Chapter 88

At first, Elena had only intended to watch the bread being baked from a distance. But her curious gaze seemed to unsettle the workers. They kept glancing her way, clearly uncomfortable. Even their smallest movements—preparing ingredients, carrying supplies—became awkward under her watchful eyes.

Before long, even Elena could tell that their pace had slowed.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have come,” she muttered under her breath.

Realizing her presence might be more of a nuisance than she intended, Elena stood up to leave. As she did, Cura, who had been standing beside her, bent down to straighten the hem of her dress.

Just then, the head chef rushed over, his footsteps quick and purposeful. “Would you like to try kneading the dough yourself?”

“Me?” Elena blinked, surprised by the offer.

“Yes,” the chef replied with a warm smile. “I thought you might be a little bored just watching.”

Elena hesitated, her intention to quietly slip out of the kitchen now stalling. “Would that be alright?” she asked, her voice uncertain.

Cura, sensing her hesitation, spoke up for her. “If it’s just a simple dough, it should be fine,” she said, her tone reassuring.

The chef nodded, casting a quick glance toward Cura before turning his gaze back to Elena. The workers, who had momentarily paused their tasks, were now waiting in silent anticipation for her response.

“Please, come this way,” the chef said, interpreting her silence as agreement. He motioned toward the back of the kitchen and led the way, and Elena followed closely behind.

At the far end of the room, a thick, wide wooden board sat atop a waist-high table. The chef stepped away briefly to gather some ingredients, leaving Elena standing there for a moment.

It was then that a young boy, who had earlier been startled by Elena and dropped his ingredients, approached cautiously. He held out a small bowl of water with trembling hands.

“F-For your hands… to wash,” the boy stammered, his voice barely audible. He extended the bowl toward her, but kept his body pulled back, avoiding her gaze. His face was pale, his nervousness palpable, and he clearly seemed intent on maintaining his distance.

“Thank you,” Elena said with a gentle smile as she took the bowl of water.

Cura rolled up her sleeves to help, but before either of them could do anything else, the boy turned and ran off without uttering a word.

A loud crash echoed from the room beyond the hearth—someone had dropped dishes.

“How many times have I told you to be careful? Haven’t you improved at all?” a sharp voice scolded the boy.

Elena’s brow furrowed with concern, but she knew it wasn’t her place to interfere. She quickly returned her focus to washing her hands.

Once she finished, she straightened up. Cura, who had quietly retrieved a clean cloth, gently dried Elena’s hands.

“Ah! I knew I’d seen him before…” Cura murmured, tilting her head in thought.

Elena turned toward her, intrigued. “What is it?”

“That boy,” Cura said, her voice trailing off. “He used to live in the village. He always accompanied Lord Leto whenever he came to the castle. I hadn’t seen him in a while… What’s he doing in the kitchen?”

Elena followed Cura’s gaze toward the spot where the boy had disappeared, but only the other kitchen workers remained, moving about their tasks.

“Do you know what happened to Lord Leto?” Elena asked, her curiosity piqued.

Cura’s eyes flickered back to Elena. She shook her head slowly and pressed her lips together tightly, her expression closed off.

Earlier that day, shortly after Kennard left for his office around noon, Cura had come into the bedroom. She seemed chatty, more than usual—perhaps because they hadn’t seen each other in days—but she hadn’t mentioned Lord Leto once.

“A gag order has been issued regarding Lord Leto. I’m afraid I can’t say any more. I’m sorry,” Cura had responded when Elena asked.

Now, realizing she had mentioned Leto’s name absentmindedly, Cura fell silent, her face growing tense as she avoided Elena’s gaze.

An awkward silence lingered in the air for a moment. Then, the chef returned with a small bowl filled with flour.

“What’s that?” Elena asked, her curiosity piqued.

“Flour for the dough,” the chef replied with a smile. “We’ll mix it with some water and vegetable oil, then knead it.”

As he spoke, the chef poured a little oil into the flour and gradually added water, stirring the mixture together with careful precision.

“This is the leavening agent,” he explained. “After kneading, we let the dough rest for a few hours so it can rise.”

He pinched a small amount of a mysterious powder between his thumb and forefinger and added it to the mixture. He kneaded it again, his hands moving with practiced ease.

At first, the dough was sticky enough to cling to his fingers, but with repeated mixing and pressing, it gradually became smooth and elastic.

After a while, the chef set the finished dough onto the wooden board in front of Elena. “Now, just like I did—knead the dough by turning and pressing it. Keep going until it stops sticking to your hands and firms up.”

