"Y-young Duke?" I blinked, utterly at a loss, my fingers rubbing together in a restless habit.
Even so, he looked… impressive. Distractingly so. Yet strangely, it no longer stirred my heart the way it once might have.
"Did… did you say something, Young Duke?" I asked carefully, bowing low. "I beg your pardon for my lapse in attention."
I lifted my gaze just enough to study his reaction. As expected, his expression remained composed and unreadable, neither displeasure nor amusement etched upon his features.
Not that it mattered.
What troubled me far more was the growing certainty that I might finally be punished for my earlier disrespect and for pretending not to recognize him at all.
Still—
I flinched when he suddenly moved, stumbling back a step as my pulse spiked.
For a fleet moment, I honestly thought he meant to stride toward me and strike me on my face because of his wounded pride.
Instead, he merely crossed the room with unhurried steps and settled upon an opulently patterned crimson divan, the sort woven with intricate motifs meant only for nobility.
I watched as he settled comfortably, leaning back and crossing his legs gracefully.
Then he lifted a hand and gestured vaguely in my direction.
I blinked and pointed at myself before realizing how foolish I looked.
"Oh—" I hurried forward at once, stopping before him, though I kept a cautious distance.
One could never be too certain whether he might still decide to add another blow to my already battered face.
He said nothing for a period of time, leaving me standing stiffly in place. At last, he moved to adjust the cuff on his wrist and then spoke.
"There is a tea casket there," he said. "Prepare some tea."
I blinked again.
Tea?
My gaze slid to the wheeled serving stand beside the wall, one I had not noticed until now. My throat tightened.
Of all things… Tea.
Absolutely not.
There was a reason I had been barred from kitchen duties. A very good reason. I possessed no talent for such task whatsoever.
Even the famed Ariana buttered cake I once attempted to recreate had taken nearly half a year of practice, and its eventual success had been nothing short of a miracle when I served it to the Young Duke.
Even my mother, in all her consistent persistence, had failed to instill in me the art of tea preparation.
Despite years of scolding and insistence that it was a skill every proper servant must master.
And now tea?
I had tried before. It never ended well.
I squeezed my eyes shut briefly, cursing years of disobedience toward my mother.
She had always scolded and pressured me to learn how to prepare tea properly, insisting it was essential.
Situations such as this, she would say.
I had never imagined I would actually face one.
Since I was barred from kitchen duties unless directly ordered by Madame Marsala or Madame Avia, I had never seen a reason to practice tea-making on my own.
With a weary breath, I made my way to the trolley, casting a pitiful glance back at the Young Duke.
He was already occupied with documents that had seemingly appeared from nowhere.
Strangely, my pity was not for myself this time.
It was for him.
Poor man.
His taste buds were about to suffer.
I reached the trolley and began. The basics I knew well enough: tea, water, milk, sugar. Simple in theory. But noble tea was never simple.
There were countless varieties, each having their own method of preparation.
Servants were taught these distinctions carefully, though I had never been of existence in these lessons.
Still, I could at least tell the difference between leaves, bags, and powder.
Tea leaves were troublesome and favored by elders.
Tea bags were common fare.
Tea powder, however—
I loathed it.
When I opened the finely carved wooden tea box and saw the powder within, I sighed at my misfortune.
It was expected, yet still disheartening.
Noble blends were far less forgiving than simple leaves or bags used by common households.
Without wasting time I began carefully. The preparations were long.
I poured hot water from a polished steel jug and over the already measured tea powder, then the hard task of straining the liquid out.
I have to filter the liquid into another cup in an aim to rid of the powder. I repeated the task again and again, pouring through the strainer until no grain remained.
Powdered tea, if not strained properly, tasted like grit.
Then came the milk and sugar. How much did he prefer?
I absolutely had no idea.
So I glanced up towards the young Duke—
And nearly jumped out of my skin.
The Young Duke was lounging far too casually for a noble one against the divan, his gaze fixed on me not openly though not discreetly either.
Still, he was watching me.
His gaze followed my every movement with mild curiosity, as though observing some curious experiment.
The image that came to mind was a humiliating imagination of a monkey fumbling attempting to slice bananas
If he watched so closely then he must think I bore the resemblance of the monkey.
It felt uncomfortably accurate somehow.
I wouldn't point blame if he thought that way, my entire movements were hesitant, lacking assurance, and experience.
So I quickly looked away and tried to focus again. I added a modest amount of milk, careful not to dull the tea's essence, trailed along by a small amount of sugar.
A touch of lime for balance and a sourness.
At last, it was done.
The fragrance it emitted was pleasantly warm and calming, and the tea itself looked… respectable.
Neviously, I lifted the porcelain cup and saucer and turned back toward the Young Duke, who appeared absorbed once more in his manuscripts.
Y-Young Duke," I said softly, bowing as I placed the tea upon the low table before him. "Your tea."
He paused his writing and studied the cup in silence.
My stomach tightened.
Why was he staring at it like that?
Did he suspect poison?
Well… given my past behavior, his suspicion is not unreasonable. I had denied acknowledging him outright before.
Perhaps this was a test of my level of loyalty. Or perhaps not.
Even still, I knew shadowed guards were presently hidden. I don't think I would have survived long enough before I could even deliver the poisoned tea.
So why was he still staring at it like that??
Could it be the appearance?
But it looks… acceptable enough.
What if he somehow knows that my terrible history with cooking is so dreadful that even a beggar might refuse my food?
Who knows.
I simply stood there, helpless and thoughts spiraling, until his hand finally moved.
He lifted the cup.
And my focus sharpened instantly, my limbs flooding with tension.
This was it. The day I would lose my head for accidentally attempting murder of the Young Duke's senses.
He brought the cup to his lips and took a sip.
I gasped before I could stop myself and clapped my hands over my mouth, staring at the cup in horror.
He drank it.
I was finished.
He glanced up, brow lifting slightly at my expression. I dropped my hands at once and straightened, forcing myself into something resembling composure.
"Y-young Duke… how is it?" I asked, leaning forward slightly despite myself.
He looked from the tea to me, then back again, as though calculating his thoughts.
A moment passed.
Then he laughed softly. Just a brief, least expected sound. He leaned back, clearly at ease.
His gaze lifted to meet my stunned stare.
"Hm," he said lightly. "Bad."
What?
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