That noon, to stock up on enough ketchup, Evelia hurriedly finished shopping after scouring every corner of the market during the end-of-month rush. Now she wouldn’t need to return for a while—just use it wisely before expiration.

She even drew up a detailed schedule: daily usage, total days covered, restock date perfectly aligned with the expiry. She’d achieved true ketchup independence.

Meanwhile, as Arman struggled with his feelings toward Evelia, she too fell into deep thought over having no chance to see him.

She spent the entire noon and afternoon at the market. She even met the estate’s elderly purchasing worker, who kindly shared tips: which vendor offered the best quality, which was overpriced, which had the freshest produce, which shopkeeper had a kind face. Evelia benefited greatly—though selecting carefully cost her extra time.

Back at the estate, she tested the new ketchup brand and baked fresh tomato egg tarts. Then she waited for Arman’s return from the Knights Order. Guarding the tarts in the kitchen, she’d eat and remake any that cooled—plenty of ketchup remained.

But she waited… and waited… until she’d eaten her fill. Arman still hadn’t returned.

—Why won’t he come back?

Sitting on a small stool by the rear kitchen window, Evelia bit into a tart oozing crimson ketchup filling.

When she learned the untouched orange cake she’d made for him at noon had been returned whole, she knew: Arman was truly upset. Normally, he’d at least take a bite.

(Unbeknownst to Evelia, he’d given away most of her past ketchup treats. And today’s cake? He’d lacked the heart to touch it after she skipped making his lunch.)

His last words echoed: “Evelia, please leave first.” He’d used her full name deliberately—to sound formal, to steel himself. Not “Eve.” That tiny detail made her believe she’d done something wrong.

She watched the sun set, the moon rise, twilight dust the sky with stars, the bustling estate slowly sink into silence.

She kept the last tart for him. Yet no carriage from the Knights Order appeared at the gate.

“How annoying…” she muttered under her breath, unsure who she meant.

Alone in the candlelit kitchen, she brought the final tart to her lips.

Crunch. The crisp shell split cleanly. A trace of red ketchup stained her lips. She flicked her tongue to catch the corner—sweet-and-sour flavor lingering long after.

Evelia rose into the night, returned the stool, snuffed the candle, and slipped silently to her dorm beneath starlight and moon glow.

Next morning, she heard Arman had returned only past midnight. She’d planned to bake fresh tarts early—but before gathering ingredients, walking toward the kitchen, she heard his carriage depart. The gate knights shrugged: no idea when he’d be back.

“…"

She gazed where the carriage vanished. Another day. Still no words exchanged.

…This won’t do.

Evelia returned to her usual spot—the tree.

…If Arman grows to dislike me, the mission fails.

Gaining Arman’s trust. Securing intelligence on the Crown Prince. A non-negotiable order. Her duty.

But how earn trust without even meeting?

“…Troublesome.”

Eyes closed, face tilted toward dawn light—yet restlessness coiled inside.

Was it the mission? Or this tangled relationship? She didn’t know. Only that she couldn’t let it continue.

What to do… What to do…

She breathed deeply, calming the storm within.

“…"

Then—a whisper of floral scent on the air.

She turned. Opened her eyes. Toward the rear garden. The very direction Arman had pulled her wrist to “escape” last time.

Most noble estates barred servants from the rear garden. Not here. Arman kept no such rigid rules: during free hours, staff could stroll or rest there, undisturbed.

Lush blooms, gentle fragrance, fountain murmuring beside flowerbeds—everyone called it romantic. Courting maids and knights stole quiet moments here: whispered words, linked hands. The estate’s prime gossip spot. Spot a pair? Either confessing… or deeply in love.

Evelia usually avoided that cloying sweetness. Only entered for chores.

But today, drawn by the scent, she stepped inside. Dawn quiet. Empty. Just her.

‘The knight clutched a single rose, trembling. Trying to look calm, fingers fumbling—just a thornless rose, yet he didn’t know how to hold it.

The maid arrived, smiling slyly. He stood rigid as military drill, gaze locked on the bloom. The sharp-eyed warrior didn’t notice her approach… until her familiar fragrance drifted near. Flustered, cheeks flushed, he thrust the rose forward.’

—Hmm… Something like that?

Evelia recalled the novel simply. One rose. She accepted gladly. Kept it in a water-filled glass bottle, smiling all the way home.

This time, she wouldn’t be the maid.

She’d be the knight.

A gift needn’t be costly—just sincere.

From a hidden seam in her maid dress (disguised as decoration), she drew a small blade. Crouched before a cluster of rare thornless blue roses.

One rose worked… a whole bouquet would be even better, right?

With practiced precision, she harvested every stem. Simple wrap. A return gift for Arman.

On her way back, the old butler spotted her from afar—arms full of blue roses. Too distant to recognize them as the estate’s own. Remembering her last “none of your business” glare, he didn’t ask.

He watched her light, cheerful steps. Pondered.

She was a lovely girl. Suspicious origins aside—others wouldn’t know. Natural for suitors to appear. So why this joy? Had a young man gifted her these?

Then he recalled Arman’s troubled face. Sighed inwardly. Muttered:

“Master Arman… you really must step up.”