, bake it, and compromise with something steeped in syrup?"
"Hmm. A pity—that would feel rather similar. Where were you planning to put the cheese?"
"There's a suitable one: cream cheese."
"Ah. Of course."
Mary understood at once. Turning pie dough into a cookie base was common enough. Adjust the consistency, steep it in syrup for moisture and softness, then crown it with cream cheese... Expectation began to rise in her chest.
"That sounds genuinely promising. No long wait required."
"Ingredients and method are simple."
Yet Karem felt a twinge of regret.
Tiramisu.
Done this way it was essentially tiramisu without the coffee. Of course it was not the original method—long oval biscuits soaked in espresso and so on. But how many chefs or shops in the world still made tiramisu the original way? This was another world; he had never even seen anything resembling coffee. Red Witch's Fingers or beaver vanilla might yield substitutes someday, but not right now...
"How do we handle the sweetness? Burn some caramel?"
"Burnt caramel?"
"Yes. Bitterness is the best way to cut sweetness and greasiness."
"The bitterness of caramel... or what about lemon pith?"
"That might be too bitter."
The two of them fired ideas back and forth, rapidly refining the recipe.
"Is he inside?"
A voice from the entrance turned their heads. It was the elderly priest Karem had met once before—Rowan of the makeshift temple.
"Ah, perfect timing, old man. The air freshener was running low."
"Only you lot would use Alraune stems and leaves as air fresheners. Even if the heat drives out the poison, casually tossing around something that used to be deadly—"
"Ah, quiet. That tribal folk remedy you taught a few months ago works wonders. Scatter this about and the greasy reek vanishes."
"Well, true enough. Catch."
Clicking his tongue, Rowan opened his robe and produced a large sack. An elegant, savory roasted aroma without a trace of bitterness filled the lungs—subtle, alluring, far stronger than the scent that had greeted them on entering the kitchen. It smelled like intensely roasted beans.
"...So it wasn't my imagination."
"Hm? Junior Karem? Where are you—"
"Start the cream cheese ahead of time!"
"Eh? What did you say?"
"Mix in butter and thicken the consistency!!!"
Karem kicked off from the table and sprinted across the vast kitchen. The freshly cleaned floor was still damp; he nearly slipped, yet there was no time to hesitate.
Coffee.
It was not identical to the coffee of his previous life. But the resemblance was unmistakable. Fine—variety difference could cover that much. Karem had never cared enough about coffee to fuss over cultivars. With or without, it was all the same. Things made with coffee, however, were another matter entirely...!
"Wait!"
Slip—
"That pouch!"
Without checking his slide, Karem dropped to his knees and skidded to a halt in front of the chef and Rowan.
"What—this? It's air freshener."
"Hmm. Do you need air freshener like the rest of these oddities?"
"Quiet, old man. I've ordered plenty, so it hardly matters. Sir Karem can't escape the greasy smell either, eh?"
Karem's face turned perfectly serious.
"No. I'm going to eat it."
The chef and Rowan recoiled in horror.