Elena nodded and followed his instructions, grasping the dough with both hands and pressing it firmly against the board. She turned it to the side, repeating the motion as the chef had done.

The chef watched her, nodding in approval. “We’ve already baked the bread for today, so let’s just practice the kneading for now.”

Elena said nothing, her focus solely on the task at hand.

Time passed in a steady rhythm as Elena continued kneading, though she began to feel the strain creeping from her fingertips to her wrists, elbows, shoulders, and back. Her arms grew heavy, and her lower back stiffened with each motion.

It was a simple task—but far from easy.

Elena paused for a moment, catching her breath. “If this alone is already so difficult, just how much more would it take to feed everyone in the castle?” she murmured.

Elena glanced around at the people working diligently in silence. A sudden weight pressed down on her chest as she considered the thought that she might be of lower status than them. She couldn’t understand why Kennard had proposed to someone like her.

Lost in her thoughts, she kneaded the dough absentmindedly, her hands moving almost automatically when—

“Did you hear the news?!”

A voice burst into the kitchen, breathless and urgent.

“His Grace is getting married! To some red-haired woman no one even knows—”

The servant, who had been glancing around as he spoke, abruptly stopped himself when his eyes landed on Elena. His expression shifted from confusion—clearly wondering why she was even there—to one of horror, his face paling as though all the color had drained from it.

“Lady Elena…” he stammered, his voice faltering.

He quickly clamped a hand over his mouth and bowed his head, the sudden realization of his mistake evident. The others in the kitchen froze, mirroring his stunned silence. It was one thing to hear that Kennard was getting married, but to discover that the bride-to-be was right there—standing in front of them, and that the servant had spoken so carelessly—left them all in shock.

If Elena decided to tell the Duke what had just transpired, there was no telling what consequences the servant might face. Heads could very well roll—and rightfully so.

Only the crackling of the fire in the oven and the faint bubbling of pots filled the tense silence that had descended.

But it wasn’t just the others who were stunned. Elena herself felt the ground shift beneath her at the servant’s words. The public announcement of their engagement caught her completely off guard.

“Watch your mouth,” Cura snapped, her voice sharp and protective as she stepped forward. “If you speak carelessly about Lady Elena, His Grace will not stand idly by. Haven’t you realized that yet?”

“Cura, it’s fine,” Elena murmured, her tone soft but weary. She suppressed a sigh as she glanced down at her hands. The dough had started to harden as the moisture evaporated, and her fingers were sticky with a mixture of flour and paste.

Elena stepped aside to wash her hands in a nearby bowl, eager to escape the suffocating tension of the kitchen. But the dough clinging to her fingers was stubborn, refusing to come off easily. Her frustration grew as she struggled, the sticky mixture resisting every attempt to free her hands.

Cura, sensing her discomfort, handed her a clean towel and helped dry her hands with a gentle touch. Just as they finished, a sharp voice pierced the air.

“No!”

The sudden exclamation shattered the hushed silence, and Elena whipped her head around in surprise.

There, standing in the doorway, was the boy—wide-eyed, trembling, but for the first time, staring directly at her.

“You! Who do you think you are, shouting like that?” the head chef scolded, his voice a mixture of irritation and nervousness. He glanced at Elena, clearly worried about the situation. “Go stand over there!”

Someone attempted to shove the boy aside, but he didn’t budge, his small frame unwavering in his defiance.

“His Grace mustn’t marry that woman!” The boy’s voice trembled with fear, but his gaze never wavered from Elena.

Elena’s heart skipped a beat. The audacity of his words sent a chill down her spine.

“How dare you call her ‘that woman’?” Cura exploded, stepping forward with fire in her eyes. Her body was tense, ready to charge.

“Cura, stop,” Elena said, her voice calm but firm as she caught her arm, trying to hold her back.

“He insulted you, my lady!” Cura’s voice rose, quivering with anger. “How can I just let that go?”

“Cura,” Elena repeated, her tone now softer, but still resolute. She couldn’t bear the thought of further escalating the situation. The attention of the entire kitchen was already more than she could handle.

“Are you insane?” a servant hissed, his face pale with fear. Elena’s composed demeanor only seemed to heighten the panic around them.

“Shut your mouth!” another servant barked, his voice laced with panic. “Do you want us all to die because of your foolish tongue?”

In a swift movement, one of the servants rushed over and clamped a hand over the boy’s mouth, lifting him off the ground.

But the boy fought back, kicking and squirming in the servant’s grasp, desperate to break free.

“She’s a witch!” he screamed, his voice wild with terror. “That woman is a witch!”