What would he like…?
……!
Then I had a sudden realization.
I don’t know what Klifford’s favorite foods are…!
And so, since I couldn’t pick around his likes and dislikes, I went orthodox and chose sandwiches with a meat similar to teriyaki chicken.
They were wrapped in paper for ease of delivery, so he didn’t have to eat them right away, either. He could tuck them in his pocket to eat later, like the dungeon guard had with his snack.
I rose from the table and headed for the door. Edgar waved merrily at me. And with a click, I opened the door. The heavy door—but just as I thought that, it suddenly got lighter. Klifford had opened it for me.
“Your Highness?”
“This is for you.”
I handed him the parcel of sandwiches. Klifford surely knew that we were having breakfast.
“We can’t finish everything by ourselves. I know you’re on duty, but I’d be happy if you could help us.”
His indigo eyes looked at me thoughtfully.
After a pause, Klifford said, “Then…I humbly accept.”
And the weight of the sandwiches disappeared from my hands.
A sense of victory similar to what I felt after yesterday’s successful tea invitation filled me.
Like…this is a bad analogy, but I felt kinda like a trapper whose prey just took the bait.
But that feeling lasted only a moment. Since Klifford took the food from me unexpectedly smoothly, that made me feel insecure. Was I wrong to think he would reject my offering?
The memory of us drinking tea together came to mind.
Oh! Could it be, he figures it couldn’t be poisoned enough to be a problem, so he accepted the food because it would be more of a hassle not to?
“Um, don’t take food without permission, okay? Even in the castle. I’d like to think as a rule, we have nothing to worry about here, but still…”
Both Sirius and Alec had incidents of foreign objects in their food before…and according to the source material, so did Sil… But it wasn’t an attempted murder by poisoning. More like, love gone too far? You know, stalker logic. It’s highly plausible that Klifford would fall the same fate as them for the same reason.
Klifford gave me a curious look.
Huh? Did I say something off the mark?
“I never accept food from anyone other than you, Your Highness.”
“…”
My face… I feel like it’s turning red.
I cursed myself for not bringing Blackfeather with me. I wanted to open it and feign serenity.
I knew he meant it in an Adjutant-Sovereign sense, but come on, I couldn’t help but think he just said I was special!
“Right… Klifford…are there any foods you like or dislike?”
I kinda want to give you something you prefer next time!
“Not in particular.”
…I saw that coming. I really did, okay? But I doubled down and asked, “But surely there’s something?”
Klifford looked uncomfortable. I raised an eyebrow. I think Klifford is the only person in the universe who would look so perplexed over the simplest question.
Silence hung between us for a while, until Klifford finally spoke, “…As in, foods I can and cannot eat?”
The ultimate dichotomy! But being able to eat something is not exactly the same as liking it. It’s applicable not only to the sandwiches I just gave him, but to just about everything! Wait—there are people out there who like everything…but Klifford is not one of them. I just know it!
“Aren’t there any foods you’ve found delicious?”
“Just one.”
Just one?
“Though I assume it was the circumstances that made it seem delicious to me.”
It’s probably that phenomenon where the thing you eat when you’re starving feels like a lavish feast to you. That’s what I think he’s talking about. So, in essence, he’s never found any food actually delicious.
“Okay… I think I understand.”
By necessity, my association with Klifford was going to last a long time. I’d just have to spend that time figuring out what foods he responds well to! He seemed to think “it’s something edible” equals “I like it,” but he’s bound to have some specific tastes.
“Anyway, once you’ve eaten this,” I said, indicating the parcel I’d handed him, “let me know what you think…but that’s not a command. Just a humble request.”
I had to add that caveat, otherwise Klifford was bound to think it was a Sovereignly command.
“All right…”
And in his affirmative answer, I could distinctly hear notes of hesitation.
My conversation with Klifford lasted a few minutes. Once back in my father’s study, I took out my own sandwich and chomped down on it.
Can’t go to war on an empty stomach!
And of course, I’m filling my stomach with stuff I like.
It was similar to an egg salad sandwich, with thin slices of hardboiled egg. The mayonnaise… Well, that doesn’t exist here, but these Valjeanian seasonings sure hit the spot! Without Valjean, Esfian cuisine would have been very lackluster—I can say that with confidence.
As I ate, I watched the pair—Edgar and my father. Edgar, who was seated across from me, was eating a meat and forsa sandwich. And forsa is…well, it’s a vegetable that I secretly christened “bitter cucumber.” It looks like a cucumber. And the first time I bit into one, thinking it was a cucumber, it turned out to be so bitter! Thanks to that memory, I can’t eat forsa.
Actually, my father hates forsa, too. It’s a typical vegetable in Esfian cuisine, but it’s very divisive. Bitterness is its distinctive feature, so it’s a matter of whether you like that or not.
Even so…eating it by hand was a technically advanced feat that tested one’s manners. It was an easy means of finding fault in someone. And yet Edgar ate forsa so naturally that he could easily be mistaken for a highborn man. Like, dang, Edgar. Mad respect.
If anything…it’s making me feel insecure.
My princess dignity—dignity… I mustn’t chomp my sandwich; I must aim for elegance…!
I shifted my focus from Edgar to my father. He held a document in his right hand and was feeding himself a sandwich with his left.
It looks like he’s almost done. He’s eating the bread with jam that the servant purposefully left at his place when they came to set the table, so that’s probably his favorite?
It was a little unexpected, him choosing just plain jam and bread.
Naturally, Esfia had a variety of jams. Some of these jams and the fruits they’re made of are named the same way as they are in Japan: strawberry, apple, blueberry, etcetera, etcetera. But not the jam my father was eating. Just like forsa, it was unique to this world.
The jam was made from chirro, a sweet vegetable in the same family as chestnuts and sweet potatoes. Now, chirro are not pretty to look at. They have this ugly, thorny sort of appearance to them. Because of that, they’re not highly regarded among royalty and the nobility. Pity, since once they’re cooked, they look much more appetizing…
That’s why they’re considered peasant food in Esfia. While they’re a staple in lower-class houses, you seldom—nay, you never see them gracing royal dinner tables! But I’ve always got my radar tuned to catch any info about Esfia’s cheap eats! Though my radar is kinda crappy and only tends to pick up things I’m interested in, like how to handle wreven birds…
“Father…do you like chirro?”
My father froze mid-bite. He looked down at the bread with chirro jam and a soft smile spread on his mouth. So soft that it made me wonder if it was tied to a precious memory.
“Yes…I came to like it when I ate some with Edgar.”
“…Yes, I remember that, too.” Edgar smiled and nodded, but it struck me as odd…probably because of the unnaturally long pause before he spoke. Maybe it was because I’d overheard their fight earlier.
My father put his chirro jam bread on his plate. Then he set down his documents.
“So—?” He clasped his hands and looked at me. “Why did you come all the way here to ask for an audience? I can’t very well throw you out now, can I?”
Aha! He took the first shot!