A murmur rippled through the staff.
From where she stood, Ritsuka saw Bram blink at her, his hand still wrapped around the ladle.
“Cook… yourself, my lady?” he asked. His shoulders straightened, as if the words sat wrong on his tongue.
“Yes,” Ritsuka said. “If you do not mind, I will stay out of everyone’s way. I just want a pan, whatever meat you can spare without starving anyone, and a drink strong enough to take the edge off a very long night.”
One of the younger helpers coughed on a breath that went down wrong. Another’s spoon tapped the side of a pot before slipping back into its usual circle. Out of the corner of her eye, Ritsuka caught Isolde’s head snap toward her.
Near the washing basins towards the door leading outside, Ritsuka heard a scullery assistant utter under her breath, “Has my lady gone mad?”
Isolde turned toward the sound, towel caught in both fists.
“Mind your tongue,” she said, voice cool and sharp enough to slice through the noise. “By law she is still the Duchess of this household, and unless you want to find yourself in chains, you should be careful to speak so freely.”
From where Ritsuka stood, she could see the maid go pale and bend deeper over the basin. A few other heads dipped in quick, nervous nods, but hands kept moving; knives still rose and fell, spoons still stirred. Bram’s gaze flicked up to meet Ritsuka’s then dropped in a brief, respectful nod she did not miss.
Duchess, Ritsuka thought. That is going to make opening a restaurant a headache.
The memory of sweetness turning metallic on her tongue brushed past, and she pushed it away.
Yeah. No. I am not letting anyone cook for me again either.
She rolled her shoulders back, forcing her attention onto the heat and movement in front of her instead of the ghosts behind her teeth.
Isolde looked back to the line of cooks, lifting her chin.
“Lord Wynnee is your lord still ,” Isolde said her voice echoed off the kitchen walls as her eyes met the maids . “You will show him the same respect as always.”
She still did not quite meet Ritsuka’s eyes, but Ritsuka watched her shift a step closer, taking up her place at her Lady’s side.
Wonderful, Ritsuka thought. I need to learn exactly what this duchess role can and cannot do before it tramples my plans.
“That is enough, Isolde,” Ritsuka said, easing her tone. She let a small smile curve her mouth. “I am not here to cause trouble. I came because I told you already what I want for myself. A drink I chose and food I made with my own hands. That is all.”
Isolde’s grip on the towel loosened. A couple of the cooks glanced at each other, then back to their pots, shoulders dipping as the room’s tension thinned.
“Forgive me, my lady,” Isolde whispered. “It was not my place.”
“It was a long night for everyone,” Ritsuka said. “Just keep the food from burning. That is all I ask. Sorry if I caused a commotion.”
Bram cleared his throat, nudging the kitchen fully back into its rhythm.
“Ruar,” he said, tilting his chin toward the back shelves. “The small bottle from the top. The one Lord Lucas favors. Half a cup only.”
Ritsuka watched the older assistant hesitate just long enough to glance over her clothes and the faint glow at her throat. Then he turned away toward the shelves. Stone and glass clicked softly as he reached up. When he came back, he carried a squat bottle and a narrow cup with both hands.
Bram uncorked the bottle and poured. Amber liquid slid into the cup in a steady line. He offered it to her with both hands, gaze level but cautious.
Ritsuka took the cup and walked to the nearest empty stool by the prep table. She sat without rush, crossing one leg over the other. The fabric of her trousers drew snug over her thighs before settling.
She lifted the cup and drew in the scent. Smoke. Sea salt. Something sharp and honeyed underneath. She let the aroma sit on her tongue for a beat, then tipped the drink back in a smooth swallow.
The liquor burned cleanly down, leaving a slow warmth spreading through her chest and into her arms. Some of the tightness along her shoulders unwound.
“Oh,” she said under her breath. “That hits.”
From her stool, Ritsuka saw Isolde watching her, lips parted, the towel now wrinkled between her fingers. Ruar hovered a step away from the table, his hands flexing once against his apron before he forced them still.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
“Are you all right, my lady?” Isolde asked. She edged closer to the stool, worry pulling her brows together. “You said you had a difficult night.”
“I am fine,” Ritsuka said. She set the empty cup down on a clear patch of table instead of clutching it.
She let the warmth settle, then looked past Bram to the big stew pot. From where she sat, she could see the surface tremble in slow bubbles; the smell that reached her was honest and thin, stretched further than it wanted to go.
“What is this?” Ritsuksa asked, bringing her gaze back to him. “The drink, I mean. And the stew you are working on.”
Some of the stiffness went out of his shoulders. The corner of his mouth twitched toward a smile.
“Reef barley spirit, my lady,” he said. “My own barrel. I brew a few for Lord Lucas when the harvest is kind. As for the pot root vegetables, a little reefback boar, the last of the onions from the last ship. It feeds the house. It is not much more than that.”
