Chapter 71

Maximilian Castiel froze, his glass at his lips. “Well?” his father, Adolphus, asked mildly. Maximilian quietly closed his eyes, set the glass down, and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “…I’m sorry, my memory is a tad hazy—what, exactly, did you say this was?” He thought his father had said it was lemonade, but it wasn’t like any lemonade Maximilian had ever tasted. Maybe his father was unfamiliar with the beverage. “Lemonade,” Adolphus replied. It was lemonade. “…I know this is a rude question, but has anyone else tasted it?” “Yes. Kyle Hughes did. But he didn’t have anything useful to say, so I decided to ask you.” “But have you tasted it yourself, Father?” “I have not,” he answered casually. “After all, what would I do if it tasted awful?” The duke’s smile as he spoke oozed that alluring seductiveness that made one forgive everything he did. Scarlett used to look like that, Maximilian remembered. How many times had that devilish smile convinced him to do what she wanted? “Anyway, what do you think?” “…I think the herbs are a tad strong. Also, the acidity of the lemon is bringing out the bitterness of the herbs and completely overpowering the honey.” “I see,” Adolphus said, resting his hand on his chin and looking at the ceiling. “Next time I’ll focus more on balance.” He clapped his hands together once and stood up. “R-right now?” Maximilian asked. “If I’m making it, I may as well make it taste good.” “Wouldn’t tomorrow do just as well…?” Maximilian suggested, terrified he would be made taste tester again. “There’s no point unless it’s today.” Maximilian was momentarily perplexed. Then he remembered. Today is… “…It’s Carnival,” he mumbled. His mother, Aliénore, had taught him that this was the one day each year when the dead returned to the mortal realm. On this day, islanders prepared the favorite foods and drinks of the departed and awaited their return. Aliénore had loved lemonade. He remembered that whenever she was confined to bed, she had begged his father to make it. “Father…” That’s what he must have meant when he said there was no point unless it was today. Maximilian frowned, and his heart ached. Suddenly, a memory from early childhood rose in his mind. His father had given him some lemonade because he’d made too much. It wasn’t what he’d call delicious, but he remembered it as a simple mixture of lemons and honey. How did that become this hazardous brew? The question must have been written on his face, because Adolphus said, “Aliénore said the lemonade she drank on the island was made with many different herbs. I tried to reproduce it many times, but never once received her approval. I’m hoping to finally get it right. She’s a tough one to please.” He smiled wryly. Maximilian smiled, too. “Isn’t the feeling what counts? I’m sure she’ll be pleased.” “To the contrary, she’ll probably be angry at me for wasting so many lemons.” Despite his words, Adolphus’s eyes shone nostalgically. “Although today,” he added, looking out the window at the distant sky, “she’s probably visiting her childhood home.”