Chapter 152
“Didn’t you say you were going to have lunch just now?”
“I did.”
“There’s no banquet scheduled at noon, so I should accompany you.”
“You heard me say I’m having lunch with Shanael, right?”
“Yes. I heard that Miss Shanael would be joining you.”
“That’s not what I meant. I didn’t mean she’d be joining us—I meant I’d be eating alone with Shanael.”
Hassel looked slightly surprised as he asked back,
“Without me?”
“Yes, without you. Just the two of us. I have something important to discuss with Shanael.”
“Ah… I see. Understood. Please enjoy your meal.”
There was no real need to deliberately push someone away when they offered to eat together, but once Hassel found himself eating alone, he walked over to Berin, who was sitting by himself at a table, and casually invited him to join.
“Let’s go, Shanael.”
“Yes.”
No one paid much attention to the fact that the Crown Prince had singled me out for lunch. After witnessing all sorts of strange situations in the office day after day, this hardly registered as noteworthy to them.
“Shanael, not that way. This way.”
“Aren’t we going to the dining room?”
“I had them prepare a meal in the banquet hall so we could be alone comfortably.”
“Isn’t that where you dine with His Majesty the Emperor? Just the two of us, there?”
“Yes.”
“What if His Majesty is there?”
“Don’t worry. The banquet hall has several wings. We won’t run into the Emperor.”
Having lived in the imperial palace for some time, I’d naturally learned which areas I wasn’t allowed to enter freely.
The Emperor’s banquet halls, concert halls, and walking paths were all under strict guard, making casual access impossible. That was why one rarely ran into the Emperor by chance while wandering the palace.
But now we were heading to a banquet hall used by the Emperor. It might be comfortable for the Crown Prince, since the Emperor was his father—but for me, it was deeply uncomfortable.
All I remembered of the Emperor were his furious expression during the trial and the contemptuous gaze he’d cast down at me from the high table during the ball.
Even now, the thought of running into him while walking beside the Crown Prince made my stomach churn, even before we’d started eating.
When he noticed my pace slowing, Jereon lightly wrapped an arm around my back and urged me forward.
“I told them to prepare dishes you like.”
“Dishes I like?”
“Yes.”
Truthfully, I wasn’t a picky eater at all, so it would’ve been hard for Jereon to single out a favorite dish of mine. As I tried to recall what I’d eaten most enthusiastically when dining with him, we arrived at the banquet hall.
And thankfully, we didn’t encounter the Emperor along the way.
“Shanael, sit here.”
Jereon stepped forward first and pulled out a chair for me. I bowed my head slightly in thanks for his escort and sat down.
The food hadn’t arrived yet, but the table was already lavishly set with silver candlesticks and cutlery. My gaze settled on the flowers arranged in an elegant porcelain vase.
“Oh? Red chrysanthemums.”
“Yes. They’re your favorite, aren’t they? Ah—I had some placed in your bedroom as well.”
“Thank you.”
I was genuinely grateful, but at the same time, a question nagged at me. When had I ever told him I liked those flowers? I’d assumed the bouquet he gave me back in the village was a coincidence, but now that he said it so confidently, I couldn’t help but wonder.
Since we were waiting for the food anyway, I asked.
“Your Highness, may I ask something?”
“What is it?”
“How did you know I like red chrysanthemums? Did I ever mention it? I don’t remember saying so.”
“…Really? I thought I heard it somewhere.”
Jereon’s memory was far better than mine, so I assumed I might’ve mentioned it in passing at some point. As I tried to recall, servants carrying trays filed into the banquet hall.
They placed gold-rimmed plates on the table and withdrew. The dishes laid out before me felt strangely familiar. Having eaten palace food for some time, I recognized it immediately.
The plates are incredibly luxurious, but what’s on them looks like something from my hometown…
Most of the dishes were simple—sautéed broad beans, pumpkin soup—foods you could find almost anywhere in the empire, so I brushed it off at first.
A little later, a servant pushed in a trolley bearing the main dish. The plate was large, covered with a domed lid.
Curious, I stared at the center of the table without touching my spoon. The servant placed the dish down and lifted the cover.
“Huh?”