“Well,” she said, letting a hint of real amusement reach her voice, “I do not drink often, but that spirit is very good. Send a bottle up from time to time, when we can spare it. I have no intention of drinking the house dry… and I absolutely mean that bottle.”
Isolde exhaled, somewhere between scandal and fondness, and Ritsuka could see the color rising in her cheeks.
“My lady… you cannot say things like that in front of the staff,” Isolde murmured. “They will think you mean it.”
“I do mean it,” Ritsuka said aloud.
“As you wish, my lady,” Bram said. This time the small smile stayed. “I will see that a bottle is sent up when the stores allow it. Marked for your use.”
Ritsuka let her gaze slide back to the stew, then to him again.
“I would like to ask something of you as head cook,” she said. “If you are willing.”
He shifted his weight, attention sharpening in a way she could clearly see.
“Ask, my lady,” he said. “If it is within the kitchen, it is my duty.”
Ritsuka nodded.
“If you trust me enough for a taste,” she said, “I believe I can make that stew better. I can whip a small portion for sample. If you hate it, you can throw it out and pretend I never touched a ladle.”
She kept her tone level, no challenge in it, just an offer.
“From my knowledge, my lady, you have not unless…” Bram’s gaze flicked toward Isolde, remembering exactly what she had said a moment before. His stance shifted, shoulders squaring as he corrected himself. “Go ahead, my lady. What are your thoughts?”
Ritsuka saw his fingers flex once on the ladle before he stilled them.
“I had a great deal of time to read dishes in my head when my body would not move,” she said. “I do not wish to take your post. I am asking to learn from you, and to show you what I have been thinking, Chef Bram.”
The title landed between them like a small, deliberate gift.
For a moment, his face stayed unreadable. Then his mouth set, not in anger but in decision.
“As you say, my lady,” he replied.
He let out a slow breath.
From where she stood, she saw him hesitate, then tip his chin toward one of the younger cooks. The boy sprinted off toward the pantry and came back with a small jar of scarlet paste and a cloth bag of darker, fragrant spice.
Ritsuka pulled the stopper from the jar and leaned in. The scent of tomato and roasted peppers rolled up to meet her, warm and bright. It tugged something loose in her chest.
The necklace at her throat gave a soft pulse of warmth against her skin. From the edge of her vision, she caught Ruar’s gaze flick to the relic, then to Bram, as if checking whether he had imagined it.
She was already turning toward the cutting board.
Now we are talking.
She set to work.
Her hands remembered the rhythm even if the knives were heavier and the cutting board was wood instead of plastic. The chef’s knife settled into her grip as if it had always belonged there. Ritsuka cut the reefback boar into steady, even cubes, the blade thudding through muscle and fat. Each slice landed clean in the waiting bowl. The flesh was dark and dense, the surface carrying a faint, natural salt sheen that caught the light.
Salty beast, salty meat, she thought. Season the outside with flavor, not more salt.
She dusted the cubes with a pinch of the cracked spice only, working it in with her fingers until it clung to the surface in a thin, even coat.
“Mortar and pestle,” she said. “The biggest you have.”
From her side of the table, she saw Ruar slide a stone set into place in front of her.
“Careful, Ruar,” Bram murmured, watching her hands more than the knife. “Mind your elbows around the Lady.”
“She moves like she has done this all her life,” one of the younger cooks muttered from somewhere near the far table
Another voice answered in a low whisper behind her, close enough that the words still reached her over the hiss of the stoves. “She could barely lift a spoon last week. Maybe the goddess”
Isolde cleared her throat softly. The background chatter dipped for a beat, then steadied. Ritsuka did not turn, but she heard the head maid step closer, felt the shift of presence at her shoulder.
“My lady,” Isolde said, towel rustling in her hands, “I have never seen you work like this before. Not in all the years you have been here.”
Ritsuka kept her eyes on the board, letting the words sit between the chop of her knife and the hiss of the stoves.
If I knew how to explain it, I would, she thought.
She set the knife down and brushed her fingertips over the relic at her throat. The metal was warm under her skin; as she touched it.
“I can’t tell you everything, Isolde,” Ritsukas voiced dropped to a whisper low enough only they could hear “there are pieces even I do not understand yet.”
Beside her, she heard the maid’s breath catch.
“My lady.. I’m sorry to ask again ,” Isolde whispered, almost lost under the simmer and sizzle, “since when have you been able to hold mana like that?”
Good question, Ritsuka thought. I would like to know the answer myself but Isolde please stop asking. Is what she really wanted to say
“One mystery at a time,” she said, letting her hand fall back to the board. “Right now, I care more about turning this into a proper meal than solving whatever your trying to don right now .”
Isolde did not press. Ritsuka could feel her still standing close, could hear the towel creak under the maid’s grip, but no more questions came.
Good, Ritsuka thought. I do not have answers for her yet. What I do have is a pot, a stove, and one thing I know I can still do right.
End of Chapter 4