Symbol of Abundance and Festivity
As a rule, the days leading up to a festival or holiday are always busier than the celebration itself.
Winter-Ascend was almost upon them.
At the very peak of Winterhome’s ceilings and along every wall—including the battlements—colorful banners and cloths began to appear, each emblazoned with a triangle marked by a hammer. From the main gate onward, every doorway was hung with garlands of evergreen needles still vivid green even in winter, braided with twine and tiny bronze bells.
Cleaning the walls and floors more thoroughly than usual went without saying. The snow that had been piled up like ramparts inside the castle had been swept away without a trace. Young pageboys and maids bent double, picking up every last speck of grit that might catch underfoot.
Places where guests and the festival’s sacrificial offerings must never enter were sealed. The ordinary decorations that usually adorned the castle were swapped out for artworks and ornaments that proclaimed the full glory of House Felwinter, and carted off deep into storage.
The kitchens of Winterhome—always the first to wake and the last to extinguish their fires—were every bit as frantic. Two full meals and a special feast for those worn out by festival preparations. The great evening meal that gathered every member of House Felwinter down to the lowest servant. And the banquet dishes that would be served on the day of Winter-Ascend itself. For days the kitchen fires had never gone completely cold, even if the press of work eased now and then. That would remain true until Winter-Ascend was over.
Those who oversaw all of this—figures like Alfred Felwinter or the Chief Seneschal Iona, men whose very names stood for authority—were of course just as busy. And Catherine was no exception. The leisurely air she had worn while clearing her backlog of work vanished as if it had never been; she was once more buried under overtime.
“Damn fireworks. Damn Flower of! Five crowns a shot of glorified tinder!”
A festival needed spectacle, and the entire burden of that spectacle had fallen squarely on Catherine alone. Ordinary fireworks would have been simple enough—something you could hand off to any passing mage’s apprentice. But this was Winterhome, the single place in all of Coldon—no, in all of Iceland—that held the greatest concentration of valuables. And for Winter-Ascend, decorative hangings were going up everywhere. Iceland’s winters were bone-dry; a few hours of the cutting wind outside were enough to crack skin. A stray spark in conditions like these would be a perfect invitation to fire.
Yet casting protective magic on every last decoration and structure was impossible. Magical manpower was short to begin with, and there simply was not enough time. The fireworks would also light the sky over Coldon outside the walls. In the end the only option was to treat every single Flower of by hand.
“Lady Atanitas.”
“The moment that damned junior arrives I’ll—hm? What is it?”
“Perhaps you should eat something first.”
“Hm? Already?”
The only thing Karem could do for a woman trapped in all-night hell was set out meals and snacks delicious enough to melt the fatigue piled on her brow. The moment he finished speaking, Mary set down a plate.
Steak sandwiches layered with cheese and precious winter lettuce still bright green. Cheese toast filled with four kinds of cheese and browned on both sides. Sweet-and-savory jam sandwiches spread with nut paste and sweet preserves. Three different kinds of sandwiches towered on the plate in a mountain.
The mouth-watering aroma finally pulled Catherine away from the Flower of for a moment.
“I haven’t had a sandwich since the griffin business.”
“You never put work down for a second, so I made them so you could eat while you keep going.”
“Pointless fuss.”
Catherine clicked her tongue and shook her head. Her body, however, was more honest: still wearing her pure-white gloves, she had been carefully engraving metaphysical figures and magic circles onto a fist-sized Flower of. The instant Mary held out a sandwich she bit into it with a crisp snap.
“By the way, Lady Atanitas—are those the protective gloves you mentioned before?”
“They are. Given the materials that go into a Flower of, hand protection is essential.”
“That dangerous?”
“Most of it is fine, but one ingredient is a problem. It forces pain on contact. Anyway—how are the preparations coming?”
“Pardon? Which preparations?”
“Winter-Ascend. The offering-bearer. The sacrifice.”
“Ah. That.”
He had cooked for people countless times, but offering food as a sacrificial gift was a first. After fretting over what to do, Karem had explained the situation to everyone he knew even slightly and asked for advice. Their answers had all been identical: A work into which you have poured your best is enough.
Enough? That irresponsible, vague reply left him dizzy—exactly the feeling of asking someone what they wanted to eat and receiving “anything’s fine.”
Just in case, he turned toward Mary. She had been one of the people he asked.
“When you say ‘a work into which you have poured your best,’ do you mean that literally?”
“I’ve told you several times already. No more and no less.”
And no matter how many times he heard it, the answer remained maddeningly vague. Catherine swallowed the mouthful she had been chewing, set the Flower of into the basket beside her, and furrowed her brows.
“You still haven’t prepared anything?”
“Honestly speaking—”
“Yes.”
“—so many ideas are swirling in my head that choosing is the hard part.”
