At five in the afternoon, the madam, having returned by carriage, learned of the failed cookie attempt and gently stroked her head, offering comfort.
“For many, failure is a likely outcome on their first attempt at something. You are already quite exceptional; at least one piece wasn’t burnt. I am delighted you saved this edible cookie for me.”
She offered ‘burnt’ as her reason, but in truth, she had flushed the inedible pieces, along with the discarded scraps, down the drain.
The illness would gradually worsen in the future, and this concealment was to avoid implicating unrelated individuals.
Displaying a touch of disappointment, she then mustered her resolve, assuring the madam she would strive for success on her next try—a reaction she deemed fitting for an ordinary person.
Whether due to economic necessity or personal inclination, continuing her studies was essential, for in this world, no one would perpetually invite her to meals or act as her caretaker.
At dinner, the madam demonstrated by remaking the oatmeal cookies, adding a delicate small cake.
Seated at the dining table, the two meticulously discussed the intricate preparation of desserts and the pros and cons of consuming them.
The madam primarily led the conversation, believing that children of her age universally adored sweets, and Ghervil was no exception; she further admonished her not to substitute sweets for main meals.
Nodding as she ate, the young woman inwardly scoffed at such a stereotype.
She was, in fact, that child who disliked sweets—no, a young adult, for she was no longer a mere child.
Given her experiences from a previous life, she yearned to taste anything she hadn’t tried before; how could she possibly favor only sugar?
Along Canary Street and its neighboring thoroughfares, numerous families lived in such destitution that they relied on government and church relief funds; for the children of these households, tasting sugar was a great joy.
Was this, then, the source of the madam’s impression?
Ghervil found it rather amusing; as an aristocrat who frequented the market daily, the madam had thoroughly assimilated among them.
Having acquired the experience of barely completing a creation independently, she was permitted, after dinner, to take a portion of the ingredients home, intending to spend the entire next day crafting a piece of her own liking.
As they parted, the madam imparted her final task.
The theoretical knowledge had been conveyed; all that remained was for her to gain hands-on practical experience.
Well aware that haste makes waste, she opted for a cake, which, being merely an advanced version of a cookie, did not stray beyond the scope of her lessons.
Aside from the absence of gas and electric water heaters, the furnishings and kitchenware at No. 101 were quite complete, making self-cooking no difficult feat.
Water heaters… Even Dr. Callan, with her high salary, and the homes of seasoned noblewomen used gas-heated water; an electric water heater was beyond her wildest imagination.
She resolved to find a way to acquire a gas heater when the opportunity arose; repeatedly boiling water several times a day to fill the tank was a strenuous chore that consumed most of her daily energy, a constant source of vexation.
Returning home, she spent the evening retrieving the stored cutlery and kitchenware, giving each piece a simple wipe-down before arranging them in their proper places.
The kitchen, no longer barren, finally exuded a semblance of life.
Content after her bath, she soon fell into a deep slumber upon her bed.
The following day, as temperatures began their ascent, Ghervil had already been bustling in the kitchen for some time.
Unlike cookies, cakes required egg whites to be whipped with sugar until frothy to achieve a fluffy texture.
After baking, the cake had to be transferred to a mold and cooled to prevent it from shrinking.
She was now at the final stage: adorning it with cream and fruit.
Half an hour later, the last nut was placed atop the confection.
Plate-sized, heart-shaped, and adorned with several colors of cream, the cake was finally complete.
Its appearance pleased her so immensely that she yearned to capture it with a camera, a device she regrettably lacked; even if she possessed one, it would only yield monochrome images, devoid of color.
Driven by a certain apprehension of danger, she refrained from tasting it herself, having already, during its creation, given in to the temptation to sample the flavors and, without truly realizing it, added seasonings purely by instinct.
Whether it was palatable, or even edible…
She dared not presume.
Carrying the cake, she proceeded to the backyard, which bordered the surrounding forest, a place where rodents or arthropods commonly appeared.
She scoured the bushes, beneath the stones, and within the piles of branches and firewood.
Alas, her expectations were unfounded; none were present, though insects abounded.
