Chapter 3 - The Chef from Le Ciel
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Isolde still clutched the folded towel to her chest as she opened the bedroom door.
Ritsuka stepped out after her.
Cool air brushed her face. The corridor outside was long and bright, stone floors clean enough to catch faint reflections. Light poured in from tall windows on one side, and when she glanced through the first one she could see a slice of deep blue sea, rolling all the way out to the horizon.
A light breeze slipped in through the cracked pane and lifted a few strands of her hair.
"I could get used to a view like that," she murmured.
Isolde glanced back, surprised, then followed her gaze.
"That is the south bay, my lady," she said. "Your patio overlooks it. You always said it was your favorite place when the wind was gentle."
"Did I now," Ritsuka thought before responding.
"If I ever open a place here, it needs a view like that," she said, half under her breath.
Isolde blinked.
"You wish to open a place, my lady?" she asked. "A restaurant?"
"Yes," Ritsuka said. "I have had that dream for a long time. A small place, good food, nothing too grand."
The idea warmed her chest for a heartbeat, bright and sharp and familiar.
"But," she added, letting out a slow breath, "it sounds like this duchy already has more than enough chaos to juggle. I imagine there are other responsibilities I need to handle before anyone lets me run off and open a restaurant by the sea."
Isolde's expression softened.
"Even so," she said quietly, "I think it would suit you, my lady. If you ever do open such a place, I would be glad to help there. Serving, washing, whatever you needed."
That tugged a small smile to the corner of Ritsuka's mouth.
"A patio with that view and a proper grill," she thought. "Tables outside. Good drinks. If I build a restaurant in this world, it needs something like that."
The faint smell of wax, salt, and old wood sat under the clean air. Each time she moved away from the window, her boots clicked soft against the stone. The pendant resting in the dip of her chest was a steady weight, not cold, not hot, just present, as if it was paying attention.
"Whatever you are," she thought, fingers brushing the droplet shape through the fabric. "You are not just decoration."
Isolde walked half a step ahead of her, posture tight. Every time someone appeared at the far end of the hall, the maid's shoulders drew up just a little more.
A footman with a silver tray almost missed a step when he saw them. His eyes snagged on Ritsuka's face, dropped for a heartbeat to the open line of her blouse and the gleam of the pendant nestled above her cleavage, then flicked lower to the ink on her forearms before he jerked his gaze back up and bowed.
Color climbed the tips of his ears.
Isolde shot him a look sharp enough to cut cloth.
He bobbed another bow and hurried past.
"Huh," Ritsuka thought. "It has been a long time since anyone looked at me like that."
Two other maids carrying linens pressed themselves to the wall to give way. Their eyes followed her in the same quick sweep.
Face. Necklace. Tattoos. Walking.
"Rumors are going to sprint faster than I can," she thought.
They turned a corner, and a large painting caught her eye.
She slowed without meaning to.
Four people stood on a painted balcony over the sea. The man on the left had dark hair pulled back, a scar across his nose, a hint of stubble along his jaw. His coat was formal, but there was something a little tired in his eyes.
Next to him, a woman smiled straight out of the frame, her skin the same deep brown warmth Ritsuka saw in the mirror now. Long black hair fell loose over her shoulders. The same droplet-shaped pendant rested against her collarbone. Ink curled down both her arms in familiar patterns.
Between them stood two children. A boy with the man's eyebrows and the woman's coloring, a little stiff in his jacket. A girl in a formal dress, back very straight, hands folded, eyes serious.
Julia, smaller and softer around the cheeks, but unmistakable.
"Family Wynnee," Ritsuka thought. "Father. Mother. Son. Daughter. And I am wearing your face now, little one."
Her fingers lifted to her own arm, tracing one of the lines of ink.
As she stared, something like a flashback tugged just behind her eyes, and the amulet at her chest gave a sudden, soft pulse of light.
[FLASHBACK BEGINS]
A dimmer room swam up in her mind. Julia pushed herself out of bed, every breath scraping, her body light and weak in a way that felt wrong even inside the memory. The walls tilted a little as she stood, but there, on the dressing table, the jewelry box sat open.
Inside, the pendant glowed faintly, metal catching light that was not really there.
Julia's bare feet touched cold stone. Each step from the bed to the table felt like it might be the last, but warmth rolled off the pendant in small, invisible waves, like someone holding out a hand.
Her fingers shook as she reached for it. The moment her skin brushed the chain, heat spread up her arm and into her chest, easing the tightness for a single, stolen moment.
Julia lifted the pendant and fumbled it around her neck, setting it where she remembered seeing it rest on her mother's collarbone in the portrait.
The warmth surged. Her knees buckled.
Darkness closed in.
[FLASHBACK ENDS]
The memory broke there, clean, like a page torn from a book, and the amulet's glow slowly faded as if it had just answered a call.