Not a clear menu, but the vaguest request imaginable. For anyone who loved food, for a gourmet, for a chef—it was the worst possible question. Catherine finished the last corner of her steak sandwich, took a bite of cheese toast, and tilted her head.
“Boy.”
“Yes.”
“Aren’t you overthinking this?”
“Overthinking?”
“No—complicated, that’s the word. Boy. What is your profession?”
Catherine unfolded a magic circle in one hand and floated a Flower of as she spoke. Hearing so obvious a question made Karem’s brow crease. The expression on his face all but shouted, You’re calling that a question? Catherine barked:
“Ah-ah! I am graciously about to hand you the answer. Just reply!”
“I’m a chef. You hired me yourself.”
“Correct. And a chef’s work is?”
“Well… to make delicious…”
To cook, and to serve. The words rose unbidden. Karem’s eyes went round.
That was it. Just as a blacksmith poured his best into a fine weapon, just as a tanner poured his best into dressing a hide, a chef needed only to pour his best into a dish. No one had demanded a masterpiece for the ages. “Do your best” simply meant present the finest work you are capable of right now. Conditions changed with circumstance and resources, yet from ancient times until this very day a chef’s duty had never once altered: for the pay you receive, serve your guest—or your employer—a meal made with wholehearted care.
See? You figured it out yourself, Catherine’s smile seemed to say. Therefore all Karem needed to do was present the dish he cooked better than any other—past life and present life alike.
The instant he settled on that resolve, the flood of recipes in his mind collapsed into a single page. The confusion and doubt vanished from his face, and Mary spoke.
“Just in case, a warning.”
“Hm? Yes?”
“The offering for Winter-Ascend’s sacrificial bearer must be made entirely by the bearer alone. I cannot help Junior Karem the way I did when we whipped meringue or grilled skewers.”
“Ah… that’s a little disappointing.”
Mary, still attending Catherine’s meal, eyed Karem sideways the way one looks at a child trying to pull a sly trick. Yet Karem could hardly help himself. The workaholic brownie Mary was simply too convenient. Unwanted dishwashing happened on its own. Tedious cleanup and scrubbing happened on its own. Tell her the method and it was like having two bodies for cooking.
Still reluctant to let the idea go, Karem casually asked the walking encyclopedia Catherine:
“What happens if someone does receive help?”
“Sacrilege. At lightest, exile; at worst, divine punishment.”
“….Uh. Divine punishment?”
“Yes. The last record tells of an elderly blacksmith who, citing age, let his apprentice help a little. The moment he presented the offering he was struck by lightning and blown to pieces.”
Karem abandoned the notion at once.
The moment Karem learned that Winter-Ascend was a festival and holiday dedicated to someone, he knew exactly which meat he would use. Across every age, every land, civilization and wilderness alike, pork was never absent from a celebration. In old Joseon, if someone had cause to celebrate they slaughtered a pig and shared it with the whole village; the same held true almost everywhere else, with only the rarest exceptions.
Setting aside all the customs and symbols that made the pig an emblem of festivity, the real reason Karem chose it was simpler still: pork dishes numbered among his absolute favorites.
Thus the instant Catherine finished eating, he stepped outside. With Mary the pack-mule in tow he headed straight for Winterhome’s slaughterhouse. Like every other corner of the castle the slaughterhouse was bustling—feeding those preparing for Winter-Ascend and preparing the meat that would be used for the festival itself.
At first the butchers did not look kindly on Karem. Who would welcome a random boy turning up when they were already worked half to death? Their gazes shifted the moment Mary introduced him as one of this year’s Winter-Ascend offering-bearers.
“I’d like some pork.”
“Pork, is it? The tribesmen just sent a fine highland sow. Low on smell, too. Which cut?”
“Belly with the skin on!”
“….Why that, specifically?”
The butchers all tilted their heads at once. Skin-on meat they could understand—whole roast pigs usually came out with the crackling intact. But only the belly? To them, a pig’s belly was little more than excess fat from which one rendered oil; edible meat was scarce compared with other cuts. Most people asked for the lean loin, tenderloin, or hind leg. A few rare customers wanted the foreleg. In all their varied careers, the butchers had never met a cook who demanded nothing but belly unless he was an oil merchant.
“Highland pigs run heavy on fat, but they exercise so much the meat is firm. Perhaps the hind leg—”
“Belly with the skin on! And leave some lean attached if you can!”
Karem’s demand never wavered. In that case the butchers had no choice but to oblige. Thanks to the festival there were pigs in plenty, so Karem walked away with an enormous whole pork belly. He immediately dumped it onto Mary and was leaving the shop when one butcher called after him:
“So what the hell are you planning to make with that belly?”
“Porchetta!”
Karem was certain. It would not be the greatest offering presented at Winter-Ascend. But porchetta was the absolute best he could offer right now.