The Monastery's Morning Is Always Potatoes

Sleep had been unkind to Blow. Memories of Marta had surfaced in his dreams and left his rest in tatters, and now he was walking with Hans toward the monastery dining hall for breakfast.

Their guide, just as the abbot had said the day before, was Aubio—now a monk of the monastery.

"You look well, Aubio."

"And you, Young Master. Have you been keeping well?"

Sullivan, the proprietor of Egg Bottles, had told him his face had cleared. Even so, Blow didn't think he could hold a candle to the young man beside him. The eyes were as clear as one would expect of a saintess's younger brother, and he had shot up a good deal taller than Blow himself. Remembering the abbot's assurance that Aubio nursed no grudge over the old days, he felt a quiet relief.

After a brief exchange of greetings, he went straight on to the dining hall. Children were dashing about with bright, unclouded faces, and the sight pulled him under a wash of old feeling.

"There are even more of them than when I was here."

"It's a sad thing. The war's been over for a long while, and still the children keep increasing."

Blow studied that clear face once more, and decided to say the thing he most needed to say.

"Aubio."

"Yes, Young Master."

"I'm sorry for before."

"Haha. That was all in the past. You've changed a great deal, though, Young Master."

"Things just turned out that way."

Aubio's tone was far gentler than he had expected, and the surprise of it stayed with him. Set against what had passed between him and Marta at the end, it was not an easy thing to understand.

Is it because I came here as a noble? Or because he became a monk?

Turning the question over, he followed at an easy pace. Children dressed in white from head to toe bowed to Aubio as they passed.

"...So the Blessing Ceremony is soon."

"Yes. It will be held in a few days."

"......"

"Around then, the children truly look like angels."

"They do."

They talked of the ceremony as they walked, and before long the dining hall was in front of them. Aubio had guided him, but Blow had chosen to eat with the servants, so he made for the table where Melo and Jane were already seated. Melo's face lit up the moment she saw him, well before he reached them, and she hastily pressed her hands together in greeting.

"Young Master! Did you sleep well?"

"I did, Melo. Was your bed all right?"

"It was all crowded and noisy, and it was so much fun!"

"I'm glad you enjoyed it."

"I made a friend, too! Her name is Liz!!"

A modest little girl with pale blonde hair, just about Melo's size, peeked out and bent an awkward bow toward him.

"Made a friend already? Well done."

"Young Master! There's room at our table. Can Liz sit with us ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠too?"

"Go ahead."

"Thank you!!"

Liz and Melo, ready to jump for joy, took the seats across from him. A little later a plate was set before each of them, three potatoes apiece.

Jane, who had acquired something of a trauma where potatoes were concerned, let a sigh escape before she could stop it.

"Ah."

As if she couldn't believe what she had just done, she clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes round as a startled rabbit's. Blow couldn't help a short laugh.

"What, potatoes here too?"

"...I'm sorry. It's a monastery, so of course it's potatoes. Complaining is really shameful of me."

"It's fine. I imagine everyone understood ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that sigh just now."

Even so, shame still had its way with her, and Jane's face went red as a radish. A smile spread over Blow as he picked up a potato.

Then, from across the hall, the irritable crack of a fork striking a plate reached his ear.

"Potatoes again!"

Laughter and chatter died at once. Only silence remained.

A boy with curly dark-brown hair wore a thoroughly discontented look, his mouth twisted as if he couldn't even stand the sight of the potatoes. Aubio, who had been filling the children's plates, set down his basket and hurried over, soothing him in a gentle voice.

"Tommy! You mustn't. This is precious food our patrons were kind enough to send..."

"Patrons? Don't make me laugh! There's such a glut of potatoes they're dumping them on us! It's a bumper year!!"

"Tommy! We have guests! What kind of manners are those!"

Tommy shot a fierce scowl toward Blow. Seeing him, he snorted—honestly—and shouted.

"...Hmph. As if a dainty young lord like that has ever even tasted a potato!!"

"Tommy!!"

Aubio's voice sharpened for an instant, but Tommy didn't so much as answer. He only stuck out his lip and stared at the floor.

Watching him, Blow felt not so much as a ripple. The taste was all too familiar. The bitter flavor of the past, one might say.

He was on his feet before he quite knew it, walking toward Tommy. Every eye in the hall swung to him at once, and worry filled Jane's.

"Young... Master?"

He gave her a small smile to say it was all right, then approached Tommy and Aubio very slowly. Thoroughly flustered, Aubio rushed to meet him and shook his head.

"Young Master! I'll discipline him separately...!"

Blow only offered him the same easy, good-natured smile he had given Jane. It was the first time Aubio had seen that expression on him. His brow drew tight, and he took an involuntary step back.

