But the smirk didn’t last. The instant Camilla’s hand shot up and seized him by the collar, Jellard flinched.

I’ve got a bit of a nasty streak.

If someone hates me, I hate them back. I’m not kind enough to endure baseless blame and mockery forever.

If—before I got here—Camilla had actually done this man some wrong, she could grit her teeth and tolerate a bit of his abuse.

But as far as she knew, Camilla had never done anything of the sort to Chef Jellard.

In short, his rudeness now was pure swagger—the kind of crap you pull only when you think the other person is beneath you.

Clench.

I’ve grabbed people by the collar hundreds of times on set.

Her grip tightened of its own accord.

This body wasn’t hers, but her skill hadn’t gone anywhere. She knew exactly how to get a good, biting hold at the throat of a shirt.

Jellard’s body folded forward on instinct.

“W-what do you think you’re doing!”

He finally came to and bellowed with all he had.

Inside the kitchen, he was king. To be grabbed by the collar before so many onlookers—what was this outrage...!

“Listen closely.”

Camilla didn’t care. She yanked him in tighter, right up to her.

“This height.”

“...What?”

“When I win the wager, this is exactly how low you’ll be.”

She thrust her face to his.

“If you look down at me with those eyes one more time...”

Her voice dropped to a whisper, and Jellard reflexively swallowed.

“I’ll shatter your knees and have you crawl for the rest of your life.”

“T-the duke won’t stand for—!”

“Yeah, I know. I’ll get scolded. Maybe I won’t be allowed out of my room for a few days.”

“S-so then just—!”

“So what?”

“Pardon?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time. So what?”

“N-no, that’s not—! The duke will—!”

“I’ll take my punishment.”

Camilla’s mouth curved, faint and dangerous.

She watched the Duke of Sorpel’s mood, yes—but she had no intention of letting anyone else use that to threaten her.

“You think he’ll kill me just for breaking you?”

“......!”

“You think I can’t?”

I... I very much think you can...

Watching his mouth open and close, Camilla smiled pleasantly and let go.

But Jellard didn’t straighten. His whole body had gone rigid; if he stood up now, it felt like his knees really would crack.

“Then I’ll be using the kitchen.”

Leaving him like that, Camilla returned to her place. Almost under her breath, she called to someone.

“Ferrol.”

[Right here.]

The chef-ghost drifting nearby glided to her side.

“Ready?”

[Of course!]

“Let’s begin.”

As the words left her mouth, Ferrol’s hands slid into alignment with her own.

****

“Lord Ludville has earned great merit in this operation, sir. The reports say his performance was exceptional. Here are the documents.”

Listening to his aide, the Duke of Sorpel read through the papers at an even pace.

“He’s doing well.”

“Yes. As one would expect of Lord Ludville.”

The duke set the report down, expression satisfied.

“......”

His eyes, by habit, drifted to one spot: a vase brimming with mist-flowers—brought by Camilla.

When his mother lived, it was a familiar sight.

She had loved mist-flowers in particular, arranging them herself and setting them in his study or chamber.

I’m not one for flowers...

But seeing them in the study put him in a strange mood.

He recalled that morning walk not long ago, Camilla’s face bright as she smiled at him with her arms full of blooms.

Had that child ever smiled like that before him?

And it’s already been over a week.

He had thought it would end in a day or two.

But for over a week now, not missing a single day, Camilla had been decorating his study and bedchamber with mist-flowers.

“Not bad.”

“Sir?”

“Is Camilla still skipping meals these days?”

“Ah...”

Aide Jector’s eyes widened at the unexpected question.

The duke had asked after her misdeeds and excesses before—but never everyday welfare like this.

He would command something be done, perhaps, but he had never shown interest in Lady Camilla herself.

“I’ll inquire at once.”

A bit flustered, Jector answered quickly.

Knock, knock.

A rap at the door, and a man entered: the butler, Rube, in his early thirties.

He carried a tray. Bowing with formality, he set the food swiftly down on the table.

“What is all «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» this?”

“I thought you might be hungry, sir.”

The duke glanced at the clock and nodded.

