Melo Greenhill
The next morning.
Summoned by Blow, Jane arrived already light-headed at the thought of eating her twenty-second roasted potato.
"This one's really different. Come on, try it."
"The skin's still on?"
"I figured cutting down the prep time couldn't hurt."
Just looking at a potato was starting to turn her stomach, but she was hungry enough that she could probably get one into her mouth. At least potatoes are the thing I get sick of least. Small mercies... She tried to take it that way as she picked up a roast still sending up lazy curls of steam.
Something felt different from yesterday, though, and her eyes widened a little. Does the smell seem off? No—it's much better.
Jane bit in, carefully.
Butter bloomed across her tongue the instant it touched her; sweetness and salt took turns in easy balance; the potato itself was as soft and comforting as a warm cotton quilt in the dead of winter. In every way, it belonged to another world from yesterday's roast.
"This is good."
"Right?"
"The texture's so much softer."
"I boiled them once before I roasted them."
"You boiled them first? You never did that yesterday."
"I didn't."
"Then how—?"
A girl, a little taller than his waist, came darting out from behind him.
"Who...?"
"Melo."
"Melo?"
The girl was smiling brightly, holding out another roasted potato.
"Have this one toooo."
Another potato bombardment, and Jane's fork stopped. She was truly at her limit and started to push the plate away—but she couldn't win against those bright, sparkling eyes, and up came roasted potato number twenty-three on the tines of her fork.
Last night.
Because Blow had stormed the kitchen, Melo—barred from going in—slipped quietly out of the house and made for the mansion. Now and then she would steal into the mansion kitchen after dark and cook, and once she was there she would reproduce her mother's dishes down to the last detail. She could only make a little, since she had to eat it herself, which was a shame, and tidying up always took longer than the cooking. Even so, for her this was the most delightful moment in the world.
There ought to be plenty of potatoes left today. Maybe I'll try a salad.
Heart buoyant, Melo stepped into the kitchen. Contrary to what she expected, the lamps were lit.
What?
On quiet tiptoe she slipped inside, and what met her eyes was a handsome red-haired man standing blankly before the fire, a mountain of peeled potatoes heaped beside him.
A scary person.
She eased into the kitchen and tucked herself behind a mound of vegetables, in a corner he couldn't see.
A scary person...
Back in the earliest days of her life in a kitchen—around the time her memories began, when she was four—her mother, Romang, was forever swallowing her temper in some corner of the kitchen. It was because of that red-haired young master. His palate was such a tangle that pleasing it was anything but simple, and if a main ingredient repeated even once inside of three days, he would rage and smash the plate.
"Scoundrel. Nothing but a scoundrel."
Her mother always came home fretting over the next day's menu, sighing hard enough to cave in the floor.
...I should just leave.
Melo had given up on cooking and was about to slip out, regret heavy in her chest, when a voice thick with frustration drifted from within.
"This isn't it."
Curiosity caught her. She stopped where she stood and turned her head toward the voice, and the smell of the potato he had ruined brushed the tip of her nose.
Dummy. You scorched it a little! And you skimped on the butter!!
She didn't need to watch the cooking or taste it to know the state of a dish, and the frustration was enough to kill her. The bad man, noticing none of this, only stood there with his brow drawn tight.
Melo edged back to her hiding place and started watching him again. It was curiosity—curiosity over what he would do next. A mountain of plates was already stacked at his side, which meant he was likely to leave the kitchen before long.
With no dream that she was watching, he began to cut potatoes once more.
He's going to try again.
Long after that, Blow went on committing mistakes that looked foolish to the girl. She nodded off and woke more than once from the weariness of watching, and still he was roasting potatoes.
Amazing...
In him, Melo saw the girl she used to be. The first time she had taken up a frying pan, she had wanted a pretty sunny-side-up, but no matter how many eggs she spent—eggs as precious to her as blood—not once had it come out the way she wished.
"Mom, I can't do it. Can't you teach me?"
"The fire's too high."
"Then what am I supposed to do? Tell me."
"It's dangerous. You'll get hurt."
From that day she quietly pinched an egg now and then, and after trying every day she finally managed a sunny-side-up. It was the first success that would stay in her life as a cook.
The feeling of someone who had gone first. The twelve-year-old, feeling it for the first time, found herself at some point with her hands clasped, wishing him success.
"Have I used up all the salt?"
Her eyes were on the potato in the pan, a heartbeat from burning.
You've got to salt it now and get it off the heat...
But that foolish bad man was opening all the wrong places.
Fine. I don't even care.
She squeezed her eyes shut, darted over, and set the salt that had been sitting by the hearth up on the counter.
"What the—!"
He startled as if he had seen a ghost.
"I-I'm sorryyy!"
Their eyes met for an instant. She meant to bolt straight outside, but the bad man stopped her.
"Wait!"
Melo froze solid and carefully looked back.
