DYPIOOP Chapter 8

Found It on the Way

A week's worth of effort flashed through her mind's eye in an instant, along with a modest but pointed flicker of fury.

'You could have said so from the start. Now you tell me...'

Elonia drew a long, deliberate breath and thought of Nyx and the Nymph—utterly, spectacularly impossible to manage. Picturing their chubby cheeks and their infuriating little mouths brought a peculiar peace to her heart. This enabled her to answer with something approaching serenity.

"Then why on earth did you say one week?"

"People tend to perform better when pushed to their limits."

He shrugged as though that were the whole of it. Limits, she wasn't sure about. Grievances, she'd accumulated plenty. Elonia simply curled her hand into a fist, quietly, where it wouldn't show.

'Just once. One hit. That's all I ask.'

Grievously, he wasn't wrong. At first the schedule had left her physically exhausted, but that hadn't lasted. Before long, the routine had become familiar—the industriousness etched into her bones from years of working for money had simply activated. Which made it even more galling. He'd known. Said nothing. And now his mouth was opening so easily.

What if she pretended to stretch and accidentally struck him? Or stood up and knocked the table over as though it were an accident. A mistake. Very plausible. Elonia was weighing the relative merits of each approach when—

Knock, knock. A timely intervention.

Click. The door opened. The Head Maid appeared, her expression set in stone. Since Amy handled most of Elonia's personal attendance, the Head Maid was not someone she had much occasion to see. The Head Maid entered and bowed deeply.

"My deepest apologies, Your Grace."

Her voice was steady, and yet the end of the sentence trembled.

"It appears someone has eaten the cake."

Behind her, Amy followed with the tea tray. And now Elonia understood the apology. Fresh tea cups, a cake that looked as though a mouse had been at it, and an untouched fork. And seated on the edge of the plate, wiping chocolate from her mouth with great satisfaction, was the Nymph.

'What are you doing there...'

Elonia closed her eyes for a moment, feeling rather disconnected from reality, and opened them again. The Nymph was still hovering around the cake. The Head Maid, entirely ignorant of the real culprit, pressed on carefully.

"While preparing the tea as instructed, one of the maids forgot something and the tray was left briefly in the corridor—and during that brief interval, someone appears to have helped themselves to the cake."

At this, Amy pressed her lips together in the manner of someone fighting tears. Elonia shot the Nymph a look from eyes that were not quite steady.

'If you were going to eat it, you could at least have hidden the evidence!'

The Nymph, entirely unaware of the magnitude of what she had done, tilted her head with innocent curiosity.

Cake it might be, but it was Carvel's gift—one he had personally obtained for his prospective duchess. Or rather, had Greythur personally obtain. But that was beside the point. Keeping an eye on the gift was also the maid's responsibility. She had additionally failed to present it promptly as instructed. A mild scolding wasn't going to cover this.

Sure enough, Carvel regarded the bowed figure of Amy and asked:

"The culprit?"

"We are searching, but..."

The Head Maid trailed off with visible difficulty.

"Meaning: not yet. And the rest of the cake?"

"Thankfully, it is untouched."

"Thankfully..."

The word, coming back out of Carvel's mouth, drained the color from both their faces as they bowed their heads. Unlike Elonia, who was flustered, he showed not a flicker of surprise. The hand draped over the sofa moved—a single languid wave. Overt anger was nowhere to be found. There was even the faintest suggestion of a smile. And yet somehow the cold arrogance was more pronounced than ever.

'Is he... angry?'

Elonia thought it and immediately shook her head at herself. The cake had been for appearances. One piece of it had met an untimely end. He wouldn't be genuinely angry over this. Carvel's gaze moved toward where the Nymph was—it was surely the cake he was looking at, but the Nymph went stiff with alarm. Her large eyes swept the room as understanding of the situation finally dawned on her. She actually ducked behind the cake.

Elonia made a small, silent noise of suffering.