Tommy, for his part, was too startled to speak. His gaze dropped to the floor. Blow went down on one knee so their eyes could meet, and looked up at him.

Silence held for a moment.

Then, clear and distinct, Blow whispered in his ear.

"I've eaten the hell out of potatoes...!"

Tommy flinched and stared at him as if something were wrong. Blow only went on smiling. So did Melo and Jane, watching from across the hall. Aubio could only tilt his head, and at the sight of them a few of the children burst out laughing.

And so their first meal began.

After that, breakfast went on quietly. Most of the children in the hall had their eyes fixed on Blow Deblique as he chewed his potatoes in earnest. Some watched him with something like admiration. Others simply thought he was an interesting person.

Under those gazes ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠he worked through the second potato, and the more he chewed, the more he understood Tommy's complaint, at least in part. Boiled in bulk, they were poorly cooked, and the seasoning was a gamble—some of them decently salted, others so briny it was as if someone had upended seawater over the pot. Hans and Jane seemed to feel the same. Both kept gulping water as they forced down whatever sat in front of them. Melo, sensitive to flavor as ever, was having a hard time keeping her face in order.

At the look of her—as if she were chewing sand—a mischievous Blow held out his remaining potato.

"Melo, want mine too?"

"...No. I'm full."

She shook her head slowly, her tone uncharacteristically composed. Jane, who found even this refusal cute in a girl who usually ate like a squirrel, smiled wide and stroked her hair.

Breakfast ended there. They told the nuns the meal had been delicious, washed their own dishes, and agreed to scatter to the tasks the monastery had assigned them beforehand. Melo said she would sew with Liz. Hans said he would go repair the buildings with the monks.

"Melo, be good while you're there."

"Yes! See you later, Young Master!"

"Hans, you put in some work too."

"Yes, Young Master!"

Something about that bright, bouncy tone made Blow's brow draw tight with irritation.

"Don't copy Melo. It's annoying."

"Yes, Young Master..."

Blow and Jane, as the abbot had told him the day before, set out for the vineyard. They walked with Aubio, who presently let out a short laugh, as if the morning had just come back to him, and looked over.

"You surprised me back there."

"Did I? Why?"

"You chose a peaceful solution."

"I like children well enough."

"...What?"

At the look of pure disbelief on Aubio's face, Blow gave a shrug and added,

"I've been trying, lately."

"...That's a good thing."

"Is that boy always like that?"

"Ah, Tommy? He's been having a hard time recently."

At the name, Aubio's expression turned bitter.

"Looking at his face, it was like seeing my old self."

"Mm. Well, not quite that bad..."

"Fair enough. Comparing him to me would be an insult to the boy."

"He wasn't always like this. He's grown cynical. He was adopted, you see, and then sent back."

"...There are people who do things you shouldn't even do to a dog or a cat."

Aubio let out a deep sigh of agreement.

"He's got no strength in him these days, and it's a real worry. Tommy used to want to be a knight."

"A knight? Well, in Serdia a knight is often judged on skill, class aside. Some of the schools don't even cost that much."

"That's true."

Blow called up the boy he ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had looked over a little while ago—sturdier than most his age—and rubbed his chin.

"He did seem fairly well muscled for that age."

"Still nothing compared to you back then, Young Master."

They looked at each other and laughed. Following quietly behind, Jane felt a smile spread across her own lips of its own accord.

"Actually, the monastery runs sword lessons of a sort."

"Oh? Sword lessons too?"

"Etiquette as well, and exercise besides. Usually we set aside a weekend, or one day in the week."

"I see. Good for the children. A change of pace, too."

"Our hope is that when they leave the monastery, they'll have even a few more choices."

"They do have to leave at the Blessing Ceremony."

"Yes. Sadly, that's how it is."

Abandoned children were many. The monastery could not realistically care for all of them, nor support each one until adulthood. It kept them until the age of fourteen, and after that it gave them a choice: stay, or leave. Most chose to leave. To stay was to volunteer, as Aubio did now, for a wage too meager to call a wage. And children who had spent their early years inside those walls wanted to go out and taste freedom. So they chased dreams into the cities, or at the very least hired on as hands at a nearby farm. As a last small kindness, the monastery did what it could to arrange work for them. After that, they truly passed out of its hands.

That was where the blessing in Blessing Ceremony came from. Everyone gathered there wished that the road ahead might be full of the blessing of Lunaria, the goddess.

"The sword lessons are surely shabbier than what you received, Young Master. But to my eye they're quite decent. Rather famous knights volunteer to teach."

"Is that so? Good people."

"These days it's Sir Rosinante."

"Who?"

A familiar name had startled him into asking before he could stop himself.

"The Blue Swift Sword. Sir Rosinante Brave."

"Does he have a mustache like this?"