"Tell me who you are before you go."
Knife in hand, a fierce look on his face as he stared down at her. The girl's heart seemed to shrink to the size of a bean.
"P-please spare me."
He had been coming closer, little by little, when he flinched and looked at the knife in his own hand.
"Spare you? Oh—is it because of this?"
Blow set it on the counter and went to the girl, whose eyes were swimming with tears.
"Who are you, walking in here? You live nearby?"
"M-my mom works here."
"Your mom? Who?"
"Romang Greenhill..."
"You're Romang's daughter?"
Only then did her brown hair and olive eyes—so like her mother's—register with him. Blow, who had been taut with the fear she might be a thief, pressed a hand to his chest in relief and asked,
"That seems right. But what are you doing here at this hour?"
"I wanted to cook..."
Melo answered in a voice that had gone small and timid. Blow, who had crouched at some point to meet her eyes, spoke gently.
"Cook... what did you say?"
"I came to cook."
"You?"
"Yes."
"You're awfully tiny for that."
"I-I'm going to grow starting next year! Mom said she grew from then, too!"
Called short, Melo shouted, thoroughly aggrieved. Blow thought it cute and smiled before he could stop himself.
"How old are you?"
"Twelve."
"Twelve, and you came here to cook?"
"Yes."
"Does Romang know you do this? Sneaking in at night to cook?"
At those words Melo flinched and shook her head.
A brief silence fell between them.
Blow thought back to the way she had set the salt out at exactly the right moment, and to Romang's cooking, which had only grown more brilliant.
If she's Romang's daughter... maybe?
He put off scolding her. Nothing to lose, he figured, and asked,
"Can you roast a potato?"
"A little."
"What would you do?"
"The skin's actually got a nice texture."
Melo answered carefully and drew water into a pot. Seeing that, Blow tilted his head.
"What are you doing?"
"Boiling them once."
"Why?"
"'Cause they taste better if you boil them and then roast them?"
Melo's voice rang with excitement. From then on Blow said nothing and let the girl do as she liked.
She set to work with a practiced hand, quick and sure. Watching her, Blow felt, privately, that it was a shame. Had she been even a little older, he would have gone to Romang and asked to take her on—but she looked far too young for that.
"All dooone!"
She finished in no time, dusted parsley over potatoes that looked good enough to eat on sight, and held them out to him.
This is miles better than mine. I should at least taste it.
He put the potato in his mouth, and his eyes flew wide. Watching him, a pleased smile finally spread across Melo's lips.
About two hours after Jane ate a roasted potato she could actually be satisfied with.
Five servants, gathered at Blow's call, stood in a line before his door. Hans was at their head as their representative—the others had shoved him forward because he had gone to Splas with Blow.
What in the world is he going to make us do this time?
Hans had heard, in rough outline, that there had been a quarrel with the baron and baroness, and he was doing his best to settle his nerves when Blow showed himself.
"Everyone here?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Come in."
Following him inside, the servants had no choice but to stop dead at the sight before them. Everything that belonged in his drawers and wardrobe was out on the floor—swords so fine they dropped the jaw just to look at them, magical implements, clothes, a pocket watch. They were the collections of a young man who had inherited his mother's mania for collecting. But the face Blow turned on them was the face of a man looking at stones.
Seeing that expression, the servants flinched and caught one another's eyes.
"I'm sorting these first. From the expensive ones down to the cheap."
"Yes, sir."
"After that, when a merchant comes from the trading house, we'll pack them so they sell cleanly."
"All of them, Young Master?"
When the startled Hans asked, Blow nodded at once.
"Yes. Every last one."
Even then the servants hesitated, watching one another. They could not easily believe a change in a man who had clung to his possessions past all reason. Among themselves they had gossiped that he had inherited his mother's temperament the wrong way around—and now he meant to sell the lot.
While they were still only trading glances, Blow, in white gloves, rolled up his sleeves and began the sorting himself. At that the servants rushed in beside him, not one of them hanging back.
"What was this, again?"
"A monster figurine you pestered Lord Luce into buying when you were thirteen, Young Master Blow."
"Yeah? And this?"
"That's the pen Count Marbler gave you as a gift when you enrolled, Young Master."
A history snapped out with every question. Blow stared, impressed.
"How do you remember all that so well?"
"Haha, I've got a good memory."
So he answered—but Hans's memory was not good. It was only that whenever Blow set an object down he raised such a storm that forgetting was impossible. Jones and Robo, he thought it had been. Those two had been thrown out of the mansion for leaving handprints on the very things Blow had just asked about.
Hans stole a glance at him. Blow, knowing nothing of that thought, was humming as he worked through the pile with a will.
...He really does seem to have gone gentle.
Hans was tilting his head over the thought when a voice near a scream came through the open door.
"Wh-what do you all think you're doing?!"
Every eye turned to Blow's doorway. His mother stood there, her face struck with horror.