'What good does that do. Nobody can see you.'

The memory surfaced too late: the Nymph's eyes gleaming when they'd first opened the box. She should have grown suspicious the moment the Nymph vanished right as Amy left.

'I knew something was off. She looked far too happy about that cake.'

Perhaps mistaking Elonia's visible anguish for something to do with herself, Amy spoke up hesitantly:

"I—I'm so sorry. It wasn't supposed to take long at all, I only stepped in for a moment, I thought it was—it was my mistake!"

"You didn't eat it yourself?"

The Head Maid asked her sharply. Amy shook her head rapidly.

"Certainly not! If it had been me, I'd have eaten the whole thing and left no evidence. Who takes a bite this obviously?!"

A spirit, actually. The Nymph was no larger than Elonia's hand—there was simply no chance she'd have managed to finish the entire thing. Elonia closed her mouth, which had been opening in the direction of the truth. The Head Maid drew herself to her full height.

"Look at how distressed the future mistress is—she can't even find words! And knowing how much she loves cake, for this to happen—!"

Elonia had, in the span of one sentence, been established as a person who loved cake to a potentially dangerous degree. The remarkable thing about this characterization was that she had not, in fact, consumed an especially large quantity of cake since arriving at the estate—excluding the first day in the garden with Carvel, naturally. A single slice, perhaps. She thought back over the past week. It had been nothing but keeping pace with a relentless lesson schedule. She opened her mouth with the intention of rescuing Amy.

"Does the Head Maid happen to know how many slices of cake I typically eat?"

"You have consumed an average of 3.141592 slices per day."

"That is extremely specific."

"As His Grace instructed, we maintain complete and meticulous records of Miss Elonia's comfortable and peaceful daily life in all respects."

The Head Maid nodded with an expression of considerable professional pride. Facts that Elonia herself had been entirely unaware of, delivered without a flicker of irony.

"Since you appeared occupied with your reading, His Grace gave instruction that whenever you finished a slice, it should be replaced with a fresh one automatically."

Ah. That explained why the cake had been inexhaustible.

'Even if I'd been juggling the slices while studying, that would have been Carvel's instruction!'

Elonia had the sensation that she was now constitutionally incapable of surprise. She stared at him across the table. Carvel tilted his head with a pleasant smile that said something the matter?

His estate. She'd been far too complacent.

Whatever the averages suggested, Elonia was perfectly fine. No one would believe her, but she did not love cake to the point of lying awake at night suffering over its absence. She had simply never had the luxury of eating at leisure before, and so when the opportunity arose she took it. That was all it was. Certainly. She gently intervened before the Head Maid's enthusiasm could carry her further.

"I don't actually like cake quite to that degree."

"There's no need to say so for our sakes. This is plainly Amy's fault."

"The rest of the cake is untouched. It's only the one piece."

"That one piece was the chocolate."

"And?"

"Your future ladyship has approximately a 62% preference rate for chocolate cake over other varieties."

Where did that number come from. Before Elonia could recover from this unexpected quantitative discernment, the Head Maid had turned back to Amy with renewed severity.

"Was there anyone else present? Other than yourself?"

"No, ma'am. I was alone."

"Failure to safeguard the property in your charge. You're aware this may be grounds for dismissal."

"...Yes."

Amy closed her eyes and answered. The Nymph drifted quietly away from the cake and came to Elonia—tugged a single strand of her hair, then pointed at Amy with both small hands. Help her. She bowed her head, over and over again. Sorry, sorry.

'Give me a moment. I was getting there.'

Working meant sometimes bearing responsibility for things that weren't your fault. But being employed meant bowing your head regardless. Elonia understood that particular injustice better than most. Which was precisely why Amy weighed on her. She spoke first, her voice quiet.

"Carvel. May we speak alone for a moment?"

Instead of answering her, he gave one languid wave of dismissal.

"Please inform us when a decision has been reached."