Where there should’ve been a roasted turkey sat a cake instead. On top of the whipped cream frosting was a large heart drawn in bright red fruit jam.
Jereon tilted the plate slightly so I could see the heart clearly, looking pleased.
“I wanted to write our names on it, but since you asked to keep our relationship secret, I settled for just a heart. It represents how I feel.”
“It looks sweet and delicious. But… is cake today’s main dish?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, I see.”
“That’s why I had them bring goat’s milk as well. Go on, eat.”
Since I often made do with just bread for meals, it didn’t strike me as particularly odd. Jereon cut a slice of cake and placed it on my plate. I gently cut into it with my fork and took a bite.
“Huh?”
“What is it? Want a bigger piece?”
“No, it’s just…”
“Does it taste strange?”
“Is this cake made with sugar beets?”
“Yes.”
“Oh… That’s why. It tastes exactly like the cake I ate as a child. It startled me.”
“Really? Eat more.”
In poor farming households, sugar beets were often used instead of sugar, simply because they were easier to obtain. Cakes were only possible when we could get milk or butter cheaply—usually around my birthday—when my mother would bake one herself.
After she passed away, I tried making it myself out of nostalgia, but it never tasted the same. Yet this cake somehow carried the exact flavor of the one she used to make.
“Your Highness… how did you know? That I like this cake?”
“I just thought you would.”
“It’s really delicious.”
As I kept eating and praising it, Jereon rested his chin in his hand, watching me with a satisfied smile. Without touching his own food, he slid another plate toward me.
“Try this too.”
“This one?”
After rinsing my mouth with goat’s milk to clear the sweetness, I picked up my fork again. On the large gold-rimmed plate was a mound of mashed potatoes about the size of a fist.
It was the sort of thing restaurants gave out as a free side dish, so I couldn’t understand why he wanted me to try it. Still, I transferred half to my plate and took a spoonful.
“Hm?”
Instead of just soft potatoes, something unexpectedly crunchy was mixed in.
When I froze mid-bite and widened my eyes, Jereon smiled knowingly, his gaze sharp with anticipation—not because I was eating well, but because he was waiting for my reaction.
The taste itself was ordinary, but the texture left me unsettled. Mashed potatoes weren’t usually made with crunchy vegetables mixed in.
No restaurant I’d been to—nor even my hometown—served them like this. And that was because only one person ever made them this way.
During lean times, when stored food ran low, my family would mix finely chopped root vegetables with mashed potatoes to stretch the meal. It wasn’t meant to be delicious—it was survival food.
Back then, I’d been a picky child. When my mother cooked it this way, I’d refuse to eat, and my parents would quietly put plain boiled potatoes on my plate instead.
I never realized that meant they were eating less themselves. I’d just been foolishly happy.
The memories tightened my throat. I set down my spoon, and Jereon asked worriedly,
“Why aren’t you eating? Does it not suit your taste? Is it different from what you’re used to?”
“No. It’s just… too similar. It surprised me.”
“Really? Then why won’t you eat more?”
“I… I can’t.”
“Hm?”
I barely managed to hold back tears and drank some water. I didn’t want to bring down the mood during a meal. When I picked up my spoon again and started eating the pumpkin soup, Jereon followed suit, dipping rye bread into his.
As I focused on eating, my mood gradually lifted, and Jereon’s expression brightened as well.
Still, the entire meal felt uncannily familiar—as though my family’s dinner table had been recreated with fine tableware. I tried to dismiss it as coincidence, but that thought vanished when the servant placed dessert in front of me.
It was sugar-beet chips—thinly sliced, brushed with olive oil, and baked until crisp. Another dish my mother used to make.
In a palace where any ingredient was available, serving poor farmers’ sugar-beet recipes could only mean one thing: it was intentional. And not just generic peasant food—these were the exact dishes I’d eaten back home.
I had never once told the Crown Prince in detail what I’d grown up eating. Even the food I’d served him at my family home had been completely different.
So there had to be something more to this.
I looked straight at Jereon as he urged me to eat the dessert.
“Your Highness.”
“Yes?”
“These dishes… how did you know to have them prepared?”
“Well… I lived in Underhill Village for a while too. I saw what people ate there.”
“That’s a lie.”
“……”
“There’s no way you could’ve seen this.”