When he stayed long at his desk, Rube would often bring something light to eat.

“Thank you.”

Jector looked even happier than the duke. He’d skimped on dinner, and his stomach had been grumbling for a while.

“Please try some, Your Grace.”

“Hm?”

The duke eyed the butler, puzzled. Normally Rube would set the tray down and depart. Today he stood by, urging him to eat.

After a silent look, the duke rose and went to the table.

“Soup.”

Fresh-baked bread sat beside it.

“......”

But his eyes widened at the soup.

Impossible...

Uncharacteristically, he snatched up the spoon, took a large mouthful—and his face shifted to surprise.

“This soup is...”

It was the soup from years ago. The one he loved.

After Chef Ferrol—who had served the house for so long—died in an accident, the dish had vanished.

Jellard, Ferrol’s disciple and the current head chef, had tried to recreate it and failed—or so he’d heard.

And yet here it was, the flavor he thought lost, set before him unchanged.

“Wow... this is incredible. How does a soup have this kind of depth?”

The clear, golden broth held not a speck of garnish.

And yet the richness that filled the mouth defied words.

“So he finally reproduced it.”

The duke assumed the current chef had at last matched his master.

But the butler shook his head.

“Chef Jellard did not make it, sir.”

“Not the chef?”

“No.”

“Then who?”

Rube smiled faintly.

“Lady Camilla.”

“...Who?”

“Kh—!”

The duke’s eyes went wider still, and Jector, mid-sip, broke into a fit of dry coughs at the sound of Camilla’s name.

He stared at the soup anew, disbelief written plain.

“Lady Camilla made this?”

As if expecting just such a reaction, the butler only smiled again. The duke and his aide sat stunned for a time.

*****

“Th... this is...!”

Chef Jellard could barely form words.

The moment he saw the finished soup, he doubted his eyes.

That golden broth! How could he not know it?

Even the aroma...!

Identical. It was identical to the soup in his memory.

With trembling hand he dipped the ladle deep and brought it to his lips.

“......!”

Clatter!

The ladle fell straight to the floor.

He was the one who preached keeping tools spotless, yet he didn’t even think to pick it up—so great was the shock.

That taste. It was that soup.

The soup his master Ferrol had made, long ago.

Ferrol’s sudden death had left him without the recipe.

And now here it sat, made by none other than Camilla.

He couldn’t believe it, even seeing it.

“How’s the soup?”

Camilla approached, watching him quietly.

“H-how...!”

He finally came to. Jellard’s voice shook with excitement.

“How did you make this? How?”

Flames leapt in his eyes.

He had poured countless hours into recreating it, only to fail miserably every time. He had never been able to catch that flavor.

So how...!

“Too high.”

“Pardon?”

“Your eyes. They’re too high.”

“What are you—”

Camilla raised two fingers and tapped the centers of his eyes, then pressed her hand downward.

“Lower them.”

“......!”

Understanding dawned; his gaze wavered uncontrollably.

“My neck’s starting to ache.”

She rubbed the back of her neck as if it hurt.

“......”

Sliiide.

His wide eyes dropped. His knees bent, just enough that she didn’t have to tilt her head back.

His hands folded, naturally, in front.

“A-are you going to teach me now?”

It was a humiliating posture before the entire staff—but that didn’t matter.

“Teach you what?”

“The recipe. For this soup.”

“Why would I?”

“...What?”

“I never said I’d hand over the method.”

“......!”

Camilla untied her apron and tossed it aside as he stared, aghast and pale.

“Lady Camilla!”

Jellard called after her as she headed out of the kitchen.

He couldn’t let her go. He had to get that recipe.

“Well, I might teach you.”

“R-really?”

“If you look a little pretty to me.”

“Pardon?”

“If you manage to look even a little appealing, maybe I’ll teach you later.”

With that, Camilla dusted off her clothes and left the kitchen.

Jellard stood there, dazed, then slowly turned to the line of kitchen staff along the wall.

“How does this face look pretty?”

“That’s impo—urk!”

Someone jabbed the ribs of the clueless junior and clamped a hand over his mouth. The rest could only offer strained smiles.