She sliced off a third with a knife, placing it on a stone beside the cellar door, then returned the remainder to the kitchen, giving it no further thought.
If it were gone upon her return after lunch, the remaining two-thirds would serve as her after-meal dessert; otherwise, it would become kitchen waste.
At the dining table, the madam informed her that she could depart at nine o’clock the following morning, though to prevent any unforeseen incidents, she intended to leave an hour earlier, at eight.
After simply agreeing, Ghervil grew distracted, her mind consumed by the fate of the cake in the backyard.
She wondered if it was a trait of aging to become garrulous, for by the time she had absorbed all of the madam’s various admonitions, two hours had already elapsed.
She immediately returned to the backyard.
The good news: the cake was gone.
The bad news: nestled in the grass, she discovered a small, squeaking mouse, its whiskers smeared with cream, clinging precariously to life.
‘One should not be too ambitious for their skill level; it could prove life-threatening. Cookies, after all, are both more appealing and more delicious.’
That evening, seated at her desk, she penned this very sentence at the end of her cooking journal, then began calculating and recording the severity of her narcoleptic episodes.
Following a normal routine, she would retire at eleven and awaken around ten the next morning; excluding the approximately thirty minutes of idle thoughts before falling asleep, her daily sleep amounted to ten to eleven hours.
If she wished to rise by seven the next morning, calculating the hours, she would need to go to bed at eight tonight.
The grandfather clock now read seven past seven, and accounting for the time spent bathing and drying her hair, it would be just enough.
In such weather, she perspired almost daily, making sleep difficult without a bath.
Closing her journal, she set down her pen, stretched her right arm, and, propping her feet on the stool, indulged in a long yawn.
“May your day tomorrow be smooth, Ghervil.”
****
The scene shifted, and it was already Thursday morning.
Handing Ghervil a pictorial meal plan, the madam then produced a brass key ring, reminding her not to neglect her studies of literature and cooking during her absence. The contents of the house, she added, were hers to use freely…
During her instructions, the madam knelt slightly, adjusting the young woman’s attire from her collar down to her skirt hem, and finally to her hat—from which she removed a pansy and a few petals from the garden, pinning them onto it.
A smile inevitably graced her features.
At their parting, the madam displayed a touch of youthful exuberance.
Ghervil rubbed the corners of her eyes, striving to rouse her spirits.
To make it to this farewell, she had gone to bed at the planned time the previous night.
Yet, she had still overslept slightly, haphazardly donning her dress and hat before rushing out the door, only to find the madam, dressed in a black formal gown and accompanied by two suitcases, waiting by the roadside, checking her pocket watch.
Not far off, the carriage horses were leisurely grazing on the roadside grass, a behavior the coachman would ordinarily never permit—unless, that is, they had grown impatient with the wait.
“It’s nearly time; we mustn’t keep Ratte waiting too long.” As she helped the young woman put on the soft hat adorned with petals, the madam picked up the suitcase by her feet.
“Did he not come here to fetch you?” Quick-witted, Ghervil lifted the other, smaller suitcase.
Exchanging a glance, the two walked side-by-side toward the carriage.
“He awaits at the station, to avoid any unnecessary complications.”
“What time does the train depart?”
“Precisely ten past ten.”
“That leaves about two hours; we have ample time.”
“Shall I escort you to the station?”
“This will do.” Settling into the carriage and accepting the suitcase, the madam watched with a mix of amusement and warmth as the young woman, still at a loss for words, deliberately sought to make conversation.
“Please, wait a moment!”
She called the carriage to a halt, then, with a hint of embarrassment, retrieved a delicate gift box from her pocket.
“This is my creation from yesterday; it wasn’t burnt, and it’s quite delicious.”
“And, thank you for your care during this time…”
Click-clack… click-clack…
As the wheels turned, they stirred a gentle breeze, causing the petals on her hat to fall and her hair and skirt to flutter softly.
The hand clutching the gift box waved from the carriage window, her voice drawing out and fading into the distance:
“I hope that when we meet again—”
“You will have recovered your memories—”