From the corner of her eye, Ritsuka saw Isolde glance back, the maid's gaze flicking to the pendant before she quickly looked away again.
Ritsuka blinked and saw only the painting, the four faces frozen over the sea, the pendant cool and solid against her own skin.
"So that is how I ended up here," she thought. "You reached for comfort and woke up with me instead."
"Is something wrong, my lady?" Isolde asked quietly.
Ritsuka let her hand fall from her arm.
"I am fine," she said. "Just catching up."
"And trying to figure out what you are," she added silently, fingertips brushing the amulet once more.
She let her hand drop and nodded for Isolde to continue.
Another maid came toward them, balancing a stack of folded linens against her chin. Isolde lifted a hand.
"Lina," she called.
The girl stopped so quickly one of the towels slipped sideways. She grabbed it in a panic, then noticed who stood beside Isolde. Her eyes went round.
"L–Lady Julia," Lina breathed. "Good morning."
Her gaze flicked over the trousers, the open collar, the ink, and the relic glowing faintly at Ritsuka's chest. It was the second time this morning someone's eyes had snagged on the same outfit.
Ritsuka thought back to the closet she had opened earlier: rows of high collared dresses and blouses, silk and lace and layers, nothing that belonged anywhere near open flame. This set of trousers and the loose shirt under the coat had been the only things that felt like they belonged on a body that wanted to move.
"Morning," Ritsuka said. "Also… I am not sure who usually handles my wardrobe, you or the tailor or someone else, but this is the only outfit I own that I can actually move in. Could we have more clothes in this style made for me? Something I can work in and still look presentable."
Lina's blush deepened.
"I… yes, my lady," she said quickly. "I will pass on the request."
Isolde dipped her head.
"We will see it done, my lady," the head maid said. "I will speak with the tailor and have some patterns prepared."
"Good," Ritsuka said. "If I am going to live in this body, I refuse to do it wearing a sheet."
Both maids let out a quick chuckle before answering.
"A sheet is a bit harsh, my lady, but I agree this look suits you… Lina," Isolde said, fighting a smile. "Please inform Lord Wynnee that his sister is awake and on her way to the main kitchen. If he wishes to speak with her, that is where he will find her."
Lina almost dropped the towels again.
"The kitchen?" she echoed, then caught herself. "I mean… at once. I will tell him right away."
She hurried off, footsteps quick against the stone.
Ritsuka watched her go.
They descended a narrower stairwell that smelled faintly of stone dust and old wood. The air grew warmer with every step. By the time they reached the bottom, heat and the smell of simmering broth rolled up and hit Ritsuka in the nose, rich and heavy with fat and root vegetables. It smelled more like a lunch rush than breakfast.
Isolde pushed open a wide door.
The main kitchen opened out in front of them. Bright strips of late-morning light cut across stone and wood, catching on hanging pots and the clean sheen of well used counters. From the threshold, Ritsuka counted seven bodies in motion, sleeves rolled, aprons already stained, hands moving in practiced lines between stoves. Heat pressed against her cheeks. Knives tapped against boards in a steady rhythm, and low voices braided together around the bubble of a single massive pot near the center.
It was not the stainless steel and humming vents of Tokyo, but the rhythm hit the same place in her chest. A house waking up on the strength of its kitchen.
Someone looked up and saw her.
The sound thinned, and she felt half a dozen gazes drag over her clothes the same way the others in the hallway had, lingering on her open collar and bare forearms before jerking away.
For a moment she let the noise fall away for herself. The rush of heat on her face, the clatter of tools, the smell of broth and smoke her muscles remembered where it, how to breathe in a working kitchen. A smile tugged at her mouth before she could stop it.
Isolde stepped just far enough forward that her voice carried, shoulders squaring like she was stepping onto a stage.
"Lady Julia wished to visit the kitchen," Isolde explained. "Please, continue your work."
Some of the tension loosened. A few shoulders dropped. Knives picked their rhythm back up, though Ritsuka still caught quick glances sliding her way and snapping back to cutting boards.
A broad shouldered man near the largest stove set his ladle aside and wiped his hands on a worn apron, fingers slow and deliberate as if he were buying himself a heartbeat to think. His skin was sun browned, his dark hair pulled back at the nape of his neck, and fine lines at the corners of his eyes deepened when he looked at her.
"Good morning, my lady," he said, voice pitched low and careful as he gave her a respectful incline of his head. "Bram Jaro, head cook. If we had known you would honor the kitchen, we would have prepared something more fitting."
He glanced toward the main pot, then back to her with a polite, practiced smile.
"If you are hungry, I can have a tray made for you and brought upstairs at once."
Ritsuka stepped closer to the warmth of the stoves, boots soft against the boards. The big pot's aroma wrapped around her.
"I am hungry," Ritsuka said, letting the corner of her mouth curve as she met his eyes. "But I would rather cook something myself."
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End of Chapter 3