Chapter 23
The debt of House Monbel was shrinking rapidly.
It was hard to believe.
Until not long ago, House Monbel had been the sort of family that debated whether to take its last bit of money to a gambling den.
But things were different now.
The debt owed to Count Klever had been paid off in full.
And that was through the proceeds from meals and the lodging business.
When Marie first heard that, she had stared blankly at the ledger and said,
“So... we paid off all the debt to that creditor count?”
“Yeah.”
“By selling meals?”
“Yeah.”
“And with the money that count made from building an expensive hotel in the village, too?”
“Yeah.”
Marie was silent for a moment, then shook her head.
“The world has gotten strange.”
“Wasn't it strange to begin with?”
Count Klever no longer came to us to demand repayment.
Now he came to ask for advice on ensuring the village lodging's breakfast menu didn't damage Maison Monbel's standing.
A situation where a creditor became a hotel owner and the head chef of a fallen noble house worried about the quality of that hotel's breakfast was abnormal no matter how you looked at it.
But financially, it worked.
The problem was the larger debt.
Countess Camilla Rosenhart, the woman holding the largest share of House Monbel's debts.
In high society, she looked like an elegant and generous patron, but in the ledgers, she was a hand that gently squeezed the breath out of people.
If Count Klever was a cold and honest creditor, Countess Rosenhart was the sort who wrapped a perfumed silk cord around your neck.
And, according to the rumors I'd heard, she was also said to take in young ladies who couldn't repay their debts, just like Duke Kalden, and put them to work.
Some at secret, private parties, and some personally.
‘What a fucking psycho lesbian.’
Fortunately, that debt, too, had almost been paid off.
Almost.
It wasn't the same as saying it had all been paid.
“Once you add up the remaining principal and interest...”
Uncle Bernard said as he turned the ledger pages.
“There isn't much left now.”
Elysia stared at the ledger for a while.
A strange emotion passed across her face.
It wasn't simply joy.
Sometimes people can't smile right away even after paying off a debt.
Especially when that debt had mortgaged their family, their manor, even their own bodies and lives.
I said quietly beside her,
“We're almost there.”
“Yeah.”
Elysia answered softly.
“We're really almost there.”
Marie asked cautiously,
“Then we're not going bankrupt anymore?”
I thought for a moment.
“If you only look at the debt, yeah.”
“It sounds like there's something more after that.”
“A restaurant can go bankrupt even without debt.”
“You really never give anyone hope.”
“You have to check the ledger before giving people hope, or it won't last.”
Marie's face fell, but by now everyone had grown somewhat used to the things I said.
They had accepted the fact that a chef was the sort of person who thought about the possibility of failure even while making delicious food.
Then the letter arrived.
A crest of intertwined roses and chains was stamped into the dark-red seal.
It was the seal of House Rosenhart.
Uncle Bernard's expression hardened the moment he accepted the letter.
Elysia recognized it at once, and I had a general idea too.
A seal like that looked less like a letter than a declaration of war.
Elysia broke the seal.
The letter was short.
She paused while reading it.
“What does it say?”
At my question, Elysia slowly lowered the letter.
“She says she'll collect the final payment at the meal.”
The kitchen fell silent.
Marie blinked.
“What does that mean?”
“It means exactly what it says.”
Elysia looked at the letter again.
“Countess Camilla Rosenhart is coming to Maison Monbel herself. To settle the remaining debt as well.”
“So she means she's coming to eat.”
“Can we really take it that simply?”
“No.”
“Then why did you put it that way?”
“We have to accept her as a guest first, or the chef dies.”
The truth was, my feelings were a little complicated.
Camilla Rosenhart wasn't simply coming to collect money.
She was coming to see for herself how far Maison Monbel had risen.
To see whether Monbel had truly become a house capable of repaying its debts, or whether we'd merely sold a few expensive meals by sheer luck.
And most importantly, she was coming to see exactly how much the chef who had made all of this possible was worth.
I didn't mean I was literally an object.
But there was a good chance that's how I looked in her eyes.
Count Klever had tried to take me away, and so had Duke Kalden.
There was no way Countess Rosenhart, an even larger creditor, would simply enjoy an elegant meal and leave.
Elysia had a face that said she knew that, too.
“Kyle, this meal can't be ordinary, can it?”
“Yes.”
“But it can't look too weak, either.”
“That's right.”
“She's coming to collect the final debt.”
“And at the same time, she's coming to see that we're no longer the Monbel we used to be.”
Elysia silently nodded.
I picked up the letter.
The handwriting was elegant.
Each stroke was smooth, yet it carried a strange sense of pressure.
This woman probably spoke the same way.
She tightened your throat while smiling and put a price on you while praising you.
‘What should I serve a guest like this?’
I'd already sold downfall.
I'd sold resurrection, too.
I'd used greed for Duke Kalden.
What Countess Rosenhart needed was different.
“This meal's theme is settlement.”
“Settlement?”