The Head Maid bowed and ushered Amy out. The Nymph watched them go, then tucked herself into Elonia's hair. The moment they were alone, something amused entered Carvel's voice.

"So then. What was so important it required dismissing the servants?"

"I ate it."

Carvel's smile spread slowly. A brief silence settled.

'He doesn't believe a single word of it!'

He was the sort who wouldn't believe the truth even if she told him, so she'd tried matching her story to what made sense to him—and even I ate it wasn't landing convincingly enough. Elonia, against all her better judgment, attempted a carefully worded approach to the truth.

"Hypothetically speaking. A complete hypothetical—what if a spirit had eaten the cake..."

She watched him sidelong. He rested his chin in his hand.

"Mm. About that cake, actually. I didn't buy it. I found it on the way over."

"What are you talking about? How does anyone find a cake that expensive?"

She stared at him the way one stares at a person speaking fluent nonsense, and his mouth curved wider.

"That was precisely my feeling just now, listening to you."

In other words: not buying it. She'd known he wouldn't. She could barely believe it herself—a spirit eating the cake—so what hope was there for someone who didn't even believe in spirits? Elonia cleanly folded away any remaining intention of telling the truth.

"The spirit was a joke. But that I ate it—that part is real."

"Was there any reason for you to have been near the kitchen?"

"I passed by on my way back from seeing Viscountess Maren out. And as you know, I..." Elonia paused, then continued as though releasing a long-held sigh: "Love cake. Enormously."

When this was all over, she would never eat cake again. She could already taste phantom sweetness in her mouth. She swallowed dryly and pressed on.

"Let's call that the official version. I'd like to look like someone with the grace to overlook a maid's mistake. I've only known these people for a short time, unlike you."

She slipped in the implication that pressing the matter further would make him look petty—which also happened to be precisely what his personally selected instructors had taught her a future duchess ought to embody. Never forget that every servant is a person working for House Haelton. She would have preferred to say this in front of Amy, but she was still only the prospective duchess. Acting as though she already belonged to House Haelton before the wedding ceremony was equally against etiquette, she had been taught.

Flawless etiquette, as Carvel required. Used against him.

Elonia met his eyes with the expression of someone who had won. Carvel appeared not to have anticipated this particular approach. He looked at her for a moment, something briefly startled in his expression, and then gave a small, quiet laugh.

"You could have just said so earlier."

"Would you have listened without argument if I had?"

"No."

Then why ask. Elonia looked at him sidelong with narrowed eyes. He shrugged with perfect composure.

"When you can see an opening in someone, it seems a shame to waste it."

He was supposed to be a man of the sword—but in everyday life, apparently, the hunting instinct remained. Elonia lifted her chin and refused to concede.

"By all means, Your Grace can stick with having found it on the way over."

"That part's true."

"I'm not falling for it."

"I genuinely didn't buy it myself. I had Greythur do it."

His tone had a particular gift for keeping people permanently off-balance. Elonia was beginning to genuinely wonder whether he was mocking her. Surely a duke didn't queue up at a bakery himself? As she stared at him in a way that made her opinion abundantly clear, Carvel called the Head Maid and Amy back in.

The moment the door began to open, Elonia's expression shifted—composed, gently smiling, as though the previous conversation hadn't existed. The Head Maid and Amy appeared to have made their own assessment from outside; they came in looking calmer than before. Carvel said evenly:

"Elonia appears to want to let it go."

"Pardon?"

Both of them looked up at the same moment. The statement, delivered without beginning or end, left Elonia scrambling to add context.

"The cake can be replaced, and Amy said it was a mistake—I'd like to give her the benefit of the doubt."

"Th-thank you! Thank you so much, my lady!" Amy looked at her with a face infinitely brighter than when she'd first entered. "I'll do everything in my power to prove your faith in me was well placed!"

With Amy's fierce declaration, the Nymph bowed her head in a small gesture of gratitude—and vanished into the air.