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Chapter 11
“So?”
A voice echoed.
“Explain what you were doing there.”
“…Father.”
A stern man met my gaze with a cold expression.
My father, Cygnus Lockhart. Even with age, his appearance had not faded in the slightest, unlike Mother.
Fiery red hair, vivid like flames, flowed gently.
The only trait I inherited from him—his violet eyes—shone so clearly they looked like freshly polished gemstones.
“Speak the truth, Priscilla.”
Yet he was cold.
Those amethyst-like eyes were like ice… cold…
Unlike his flame-colored hair, Father Cygnus Lockhart was always composed and strict.
The only time he softened was in front of my mother, like sunlight itself. Not even his children were spared.
A couple so perfectly in sync they could make one envious even after twenty years.
At least he used to smile at me sometimes because I resembled Mother.
Now his face was like an eternal glacier. No trace of warmth could be found in that stone-like expression.
Cold sweat ran down my back.
There was a reason I was especially nervous in front of my father.
“…I was in the kitchen.”
Of all things, I had to be caught in the kitchen with Hamilton!
The kitchen? What’s the big deal?
…You might think that, but you clearly don’t understand this cursed reincarnation scam!
Bam-bam-bam. A light, hollow sound echoed in my mind.
In the Empire, nobles were practically forbidden from entering kitchens. Not by law, but by social convention.
Because of the Iris Church’s doctrine, nobles considered “preparing food”—and thus entering kitchens—unclean and barbaric.
That was why Hamilton had nearly fainted earlier when I was cooking garlic bread in the kitchen.
…Come to think of it, I had really done him dirty in a short amount of time.
But I thought Father would be asking about my visit to the Imperial Palace…
“I already heard from the steward. I am asking what you did there.”
So it wasn’t about the palace or saint matters at all.
If anything, that made this more frightening.
“I simply had a small conversation with the head chef.”
“What conversation?”
Father would never accept so easily that a noble lady had casually entered a kitchen.
I swallowed dryly and carefully chose my words.
“It was about what I might like for dinner. Nothing more than a trivial discussion.”
“I see.”
“….”
“During that conversation, Hamilton failed to prepare the desserts for afternoon tea. That is dereliction of duty.”
“…Pardon?”
Unexpectedly, Father was more concerned with Hamilton’s negligence than my presence in the kitchen.
Wait—afternoon tea desserts? That was his job?
Why didn’t anyone tell me that?!
…Though I had barged into the kitchen, ignored him, started cooking, and even force-fed him garlic bread that ended up converting him, so—
This is my fault.
Sorry, Hamilton…
If I had known, I would’ve made the dessert myself. It was probably just washed fruit anyway…
While I was mentally apologizing, Father reached his conclusion in a flat voice.
“Then the only remaining matter is discipline.”
“…Father!”
“I understand. You may leave.”
He picked up his pen and returned to his documents, completely ignoring me.
As if I were no longer worth his attention.
I had lived as his daughter for 18 years.
My father was an unyielding, rigid man with no flexibility except when it came to my mother.
Once he used the word “discipline,” it was never trivial.
Damn it.
I owed Hamilton far too much. I couldn’t just pretend I didn’t know.
…No choice.
“I cooked it myself in the kitchen.”
He paused.
The pen in his hand stopped moving.
He lifted his gaze from the documents and looked at me.
Those identical violet eyes pierced through me.
“Cooking.”
“…Yes.”
“Why would the young lady of the ducal house do such a thing?”
I took a quiet breath.
This was meant to defend Hamilton—but it might also be a turning point.
My parents in this life were good people. They loved me, and I loved them.
My dream of a peaceful “foodie life” and my parents’ strict adherence to Iris doctrine were bound to collide. Even so, I wanted to maintain a good relationship with them.
So—
“I wanted to make food for Mother.”
“….”
At that moment, I noticed it.
His sharp gaze softened—just slightly.
“For Camilla?”
Still cold, but… less so.
I caught it immediately.
His eyebrow lifted a fraction… then lowered. His eyes softened slightly. Not approval—but willingness to listen.
As expected, anything related to Mother made him more lenient.
“She has been unwell. I wanted to do something I could for her.”
“You think you can do something for her?”
“Yes, Father.”
“…You are saying that as the young lady of the Lockhart House, the only thing you can do for your mother is cook. Am I wrong?”
Danger.
His patience was wearing thin.
Focus. This is a minefield.
Like a level 1 hero standing before a level 99 demon king with a legendary sword, I swallowed hard.
After a brief pause, I spoke.
“Yes. You are wrong.”
This was the turning point.
“…What?”
“If you think what I make is ‘just cooking,’ then you are mistaken, Father.”
His eyebrow twitched.
“What makes your cooking different?”
“My cooking is—”
I paused deliberately.
“Food blessed by God.”
I dropped the bomb.
And I cannot stop here.
“The god who gave me revelation said this: ‘Through faithful meals, bring benefit to the world.’”
“….”
“I understand this is difficult to comprehend. I do not expect to be understood. I only intend to fulfill my mission…”
“….”
“The food I make carries divine blessing. If Mother eats it, she will recover at least some of her strength.”
His gaze darkened.
As expected.
But I wasn’t done yet.
“…However, Father, what I intend to give Mother is something even greater. Perhaps even greater than divine blessing.”
“…?”
I lowered my eyes slightly, placing a hand over my chest and adopting a faint, sorrowful expression.
Everything had been preparation for this moment.
“…My love for Mother.”
Cringe be damned.
“The food carries my wish for her recovery. If Mother eats it, I believe all her worries will disappear.”
Deception must be bold to succeed.
“I can say with certainty it is more effective than divine blessing. I know her illness stems from worrying about me more than anything.”
“…!”
“So I want to personally prepare it for her. Father—no.”
The final move.
“Dad.”
“…Priscilla.”
His pupils trembled.
