"I'm sorry, Miss Evelia," the chef said gently, "but the master has asked that you refrain from cooking in the kitchen for now."

"Hm?"

Evelia’s hands, still tied to her cat-print apron, paused for a moment.

She’d thought her last omurice was a hit and was eager to show off again—only to be stopped by the kitchen staff.

*Wasn’t it delicious?* she muttered inwardly.

But reflecting now… she’d eaten the entire plate herself. Arman hadn’t taken a single bite.

*But… wasn’t it delicious?* she repeated silently.

Having never tasted sweet-and-sour flavors before, Evelia had been utterly enchanted. Just days ago, ketchup felt like a gateway to a whole new world. She’d even started drinking it straight from the packet.

While other servants snacked on pastries during breaks, Evelia would simply tear open a ketchup sachet and sip it. Only when she snapped, *"I can’t sink any lower!"* did she donate the remaining unopened packets to the kitchen.

As for Arman’s tastes—he wasn’t picky, but he avoided greasy or overly bold flavors. Years of stomach issues had cemented his preference for light meals. Even when he drank, he chose watered-down beer: mild, gentle, unlikely to stir trouble.

"Miss Evelia," the old chef sighed with earnest concern, "I know you care for the master deeply… but he simply doesn’t like flashy dishes."

His tone carried quiet regret. The chefs here were masters of grand banquets—yet Arman preferred plain congee and broth over ornate creations. Their talents went largely unused. Still, the staff and knights benefited: whenever the head chef’s hands itched for flair, he’d whip up exquisite feasts for them. No wonder he topped the manor’s "Top 10 Most Beloved" list.

Evelia studied the chef’s troubled face and hesitated.

She rarely cared what others thought—but if she wanted Arman’s favor, she couldn’t burden his people.

"I understand."

She pulled the seasonings from her apron pocket and, like the ketchup before, "donated" them to the kitchen. Then she untied the apron and smoothed her black-and-white maid dress.

"Thank you for your understanding, Miss Evelia."

"...Hm."

Evelia gave a faint reply and walked out, apron in hand.

*Did he… dislike it?*

She returned to the large tree where she often read—a quiet spot that had become her personal retreat.

She’d assumed this mission would be simple. But glancing up, she noticed the barren branches she’d first seen now sprouted tender green buds.

…Spring.

Remembering the biting cold of weeks ago, she instinctively gathered her long hair—but this time, warmth prickled her skin.

When she first arrived, the wind cut deep. Now, gentle breezes carried the scent of thawing earth.

"...Huff."

She exhaled as she had back then—but no frost stirred this time.

Maids around the manor had swapped heavy winter uniforms for lighter spring styles. Evelia’s dress differed slightly, yet still followed the classic knee-length maid silhouette.

To look cuter, she’d copied a novel’s heroine: white thigh-high socks. She’d bought a whole box, treating them as daily disposables—wear once, toss, repeat.

The pure white fabric clung snugly to her legs. Beneath its flawless surface, a soft hint of skin tone glowed. Where the lace-trimmed skirt fell short, the tight socks carved a gentle, alluring crease into her thigh. Below, polished black maid shoes gleamed, each tied with a matte leather bow.

As for what lay beneath her skirt or blouse—Evelia had chosen every piece with care. She believed *that* was what truly caught a man’s eye. The style? A secret for now.

…Though she wouldn’t mind if Arman discovered it later.

Branches swayed, new leaves straining eagerly toward the breeze. Evelia, who never paused for scenery, found herself mesmerized by their quiet struggle.

How many springs had she witnessed without noticing?

Yet today’s wind felt… different.

Why?

Her amber-gold eyes traced bare twigs, then the sky beyond. Dappled shadows fractured her face like scattered glass.

How long had it been since she’d looked freely at the sky—unshadowed by hood or hat?

The sky… hidden… unreachable…

She lowered her gaze.

Her maid uniform reminded her: she was still on duty.

The vast sky remained distant.

She hated overthinking—because she always caught herself longing for the impossible. Without pointless thoughts, there’d be no strange ache in her chest.

Was this sadness? Disappointment?

Maybe. Maybe not.

She shouldn’t feel this way. Nothing was truly hers—not even her thoughts.

"Next… if I can’t cook, I’ll try another way."

Murmuring to herself, she walked toward the main hall, filling her mind with new plans.

"Another method…" she whispered. "Like… physical contact…"