It was half past ten in the morning.
Ghervil swiftly shed the nebulous worries that had clung to her, jolted awake by the bracing chill of the water.
To put it bluntly, she was, at present, merely a nun afflicted with a terminal illness, one hand partially crippled, reliant on others for sustenance, and ‘illiterate’ to boot; dwelling on such matters was utterly superfluous.
As for why she used cold water, when hot water was typically preferred for washing, there was a simple reason.
Between her hypersomnia and the fitful anxiety that had kept her awake for a spell last night, by the time she roused herself to heat water, she would undoubtedly be late for her cooking lesson.
“Hmph… I recall unearthing a thermos while tidying the house. I wonder if it’s still functional.”
Cupping the frigid water, she quickly splashed her face three times, then haphazardly wiped herself with a towel, not forgetting to snatch the small apron from its hook on the wall before rushing out the door.
Three minutes later, seated on a high stool, Mrs. Keith, standing behind her, somewhat helplessly used a dry towel to dab the last traces of water from Ghervil’s face. As she combed the girl’s hair, she couldn’t resist offering a gentle reminder.
“This particular lesson is quite informal; there are no strict rules, no set curriculum, nor a rigid schedule. You are welcome to knock on my door only when you feel entirely prepared.”
While she understood the inclination to sleep in, a habit common among the young, Mrs. Keith believed it shouldn’t come at the cost of proper etiquette, especially for someone bearing the title of a nun.
“There’s no need to constantly maintain such an exaggerated demeanor, though a certain decorum is certainly necessary in public.”
“I understand. I promise it won’t happen again.”
Ghervil earnestly agreed aloud, yet in her heart, she wore a completely different expression.
‘As a boy, she had never experienced anyone helping her comb her hair.’
Mrs. Keith’s touch was just right, her movements gentle. Frankly, Ghervil rather enjoyed the sensation.
‘Her scalp tingled pleasantly, as if being massaged.’
‘She almost wished she could leave her hair uncombed every morning, saving it for her time at the Keith household…’
With the grooming complete, Mrs. Keith moved to the front, interrupting the girl’s reverie with the day’s task.
“This morning’s agenda involves the staples we consume daily: rice, white or rye bread, potatoes, and the rudimentary preparation of raw meat. I require you to independently complete at least fifty percent of the work involved. These are our primary energy sources, designed to fill our stomachs efficiently and effectively…”
Mrs. Keith seemed subtly different today, her usual gentle demeanor tinged with an unmistakable seriousness, much like a benevolent teacher instructing a wayward student.
‘In a way, it compensated for her own neglected student years.’
Adopting the appropriate demeanor, she straightened her posture and listened attentively.
This focused attention persisted until she had completed her ‘assignment’.
Before her sat a steaming bowl of potato stew with rice, seasoned solely with salt.
Its appearance was promising; all that remained was to ascertain its taste.
Mrs. Keith was the first to try it, for as both mentor and judge, it fell to her to evaluate the quality of this ‘assignment’.
Scooping up a spoonful of rice studded with potato chunks, she blew on it to cool it, then brought it to her lips, taking a small bite. She chewed slowly, remaining silent for a moment.
‘Was it merely a trick of the light?’
‘She couldn’t shake the feeling that Mrs. Keith’s expression was off.’
Ghervil, taking her own spoon, scooped up a less scalding portion from the surface and sniffed it. The pure aroma of potato and rice wafted up; there seemed to be no issue.
Her lips parted, just as she was about to take the spoonful, when a hand gripped the handle of her spoon, stopping her.
Mrs. Keith’s brow furrowed, her gaze upon Ghervil complex.
Having to prepare breakfast and other dishes, she couldn’t meticulously supervise Ghervil at every moment. Half of the steps, including adding water and salt, had been completed independently by the girl.
‘Recalling the teaching process, she found no fault; therefore, the problem must lie elsewhere…’
“I need to confirm something: did you add salt just now?”
“Yes, the first time I added about half a spoon, roughly 30 grams. It tasted bland, so I added the same amount again.”
“Did you taste it again after adding the second dose of salt?”
“No.”
“You may taste it now,” Mrs. Keith said, releasing her hand.
Ghervil vaguely suspected the issue, yet hesitated as she brought the spoon to her mouth.
‘One reaps what one sows, and besides, if Mrs. Keith was letting her taste it, it couldn’t be beyond redemption.’