Blow raised both hands and swept them outward from the center of his upper lip. Aubio nodded in surprise, as if to ask how he knew. At that familiar image, a middle-aged knight passed through Jane's mind—gentle-faced, hardly knightly at all, his mustache the striking thing about him.

"If it's Sir Rosinante, wasn't he your swordsmanship teacher when you were young, Young Master?"

"He was."

"Since you're here, it would be nice if you could see him."

"Mm. No. Aubio—when was the last time Rosinante came?"

"Last week. He comes every other week, so you won't see him. Still, what a curious thing a bond is..."

"There must be something about this monastery."

Jane tilted her head at the lukewarm reply, a question in the gesture.

"Young Master, I remember Sir Rosinante doted on you terribly."

"That's why he's a burden."

When it was decided that Blow Deblique would go to magic school, one man had grieved more than anyone.

That man was Rosinante Brave, who in his boyhood had taught him swordsmanship, horsemanship, and the rest.

Set against the boy's indifferent replies, Rosinante had always come looking for him. The memory rose unbidden, and a sigh slipped from Blow's mouth.

"I don't know about the rest, but I'm sure the master taught swordsmanship properly."

"He teaches with real passion, just as you say. Tommy simply isn't passionate the way he used to be."

"He's not the type to drill anyone high-handedly."

Aubio nodded, as if that were exactly it.

"That, too. Tommy's been missing his work often lately, and he seems depressed. We're worried. The abbot and the other nuns are as well. It affects the other children, after all."

"He's taken it hard, then."

"I don't think he can express what he feels properly. He does speak well enough to the saintess, at least. She just can't come often."

"......"

At the mention of Marta, Blow's mouth sealed shut once more. Seeing it, Aubio smiled, then pointed to the vineyard and the lake spread open before them.

"We've arrived."

While the two of them were well on their way to the vineyard, Melo was sewing with all her might at Liz's side.

There was one problem. She had spent her whole life in a kitchen, and she could not sew at all. She had barely begun, and already she had pricked her finger six times.

"Ow!"

"Oh my, Melo, are you all right?"

Liz, the friend she had made the day before, looked at her with worry. Afraid she would fret, Melo quickly rubbed the blood welling from her finger off on her clothes and beamed.

"I'm fine!"

"Mm... maybe sewing just doesn't suit you, Melo. Should I tell the sister?"

Liz's face was full of concern, but Melo readjusted her grip on the needle and declared,

"No! I can do it."

A little later, she pricked herself again. Against a mere needle and thread, Melo had hit a wall.

"Hnn..."

"You don't have to go fast. Take it slow."

Liz comforted her, and heartened by it, Melo gathered herself to try once more.

Then an unpleasant voice stabbed into the girl's ear.

"Hmph. Raised softer than you look."

Melo turned that way in surprise. Tommy stood there with his arms crossed, looking down at her in displeasure. Anger flared, but she remembered Blow telling her to be good. She forced the heat down as far as it would go and asked in a calm voice.

"What's that supposed to mean."

"You're that obnoxious redhead's maid, aren't you. A maid who can't even sew—you've got some luck."

"...What did you just say."

At the clear drop in Melo's voice, the others in the room went quiet all at once and watched her carefully.

"Ears stopped up too? Raised soft, so you can't even sew."

"No. Melo means the part before that."

She was already on her feet, looking up at him. Tommy snorted as if he couldn't believe it, and spelled it out one syllable at a time.

"I said obnoxious redhead. What about it."

"You! Don't talk carelessly about the Young Master...!"

"Hmph. I'll say what I want."

"Youuu!!!"

Insults aimed at herself she could bear. Hearing her master slandered was something else, and Melo's body began to tremble.

"Take that back right now!"

"Don't want to."

"Take it back!"

When she shoved him, anger filled Tommy's eyes.

"Don't touch me. Lay a hand on me one more time, and then—!"

"You started it!"

"Tommy!"

Liz, who had been beside them, stepped up next to Melo, set a hand on her hip, and scolded him.

"Why are you picking on Melo!"

"What did I even do!"

"Why treat someone who's trying so hard like that. You're not doing any work at all!"

Tommy's face went scarlet. He pinched Liz's shoulder hard.

"...Why, you—!"

"Ow!"

Tears welled in Liz's eyes, and she began to sob. Startled, Melo hugged her at once and shouted at the boy in front of her.

"You're really mean!!"

"Hmph."

"Really... you're a bad kid! You...!!"

"Then go tattle to that obnoxious redhead."

"I told you not to talk about the Young Master like that!!"

She had been swallowing her anger with everything she had, because the Young Master had told her to be good. Now she finally exploded and lunged at him. A nun who had been watching the other children from across the room went white as a sheet and came running.