Chapter 43
Chapter 43: A Delicious Picture
Milo and his wife were traversing Goldrain on their journey homeward, having just sold the wool amassed through the winter.
“Shall we pause for a bite?” Milo suggested to his wife. They’d set out at dawn, yet haggling over prices had dragged on far longer than anticipated. Pressing straight home now would mean skipping supper entirely.
“I’m getting a touch peckish,” she answered, her gaze sweeping the surroundings with uncertainty.
The local eateries appeared welcoming, their doors ajar, and savory aromas wafted through the streets.
“I’m famished, yet… not right here…”
Once roving shepherds, the pair had put down roots in Blenheim the previous spring.
The land lived up to its glowing reputation.
Beyond the mountain barriers, monsters had always loomed as a peril, but relocation to Blenheim had ushered in a far simpler, steadier existence.
They could scarcely envision life anywhere else.
Even so, spots beyond their village retained an air of strangeness.
Illiterate as they were, they navigated shops by intuition or by seeking aid from strangers.
Goldrain’s merchants, in particular, bore a reputation for curtness.
On one occasion, they’d confused a café with a proper dining spot, endured mockery, and been ushered out unceremoniously. Ever since, they’d steered clear of meals in Goldrain.
Today, though, after hauling wool since morning, hunger gnawed fiercely.
“If a spot catches our eye, why not give it a go?”
Expectations ran low—they half-considered snatching a quick morsel from a vendor. They wandered on, approaching the alley’s end.
“What’s that over there?”
Milo peered ahead toward an inn.
A tantalizing fragrance had teased them even before rounding the bend. Silently, the couple drew nearer to the establishment.
“Could this be a dining hall?”
A broad menu slate propped by the entrance featured illustrations so appetizing they stirred instant cravings.
“Ah, it seems like a cozy homestyle eatery.”
They bent closer to scrutinize the images. One depicted succulent grilled chicken legs, marked with a star.
“So that’s the source of the chicken aroma.”
Milo ran his tongue over his lips, pinpointing the spice in the drifting scent.
The depicted chicken gleamed with crisp allure, rendered almost lifelike amid the pervasive smell.
“Want to give it a shot?”
Lured by the bouquet and vivid sketches, they stepped inside the inn’s bustling dining room.
“Welcome!”
The proprietor hailed them with uncommon geniality for a northerner and guided them to a seat.
“Our special today: grilled chicken legs.”
“Special today?”
“Ah, forgive me! New faces, aren’t you?”
The owner let out a good-natured laugh, noting that recent patrons, drawn by word of mouth, often overlooked the pitch.
“Opt for the special, and dessert’s on the house. Spot the star by the listing?”
Beneath the chicken sketch sat miniatures of pudding and pie.
“Your pick today: milk pudding or apple pie.”
They’d arrived merely to dine, but the heartfelt reception elevated the visit. Milo beamed at his wife; her face flushed faintly, mirroring his own.
“I’ll take the special. You?”
“Same for me.”
“Dessert preferences?”
“Let’s see… milk pudding for me.”
“So, one milk pudding, one apple pie.”
His wife had wavered on the pudding, so Milo selected pie—perfect for splitting afterward.
“Charming vibe in here.”
Crowded, yet hushed. For the first time in Goldrain, his usually tense wife wore a serene smile.
A uncommon coziness settled over Milo amid the lively thoroughfare.
With every table claiming the same order, the roasted chicken legs arrived swiftly—glossy and mouthwatering, true to the sketch. Milo exhaled in bliss after the initial bite.
His wife had already sampled the roasted potatoes and gave an affirming nod.
“Small wonder it’s thriving.”
“Truly exceptional.”
It ranked among their finest shared repasts. The owner’s spouse timed the desserts impeccably.
A sweets enthusiast, his wife savored her pudding and polished off half his pie with delight.
“It’s been ages since we savored a meal so unhurried.”
“Dessert has me feeling positively aristocratic.”
Her joy outshone his.
“We’ll return for lunch next month.”
Her girlish blush stirred in Milo a mix of delight and quiet melancholy.
Relocating had left them perpetually wary.
I need to craft more moments like this for her, he resolved, nodding contentedly.
At that instant, a young woman and her male companion claimed the adjacent table. Her attire was plain, but her bearing screamed nobility. The fellow opposite exuded knightly poise.
Perhaps a noblewoman on a discreet outing, Milo mused, eyeing his wife as she enjoyed the pie. Snatches of their talk drifted over.
“I’ll take the spicy tomato stew!”
“But didn’t you come specifically for the daily special?”
“True… though resisting the tomato stew proves impossible…”
Abruptly, Milo’s wife addressed the refined young woman.
“Miss, you ought to sample today’s special.”
“Excuse me?”
“Seems the owner skipped the rundown for you. Take a peek there.”
Milo itched to hush her—chatting up nobles invited peril—but the woman appeared intrigued, not irked.
His wife expounded on the menu and perks with buoyant cheer.
“Milk pudding or apple pie to choose from.”
“Which suited you best?”
“Couldn’t fault either. Grab both and split with your companion. Missing out would be criminal.”
“Sounds perfect. Count me in.”
The innkeeper then spied the noblewoman and hurried forth.
“Good heavens! Your High—!”
“Ready to order?”
Regaining poise, the innkeeper stammered, “Y-yes, absolutely. What’ll it be?”
“Two specials, if you please.”
“And one milk pudding, one apple pie.”
She flashed Milo’s wife a mischievous wink. His wife returned a radiant grin.
“You’ll love it. Delectable stuff.”
Exchanging buoyant farewells, Milo and his wife rose to depart.
While settling the bill, Milo glanced back: the woman bantered animatedly with her upright-seated escort.
“That woman—someone of note?” he ventured to the innkeeper, mere curiosity.
The innkeeper murmured, “None other than Blenheim’s second-highest figure, bested only by the Grand Duke.”
“Second-highest…?”
The Grand Duchess?
He’d pegged her as noble, but this exceeded imaginings.
Beaming with pride, the innkeeper continued, “She’s the savior of our inn.”
“Savior?”
Milo leaned nearer.
“She devised today’s special.”
Perplexed, Milo prompted more; the innkeeper gazed affectionately at the Grand Duchess and elaborated tenderly.
“Ever considerate, profoundly gracious to us locals.”
Returning Milo’s change, the innkeeper grinned.
“Not to slight His Grace, but…”
“He wed a true gem.”
Yet hadn’t whispers painted the Grand Duchess as a fraudulent saintess, a schemer?
As his wife chattered gleefully about the feast, Milo grasped anew—
Blenheim held depths yet to plumb.