After a brief chew, the flavors of rice and potato mingled in her mouth. To her surprise, it wasn’t excessively salty; it was perfectly edible.
“How does it taste?”
“It’s not bad, but it’s not delicious either, certainly far inferior to your cooking.”
In truth, merely observing Ghervil’s expression and the act of swallowing, Mrs. Keith could draw a conclusion: the girl had a strong preference for intense flavors, even more pronounced than previously observed.
Sixty grams of salt in this portion of potato stew with rice would render it largely inedible for an ordinary person.
A heavy palate was not an advantage for a culinary apprentice; it effectively precluded the creation of many high-end dishes.
‘Was this innate, or the result of poor habits developed later?’
“Even if you don’t praise me, I shall still oversee all meals today and tomorrow, diligently teaching you to cook, and incidentally, devise a method to correct your preference for strong flavors.”
“Preference for strong flavors…” Ghervil paused, taken aback. “Is this a serious illness?”
‘She had never exhibited such a symptom before. Or perhaps, due to frequent medication and intravenous nutrient drips during symptom flare-ups, it had simply gone unnoticed?’
Instinctively, she connected it to the various manifestations of her hypersomnia.
‘In the worst-case scenario, her culinary studies would be utterly ruined.’
“It’s not precisely an illness, but likely a consequence of certain habits,” Mrs. Keith mused. “Gradually reducing your intake of strongly flavored foods will allow your palate to adjust.”
“I believe I should prepare a daily food list for you before I depart, presented in simple pictorial form. Once you’ve adjusted, by the time I return next season, I can teach you to prepare more sophisticated dishes—the kind enjoyed by nobles.”
Perhaps intending to comfort the girl, Mrs. Keith made this promise on her own accord.
‘Given her words, it would be unreasonable, and frankly, wrong, to cause Mrs. Keith any worry.’
Nodding, she smiled and quipped:
“Perhaps by the time we meet again, my skills will have already surpassed yours.”
Though reluctant to speak of their impending separation, Ghervil felt a conflicting sense of relief that Mrs. Keith would be leaving this perilous place.
‘One season, approximately three months—it wasn’t an eternity.’
‘Without her illness, how far could a normal culinary beginner progress in three months…’
“Having goals is commendable, but one must remain grounded. For instance, right now, I require someone to assist me and, incidentally, whisk three eggs.”
Donning thick gloves, Mrs. Keith lifted the potato stew with rice they had just sampled.
“Masking it with umami and neutralizing it with other seasonings makes for an excellent remedy.”
****
Half an hour later, at the dining table, Ghervil witnessed the remarkable outcome of the ‘remedy’.
The bowl of potato stew with rice had been utterly transformed: beneath a thick omelet, the rice glowed golden, topped with a layer of artfully sliced cucumbers.
‘She was certain this was the kind of presentation one would find in a fine restaurant.’
Eagerly, she took a spoonful, mindful of etiquette not to overfill it, and savored it with slow, deliberate bites.
Her eyes widened in awe as she evaluated: ‘This is the most delicious stew with rice I’ve ever tasted.’
‘Having participated in its creation, she naturally had to rate it highly.’
‘She had learned something new again.’
“This afternoon, you may attempt to make some simple pastries on your own; you should already be familiar with the methods and procedures. I need to go out to purchase train tickets for my departure to the capital the morning after tomorrow, and I expect to be back in about three to five hours.”
After lunch, Mrs. Keith gathered ingredients for her—milk, eggs, low-gluten flour, butter, fine sugar, cocoa powder, dried fruits, and more—placing them beside the electric oven in the kitchen. She then changed her attire, preparing to leave.
“Do tickets to the capital need to be purchased in advance?” Ghervil asked, trailing behind her out of the house and to the gate.
“Ordinarily, no; one could simply buy them on the spot. But this year is exceptional, and at this particular season… by convention, identity verification and some troublesome inspections will likely be required.”
Indeed, with the plague causing widespread panic, ordinary folk with even the slightest connection might find it difficult to leave Mistfall City, let alone board a train bound for the capital.
Rubbing her temples with clenched fists, Ghervil realized she had asked a foolish question.
Watching Mrs. Keith hail a carriage in the distance and climb inside, Ghervil, unable to bear the stifling afternoon heat, darted back into the house. She rushed into the kitchen, her eyes gleaming with a faint, hungry light as she stared at the laden table.