I read the newspaper while I ate. The duck’s eggs seemed a bit richer than chicken eggs. They made for a creamy omelette even without milk or butter mixed in. The potato, which I had grown with great care, was soft and delicious. The chamomile tea had an irresistible sweet aroma. It was like a refreshing embodiment of spring. I remembered when my father had once drunk it and muttered, “It’s just grass,” which really irritated me. Speaking of whom, I had received yet another card from him saying he wouldn’t be coming home today, but I had immediately tossed it out.
After breakfast, I began making pastries. Taking up position in the kitchen, I put on my brand-new apron. The first item of the day was a stick-shaped almond treat called “sacristain.”
Using the rolling pin, I flattened the pie dough I’d prepared last night, then poked holes all over it with a fork. Next, I brushed egg yolk over the dough and sprinkled crushed almonds over it. I then placed another layer of dough on top and pressed down with the rolling pin to keep the almonds in place. The second layer got another brushing of egg yolk, followed by a sprinkling of almonds and granulated sugar. Next, I cut the dough into strips and let them dry for a while before twisting them into spirals. These went into the preheated oven.
While I was waiting for them to bake, I used the leftover egg whites to make cookies called “langues de chat,” or “cat’s tongues.”
First, I creamed the now-room-temperature butter that I had taken out of the magical cold storage an hour prior, and mixed in powdered sugar, the aforementioned egg whites, and vanilla beans. I added flour to the mixture and blended it together to make dough, which I stuffed into a bag and piped into thin strips on a greased metal plate. All that was left was to bake them.
As I was working, the sacristains had come out nicely. I opened the oven and the kitchen was filled with the fragrant aroma of almonds. The pastries had been baked to a golden brown.
The name “sacristain” had an odd ring to it. It originated from the church—apparently, a sacristain was a person who managed the vessels and staves used in ceremonies. The pastry was said to be named after them because it resembled the twisty walking stick they carried.
I sampled one of the treats. The layered dough was crisp and light, as was the almond taste. The texture of the crunchy granular sugar complemented it nicely as well.
Yep, they came out delicious.
After the sacristains and langues de chat, I baked sablés and financiers. I carefully packed the finished sweets into my basket so that they wouldn’t crumble. My deliveries were always in the morning. As usual, it looked like I was going to be on time.
I put on my straw hat and left from the back door. If I went through the front, the duck would follow me. The neighbors also used the back door when they visited me, since they were wary of her.
I walked down the street at a steady pace. This area was so peaceful, you wouldn’t think it was part of the royal capital. There were apple trees along the road, with a few lovely white flowers blooming here and there. They would reach their peak in another ten days.
In autumn, the kids and birds in this old part of town would compete for apples. They were a hard and especially sour variety, but I’d heard that they made for delicious jam. I’d been living in this district for two years now, but I had yet to try the apples...because I didn’t think I stood a chance in the fight. I secretly aspired to win one day and have a taste.
The store I consigned sweets to was a pastry shop that catered to commoners. One of its employees was the pâtissier who used to work for my family. He couldn’t bear to see me penniless and jobless with nothing to my name, so he asked the store owner to buy my sweets. I wouldn’t be lying if I said I owed him my life. It was a lovely store with a red brick exterior and green roof, and it had long been favored by the capital’s residents.
I opened the door and the chime rang.
“Welco— Oh, it’s you, Francette.”
“Good day, Solene.”
“Good day to you too!”
The person smiling at me was Solene, the store’s poster girl. We got along well. I consigned sweets here once every two to three days. They felt bad about my situation and didn’t take a cut of my sales.
“Here’s today’s batch,” I said.
“Yep, confirming them ‘received.’ Here’s the proceeds from last time.”
“Thank you.”
The sweets I’d supplied them with the other day had sold out. Apparently, the store had an eccentric regular who liked my pastries, and he would be extremely disappointed if even one type ran out before he came. Every day for the past two years, he’d visited to see if my sweets were in stock. And each time he’d had his hood pulled low over his face, so no one knew who he was.
“Your customer was as suspicious as ever,” Solene said.
“From what I’ve heard, I can’t deny it.”
The regular supposedly had a beautiful, unaccented voice, but he spoke unbelievably fast. He was tall and thin and wore an extravagant overcoat. Solene estimated that he was a moderately wealthy man between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five.
“Sorry you have to deal with a weird customer,” I said.
“It’s fine. He tips generously.”
“That’s good.”
I thanked Solene and was about to leave when she stopped me to share this morning’s bread with me.
“Francette, you won’t have enough energy if you’re always nibbling on potatoes. Make sure you eat bread too.”
“I know. Thanks, Solene.” I waved goodbye.
My stomach growled at the delicious aroma of dough in the oven. Potatoes alone weren’t filling enough. Solene was right. I needed to eat bread. But if I had flour in my kitchen, I would rather use it to make pastries to sell. Because of that, I always ended up deprioritizing bread.
I thought about the breakfasts I’d had before my family’s downfall: freshly baked bread, rich vegetable potage, thick slices of bacon, soft-boiled eggs, warm salad... It was certainly a life of luxury. I didn’t particularly want to go back to those days, but I couldn’t help but wish for nicer meals.
Maybe I should find some other work to do besides baking sweets. I could try starting a fortune-telling business, since my sister taught me how.
By channeling mana into a crystal, one could read another’s fortune. It didn’t require magical aptitude—all you needed was the incantation and a little bit of mana. The problem was that I didn’t have the money to buy a fortune-telling crystal ball.
As I slumped my shoulders, dejected, I spotted a smooth, light-red sphere on the side of the road.
Could that be a crystal ball?! It’s rare to see a colored one, but did I really just find one lying on the street? Isn’t this too good to be true?
However, a lost item had to have an owner. The first order of business would be to take it to the knights’ station. If the owner couldn’t be found within a year, property rights would be transferred to the finder.
I’ll take it to the knights first, and if it gets transferred to me in a year, I’ll start my fortune-telling business then.
I ran over to pick up the mud-stained crystal, only for it to turn limp and squishy in my hands.
“Huh?! Eek!”
That was when I realized the thing lying on the ground wasn’t a crystal—it was a slime.
With water making up over ninety percent of its body, the slime was famed for being the weakest of all monsters. Even an ordinary person without any combat training could defeat one simply by stepping on it and crushing it. I probably hadn’t noticed the mana-storing core in this one’s body because it was covered in mud. Cute, round eyes peeked out through the stains. They were bleary, as if the slime wasn’t feeling well.