Chapter 41
One evening, just after business had ended, a rumor began circulating that someone had died at the Kleber Hotel.
As soon as we heard, Elysia, Marie, and I all sprang to our feet.
“What, a guest died!?”
“Monbel emergencyyyyy! Elysia down!!”
“Why are you shouting, Kyle…”
Fortunately, once we calmly looked into it, no one had actually died.
Apparently, a merchant eating dinner in the hotel restaurant had suddenly rolled out of his chair, a servant at the next table had screamed, and a kitchen assistant had dropped a pot.
“No, how did that turn into a rumor that someone died!?”
“W-Well, the merchant fell while eating red soup and spilled it all over himself, and the servant at the next table mistook it for blood.”
“…A saint and a heart—one and the same.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind, I’m joking. So why did the guy roll out of his chair?”
It turned out to be because of one of the guests.
“Apparently, a wandering woman is staying there, and there’s something strange about her. They say he saw her and fell over in surprise…”
“How strange?”
“According to the hotel staff, the candles flickered as soon as she entered, and the cat they kept in the hotel lobby fled in terror.”
“Sounds like she let out one hell of a fart on the way in.”
“Kyle, don’t say disgusting things.”
Honestly, I hoped it was nothing serious.
Maison Monbel was already noisy enough these days.
Adding a hotel ghost story to the mix would just be a hassle.
Of course, nobles were the sort of people who would pay to see a ghost story in person, but that wasn't the sort of business I wanted to deal with.
I just wanted the Kleber Hotel to remain a luxury hotel.
I genuinely had no intention of selling it as a haunted horror attraction.
Uncle Bernard's expression was grave.
“I’ll go and check it out myself.”
“You are?”
“The hotel staff are frightened. Count Kleber hasn’t arrived yet, and it would be best for someone from Monbel to investigate.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?”
Uncle Bernard quietly put on his gloves.
“If it’s dangerous, we need to investigate all the more.”
A butler was sometimes scarier than a knight.
Bernard went to the hotel and returned about an hour later, his expression slightly stiffened.
“How was it?”
When I asked, Uncle Bernard answered in a very low voice.
“She’s a hero.”
The kitchen fell silent.
“A hero?”
“Yes. She’s a mage named Irena Wald, apparently a wandering mage who devours evil spirits.”
Marie’s eyes widened.
“Devours evil spirits?”
“That’s what they call her. I don’t know whether it means she literally eats them or absorbs them magically. However, there are records of her dealing with vengeful spirits and curses in various regions. They say she’s passed through villages where children couldn’t sleep, a cursed abandoned castle, and monasteries where wailing could be heard every night. Every place she passed through became peaceful afterward.”
Even from that description, she sounded like the sort of person who could shift the genre from romance fantasy to a ghost story.
“Why would someone like that stay at a hotel in our village?”
“She seems to be stopping briefly while traveling. She intended to pass through quietly, but her presence was too strong to conceal.”
“When you say her presence is strong…”
Uncle Bernard thought for a moment before answering.
“When you stand near her, it feels like standing before a cemetery.”
Marie rubbed her arms.
“I hate it.”
I hated it too, but at the same time, I was curious.
‘A wandering mage who devours evil spirits.’
“Does she perhaps call ordinary people who can’t use magic monkeys?”
“Pardon? No, she’s a quiet and polite person. Even though she couldn’t taste the food, she apparently offered a tip to the employee who bowed and apologized.”
“She couldn’t taste it?”
According to the hotel staff, she had shown no expression at all while eating what was supposed to be quite a good meal.
I wasn't sure whether that was because the food tasted bad, since the Kleber Hotel's food was now fairly decent—much better than before.
Chefs who had left Maison Monbel had joined them, and I'd gone over the basic cooking methods a few times.
And yet she hadn't reacted at all.
When the hotel chef worked up the courage to ask whether the food had tasted all right, she answered like this:
“I can’t taste anything. But it was warm, and it filled my stomach. Thank you.”
Hearing that, I found it strangely hard to let go.