“Yes. A meal for paying off a debt. But not a meal where we bow our heads and beg forgiveness—a meal where we repay what we borrowed and reclaim our name.”
Elysia's eyes changed.
“A meal for reclaiming our name.”
“The countess is someone who watches the flow of money. So vague sentiment won't do. This meal has to be calculated from beginning to end. Every plate has to show what we borrowed, what we repaid, and what remains.”
“Isn't that too blatant?”
“It can be blatant. She's the creditor.”
Marie said quietly beside us,
“Won't talking about debt while eating make you choke?”
“Someone who chokes on that can't become a creditor.”
“That does sound right, too.”
Uncle Bernard asked quietly,
“Then what course are you planning to prepare?”
I thought for a moment.
The first plate would be very small and cold.
A taste like the beginning of a debt, a small but lingering saltiness in the mouth.
I'd use black roe, thin bread, and goat's-milk cream, but make it much more refined than before.
Money borrowed had seemed small at first, but like the saltiness lingering in the mouth, it had spread throughout the entire family.
The appetizer would be warm.
I wanted to show the point when Monbel began earning money again.
Soft vegetables with herbs and butter.
I'd translate the sensation of the day black numbers first appeared in the ledger onto the table.
The soup would be clear but deep, with a flavor connecting the village and the manor.
Goat's milk, root vegetables, clear stock, and the faintest acidity.
The main course had to be strong.
But I couldn't make it greedily lavish like the Duke's Course.
This time, it was balance, not grandeur.
We'd use good meat, but keep the sauce from becoming too heavy.
The debt Countess Rosenhart had held had been enormous, but today we had nearly paid it off.
So it had to be a taste that stood tall, not one that bowed its head.
The last course would be dessert.
The sweetness left behind—no, the sweetness we would leave behind.
Even after paying off the debt, there had to be room for the relationship not to end.
Countess Rosenhart could become an enemy or a patron.
Or both.
After listening to my explanation, Elysia was silent for a moment, then said slowly,
“Then the final course shouldn't be too sweet.”
“Yes.”
“Because paying off the debt doesn't mean everything is over.”
“That's right.”
“It should be a little bitter. But not unpleasant. It should make you think of it again.”
I looked at Elysia.
“My lady.”
“Why?”
“You're really getting good at this.”
Elysia smiled with satisfaction.
But tension lay behind that smile.
Countess Rosenhart was different from the other guests.
She was coming to eat something delicious while also checking Monbel's last weakness.
And she would probably make an offer.
She would gently offer terms Elysia would find difficult to refuse.
She might offer to forgive the debt if Elysia handed me over, or ask for a stake in Maison Monbel.
I expected it.
So did Elysia.
That's why this meal was important.
When we returned to the kitchen, Thomas asked,
“What kind of person is today's guest?”
I answered as I tied my apron.
“The scariest creditor of all.”
Thomas's face stiffened.
“Scarier than the duke?”
“The duke's desires were blatant. A guest like this does the accounting with a smile.”
Marie murmured quietly,
“That's the scariest kind.”
“So we can't make a mistake this time.”
“When could we?”
“This time, we really can't.”
The kitchen fell silent.
A little while later, Countess Rosenhart's carriage arrived.
It wasn't excessively flashy like Duke Kalden's carriage, nor suspiciously plain like Adèle's.
It was moderately elegant, moderately expensive, and made anyone looking at it naturally think its owner had plenty of money.
Being truly rich must be tiring sometimes.
The carriage door opened, and Camilla Rosenhart stepped out.
A deep wine-colored dress, softly pinned-up hair, a face neither too young nor too old, and smiling eyes.
The moment I saw those eyes, I knew.
‘Fuck.’
This woman was far more dangerous than Duke Kalden.
The duke had been a hungry beast.
This woman was a chef.
A chef who prepared people, not ingredients.
The countess smiled elegantly at Elysia in the entryway.
“It's been a while, Miss Monbel.”
Elysia gave her proper courtesies.
“Welcome, Countess Rosenhart.”
“You don't have to be so stiff. I'm not here to press you for the debt today, but to collect the final payment.”
Her words were gentle, but the parlor's atmosphere turned cold in an instant.
The countess's gaze slowly turned toward me.
“And...”
She smiled.
“I wanted to see that famous chef in person, too.”
I bowed my head.
“Kyle Prat.”
“I know.”
She said it as though she had known my name for a long time.
“I'm looking forward to today's meal.”
I answered as calmly as possible.
“I'll prepare it to meet your expectations.”
“No.”
Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
“Do better than that. Otherwise, there's no satisfaction in collecting the final payment, don't you think?”
‘Fuck.’
I returned to the kitchen and picked up the first plate.
What we were selling today wasn't downfall, resurrection, or greed.
What we had to sell today was a declaration.
A declaration that Monbel would no longer be sold off for pennies.
I wiped the rim of the plate and said quietly,
“Let's begin.”
“What are we selling today?”
I answered as I looked at the black roe on the first plate,
“The face of someone who paid off their debt.”
And I added inwardly,
‘At a fucking high price.’