My lord husband sits slack-jawed, so I return to pop one into his open mouth too. Mine is filled with strawberry syrup. Delicious.
“M-M-My lady!” The aide abruptly stands and grabs my hands, surprising me. “Lady Haydn isn’t the easiest to talk to because she likes to state her points no matter what you try to say but I think you’ll surely be able to handle her my lady because Viscount Noel loves you so much so please know that you don’t have to take anything she says to heart you will emerge victorious my lady you will be absolutely fine!”
Wow, she spoke so much so quickly! Amazing! She didn’t even stop to breathe!
Behind us, I hear my lord husband snort and Rodney break into a coughing fit.
Her hands are dry as she grips mine and shakes them up and down, and warm, just like Tabitha’s.
✦ ✦ ✦
BEFORE McGregor left with Rickman for the day, he passed me a letter from Prince Dominic.
“The rains in Longhurst show no sign of stopping.” The prince included a list of villages under threat of inundation, one of which hadn’t been marked on any map. Nobody at the palace had even known the place existed until the villagers came to the administrative manor to beg for help. Abigail had confirmed its location that morning, pointing to a blank area on the map.
Perhaps the oversight was an embarrassing mistake; sometimes settlements are missed when a territory expands its borders. But the village is situated close to the city of Longhurst. That it’s thus far remained undiscovered and unrecorded seems suspicious.
Rickman said earlier that she loves her job, which definitely shows in her accuracy and speed. True to her reputation, her analysis of quantitative data is impeccable, and appended to the prince’s letter is her report on the village with notes on its size and relations to Longhurst’s main city.
Such competency seems to be offset by her lack of interpersonal skills, and perhaps that’s why she gets along unexpectedly well with Abigail. Both of them are blunt and interpret the other’s words literally without searching for hidden meaning. No wonder they’re terrible at socializing.
Abigail is pacing in agitation around the coffee table. “She says she likes strawberries, so I’ll show her around our garden when they’re in season.”
“What…? When did she tell you that?”
“Just now! I promised! I’ll write her an invitation! I’ve learned how!”
“You mean during that crazy exchange you had at the end…? Rodney?”
“I didn’t catch it either, Master…” he laments as he exits the kitchen, accompanied by the aroma of warm pie. Why is he frustrated?
Since we’re having an informal lunch in the office, there was no need to extend a written invitation to Haydn. I merely had to inform her superior that I’m expecting her. The man had glanced at me with pity, which I didn’t mind so long as he understood that I wasn’t looking forward to her visit. Meanwhile, Abigail lays out her crayons in excitement, probably to write an invitation to Rickman… No, that won’t do. Not that Rickman would mind, but Tabitha would never allow Abigail to send someone a letter in crayon.
Rodney starts to load dishes onto a trolley: honey-roasted carrots, baked beans, soda bread baked with raisins and walnuts.
Placing the prince’s missive in my desk drawer, I watch Abigail as she eyes the food. “Lunch is almost ready, Abby. Take a seat and wait.”
“Yes!”
A soft knock sounds at the door just as she bounces into her seat.
✦ ✦ ✦
🎂🎂🎂
“YOU don’t eat much, Little Abby.”
Rodney has handed each of us a plate with a serving of every dish, and Abigail’s portions are obviously smaller than ours. Anyway, who is she to call her Abby? I don’t remember granting permission to use the nickname. Unfortunately, Abigail doesn’t seem to mind, so eager to speak with Haydn that I can’t bring myself to interrupt.
“Rodney gives me a little of everything so I can try it all without making my stomach hurt. Look, Wendy, this is shepherd’s pie, made with mashed potatoes. It’s potato, see?”
“W-Well, I guess noblewomen such as yourself do have small appetites since your lives are so sedentary. In contrast, we soldiers pride ourselves on our strength, so we can enjoy delicious food. Isn’t that right, Gerald?”
“It’s Major Noel to you.”
“I enjoy delicious food too, Wendy.”
“Oh, I hate formalities during mealtime. Don’t you remember how much fun we had eating in the school cafeteria?”
“School cafeteria… My lord?”
“I’ve never shared a meal with you, Haydn. Don’t worry, Abby, the food we eat at home is more delicious.”
“Because the head cook is amazing!”
We did eat in the same cafeteria, but I’ll be damned if I let her construe that as having dined together. I even went so far as to leave the table whenever she tried to join me, though that didn’t stop her from maintaining what she’d told Abigail. I was horrified when I first heard the lie secondhand. And Rodney dared to claim that she’s matured over the past four years?! She hasn’t, not one bit!
“The mashed potatoes on our chef’s shepherd’s pie are special, Wendy! They’ve got buttermilk mixed in! Buttermilk made using castle milk!”
“Why are you so insistent on the potatoes…?”
“Would you like the flower carrots instead? We can swap.”
“The head cook shaped those carrots just for you, Abby.”
“Oh. Sorry, Wendy. You’ll have to make do with the regular carrots.”
“I-It’s fine… I don’t care…”
Our chef has always prioritized flavor, and he’s recently started to focus on presentation as well to entice Abigail to eat more. The change shocked the entire household, me included. He worked as an army cook in Drewett’s private military before suffering an injury and retiring to become a chef for me. A former soldier, he’d never been fond of decorative craft.
In fact, Abigail herself isn’t the type to fuss over appearances either, though she seems to make an exception for what she calls the head cook’s “specials.” I guess it doesn’t hurt, as long as he only does it for her…
I think back to the night I told her that humans don’t typically remember their past lives. She’d been so excited, waving her hands impatiently as she tried to illustrate how Haydn and the small human have the same soul, but her movements stilled at my words.
“If humans can’t do that, then Wendy and that human must be different,” she mumbled. Her hands dropped and she lowered her head. “I can’t remember the Monster King’s thoughts myself, so I guess that makes sense.”
She’d spoken with her usual quiet, emotionless tone as if she accepted the likely reality and isn’t bothered, and yet…
Her eyes lack their usual spark of curiosity and interest as she chats with Haydn. Instead, they house a quiet glow that resembles that mirrorlike spring in Longhurst’s forest, the shine similar to when she picks out inconsistencies in the piles of reports.
She must still be searching for a trace of the small human in Haydn.