Translator: Nox

Ch#55

Cecilia stepped inside, clutching a bundle of Northern News magazines.

“Cecilia, you can’t just barge in through an open door without knocking.”

“Should I step out, knock properly, and walk back in?”

I seized Cecilia’s arm before she could turn away with the stack in hand.

“Hand them over.”

She let out a playful laugh and passed me the Northern News.

I leafed through the pages swiftly until a vibrant recipe spread caught my eye.

“Cecilia’s Cooking Recipe 1: Apple Pie”

The feature bore her name, featuring an enticing illustration of a golden apple pie.

Ingredients and instructions were presented clearly, enhanced by Morina’s meticulous sketches that made the process foolproof even at a glance.

At the foot of the page sat a note about the daily special at Marie’s Inn, the recipe’s origin.

“It came out perfectly, didn’t it? The feedback’s pouring in already!” Cecilia bubbled with enthusiasm.

I narrowed my gaze at her.

“The issue’s only been out for a few hours.”

“I swear! The delivery boy mentioned the whole street reeked of fresh apple pie!”

Skeptical as I was, a grin tugged at my lips despite myself.

The spread exceeded my hopes. I wondered how the printer’s tweaks would refine it further, but Morina’s artwork shone with crisp, lively detail.

The recipe itself drew the eye effortlessly.

My layout design certainly played a key role.

Still, the outcome delighted me.

I turned a warm smile on Cecilia.

“How many did you bring?”

“After handing some out, I’ve got at least ten spares.”

Leta, already poring over a copy, examined her sister’s artwork with rapt attention.

“Ten might not suffice.”

I clasped Cecilia’s hand lightly, tallied the leftover issues, and beamed.

“Treasures like this deserve to be shared.”

---

“Who dumped these here?”

“Leta delivered them.”

Marzella glowered at the Northern News stack, her jaw locked tight.

A modest table stood in the west annex hallway, near the maids’ quarters, now buried under heaps of the magazines.

Rage quaked through her frame.

The west annex belonged to her—a realm where she reigned supreme.

Yet someone had presumed to stockpile these without her say-so, the head maid!

“Clear them out.”

She snapped the command over her shoulder as she pivoted to depart.

“But, Your Highness, it’s the Grand Duchess’s direct instruction,” a maid ventured hesitantly, halting her in her tracks.

“They wanted them set out here for anyone interested to grab a copy.”

Marzella’s breathing grew ragged.

So now my word means nothing?

Her piercing stare sent the maid recoiling.

The audacity to sideline her authority!

Teeth grinding, she recognized she couldn’t countermand the Grand Duchess.

Removing them risked repercussions if word reached her.

Leta must have snitched.

Marzella reined in her fury and murmured a terse directive to the maid.

“Warn the other shifts: no one lays a finger on those magazines.”

“Very well.” The maid dipped her head, ill at ease.

The pile would probably linger for days, collecting grime.

With a derisive huff, Marzella resumed her duties.

But as she ventured deeper into the annex, astonishment rooted her.

From laundry-toting maids to window-lounging servants, even stable-bound workers—every soul clutched a Northern News or had one slipped into a pocket.

How many had they handed out?

Marzella stared, stupefied.

Only now did it dawn: the lady of the house had supplied gratis copies not just for the quarters, but for all the staff.

“Her Highness the Duchess is so thoughtful, looking out for us.”

“I regret every ill word I muttered about her.”

Maids murmured in admiration of the Duchess.

‘What’s so special about cheap periodicals anyone could buy?’

Marzella prowled the halls, venting her ire by berating idle maids.

‘Presuming to act without the head maid’s approval?’

The slight festered, fueling her resentment toward the Duchess.

Order or no, she’d reclaim every last copy upon her return to quarters.

Resolved, Marzella headed back for inspections, lips pressed thin in vexation.

In the hallway, the table sat barren—not a magazine remained.

---

“This is intolerable!”

The Marquis of Fasie hurled the letter aside, fury blazing.

His labored gasps echoed through the chamber.

“I’ve nurtured her all these years, and this is my reward?”

‘What could she have penned to provoke such wrath?’

Ladriel, perched opposite on the sofa, retrieved the discarded missive in silence.

It hailed from Annette, now in the North.

“To the Marquis of Fasie,

I hope you’ve been well.

I scarcely recall your face, given how rarely we crossed paths even in the capital.

I arrived North empty-handed, yet mercifully—unlike certain others—the generous Duke has showered me with kindness and comforts.

The maids and servants, who serve as my very limbs, outshine those in the capital by far. Tend to Fasie affairs and leave me be…”

‘Has she lost her senses?’

Ladriel’s eyes bulged as she scanned the lines.

The phrasing masqueraded as courteous, yet brimmed with barbs and scorn.

Pressing on in dismay, she reached the postscript and blinked:

“P.S. Formality isn’t my forte, but decorum exists, no? Henceforth, address the Duchess with due respect—or spare us both and cease writing! No replies from me. Our encounter soured me; let’s not meet again.”

The body feigned civility, but the coda laid bare her raw ire.

“Fetch writing supplies at once!”

Veins throbbed on the Marquis’s brow as he bellowed at the butler.

“I’ll school that insolent chit.”

‘What schooling does he intend?’

Ladriel stifled the query.

Since Annette’s departure, the Marquis’s temper had frayed, and she’d learned to sidestep clashes.

“We’ll gauge how long she dares spurn my correspondence.”

Grumbling, he barreled toward his study to pen a retort.

Alone in the drawing room, Ladriel gnawed her nails anxiously.

‘Post-departure, I figured she’d be recalled swiftly, yet the Duke pampers her.’

No vestige lingered of the meek Annette she’d known.

Such brazenness irked yet secretly impressed.

Fearless of Father now?

Married and resettled, she’d outgrown his sway.

‘Marrying the third prince—would that free me from his grip?’

Ladriel sighed, torn.

---

“Sales are up 30%! Incredible, right?”

The Duchess beamed, alight with joy, as Loic nodded vigorously.

‘How do her eyes gleam like that?’

Clouds veiled the sun, yet her azure gaze rivaled flawless gems.

“In just a week, the publishers are clamoring for more recipe features.”

They’d strayed from the main keep ostensibly to tour the estate, but her zeal fixed on their chat, not the vista.

The trail offered little charm anyhow.

Neglected and rough, railings flecked with rust, it evoked wild scrub more than manicured grounds.

The castle’s disrepair had grown stark since her arrival.

Thankfully, she appeared oblivious.

“Did you hear? Cecilia says even the barely literate are snapping them up.”

The Duchess gazed at Loic expectantly.

“The recipes make it simple! Spot the ingredients, heed the drawings, and cook away. Brilliant, isn’t it?”

“Indeed.”

“I never grasped the passion for cuisine.”

Loic rested a hand on her shoulder from behind, maintaining space lest branches snag her sleeve.

He craved no distance truly, but restraint demanded it.

Lately, her casual hand-holds or arm-links stirred him; he countered with thoughts of dreariest chores to steady himself.

His responses to her unwitting affections shamed him.

‘Worse still, reining it in grows tougher.’

Thus, Loic pursued exhaustion.

Dawn training had stretched two grueling hours, draining his vigor.

Ache notwithstanding, it held the tide at bay.

‘An hour’s run before sleep tonight.’

“The magazine’s a hit with the staff too,” Loic remarked, tensing his grip as they strolled.

Spring’s thaw lent the once-stark castle a budding warmth.