I closed the ledger for a moment.
“Let’s invite her here.”
“Why?”
“I want to feed her.”
Marie opened her mouth, then closed it again.
She had the look of someone thinking I was about to do something strange again.
It was, in fact, a strange thing to do; offering a Maison Monbel meal to someone who couldn’t taste anything might be a chef's arrogance.
But I was a chef.
Whenever I saw someone who had lost their sense of taste, my first impulse was to feed them something.
Elysia listened quietly, then asked,
“What about the reservations?”
“We’ll have to clear one.”
“We’re fully booked right now. Lunch is the Kitchen Table, and Marchioness Reinfeld is supposed to come for dinner tomorrow.”
“…Then should we ask her to come after dinner?”
But before we could decide anything, a letter arrived from Marchioness Reinfeld.
Apparently, she had already heard about the hero staying at the hotel.
The letter was far shorter and more concise than her usual elegant prose.
I will give up tomorrow's reservation to her.
I will pay for the meal as well.
In return, I would like to hear later what sort of meal Maison Monbel serves this hero.
I was silent for a long while after reading the letter.
Marie nodded.
“The marchioness is a good person.”
“She is.”
“Even though she’s a noble.”
“Nobles do good things sometimes, too.”
Elysia glared at me in response.
“Sometimes?”
“I’ll say often.”
“Too late.”
Elysia whipped her head away.
‘Why is she sulking?’
Well, that was that, but first we had to deal with this.
This was definitely a choice worthy of Marchioness Reinfeld.
The story would surely spread through high society.
They would say she had given her reservation to a hero and even paid for it herself.
It showed goodwill, had dignity, and made a good story.
But it couldn't be dismissed as mere calculation.
Some calculations move together with goodwill; that was what made noble society so exhausting.
“Then let’s prepare a meal for her.”
“What are you going to make?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“You said she can’t taste anything.”
“That means I need to think harder about what to feed someone who can’t taste.”
For one thing, I didn't think strong stimulation would solve anything.
Spicy heat, sourness, strong aromas, and high temperatures might make her tongue react temporarily.
But if she was someone who wandered around devouring evil spirits, her body and mind were probably already exhausted.
Hitting her with something even stronger could be violence rather than comfort.
On the other hand, a very quiet meal might suit her better.
Something with clear broth, warm bread, soft porridge, and the familiar comfort of warmth.
It was an approach based not on flavor, but on temperature, texture, and the sensation of having a full stomach.
I took out a pot.
“We’ll start with a clear broth.”
“Should I add meat?”
Marie asked.
“A little. Skim off the fat, and keep the aroma mild. But let it simmer for a long time.”
“Nothing too stimulating?”
“Yeah. Ah… gomtang. Yes, gomtang is the answer. I’m making gomtang.”
I soaked a lean cut of beef we'd bought in water to draw out the blood, then started making the broth with the bones first.
To properly prepare tomorrow’s meal, the kitchen moved quietly after closing.
Thomas prepared the vegetables, and Nina checked the bread dough.
Marie took out the bowls, and Uncle Bernard sent someone to the hotel.
To deliver an invitation to the hero.
I didn't know whether she would come.
Someone who couldn't taste anything had no reason to go out of her way to visit an expensive restaurant.
But if she could say she was grateful for having a full stomach, perhaps she hadn't completely lost the meaning of a warm meal.
I lowered the heat beneath the pot where the meat had begun to boil.
The marchioness was paying for this meal anyway.
So we could afford to try something experimental.
I wanted to find out whether a meal made with sincerity could reach someone who had lost their sense of taste.
I murmured as I lowered the heat.
“If we fail this time, it’ll be a little… sad.”
Marie tapped me on the shoulder as I stood before the fire.
“Kyle, everyone else has finished what they had to do.”
“Go home first. I’ll just see this through.”
To make gomtang, the meat and bones had to be boiled three times, for six hours each.
It was troublesome, but I could do at least this much for her.
Her lost sense of taste probably wouldn’t return as if by magic, but I could at least do something.