It was getting late.
Klein put down his pen and stretched his stiff neck.
His spine let out two sharp cracks, and he winced—after three consecutive days hunched over the workbench, his lower back was staging a formal protest with sharp stabs of pain.
Not much work remained, but deducing the parameters for the final two nodes required an absolutely clear mind.
Seals left no room for ambiguity; pushing through tonight would only be counterproductive.
“Time to rest. I'll finish up tomorrow.” He stood up and stretched, his shoulder letting out a click.
Ophelia nodded, folding the cloth she used to wipe her sword and placing it on the corner of the desk.
“I'll go wash up first, then.”
“Mhm,” Klein nodded.
As she stood, Klein's gaze followed her for half a second—her long blonde hair cascaded down, the tips brushing against her waist.
Just half a second. Then he naturally looked away, pretending to check if the blueprints on the desk were aligned.
Ophelia had already left the room.
Klein stared at the blueprints for a while, realizing he wasn't actually looking at anything, before standing up and heading downstairs.
His throat was parched; he wanted something to drink.
The kitchen light was still on.
Klein paused as he entered. It wasn't Raymond standing by the stove, but Martha.
She was adding tea leaves to a pot with rather rough movements—not so much placing them as dumping them in, with half the leaves spilling onto the counter. Hearing footsteps, Martha turned around and grinned.
“Master!”
That smile was bright and cheerful, entirely out of place in the dimly lit kitchen.
Klein nodded and took a cup from the shelf himself.
“Where's Raymond?”
“I told him to go to sleep,” Martha said, lifting the kettle with steady hands and pouring a cup for Klein. “He's been busy until the middle of the night lately, who knows what he's up to. He won't say anything when asked, just keeps a stiff face and says, ‘This is within the steward's duties.’”
She lowered her voice and kept a straight face while imitating Raymond. It was a poor impression, but she captured his mannerisms reasonably well.
Klein didn't respond.
He had a rough idea of what Raymond was busy with—there were things that man wouldn't tell others, nor did he need to.
He trusted him.
He picked up the cup and took a sip.
The temperature was perfect, but there were far too many tea leaves. The flavor was intensely bitter, the astringency hitting the back of his throat.
Still, after three days of barely drinking anything properly, bitter was better than nothing.
He took another sip.
Martha leaned against the stove, her hands propped on the counter, tilting her head as she watched him drink.
That look—Klein recognized it—meant she had something on her mind that was pushing to get out, just waiting for a final nudge.
Sure enough.
“Madam Ophelia is bathing, isn't she?”
Klein didn't stop drinking, but his eyelids flickered as he glanced at her.
“Why are you asking that?”
His tone wasn't harsh, just a master's instinctive reaction—a maid inquiring about the mistress's bathing habits was a conversation straying a bit off course.
Martha didn't mind his tone in the slightest.
She pulled her hands back from the stove and crossed her arms, a certain expression slowly surfacing on her face.
Klein had seen that expression before.
The last time it appeared was when she suggested he secretly put rose petals in Ophelia's breakfast—“All the girls in town love this!”—completely disregarding how that would taste soaked in milk.
In short, it was trouble.
“Master,” she whispered, her eyes overly bright as she leaned in slightly, as if sharing some monumental secret. “Don't you want to go in and have a look right now?”
Silence fell for a moment.
The tea in Klein's mouth went down the wrong pipe.
He broke into a violent coughing fit, the water choking his windpipe until he was doubled over. He nearly dropped the cup, and a few drops of tea splashed onto the back of his hand, but he didn't even notice the sting.
Startled, Martha rushed forward to pat his back, and she did so with considerable force—after all, she was the daughter of a blacksmith, and her hands were exceptionally solid. With every slap, Klein felt his lungs lurch upward.
“You... cough—” He finally caught his breath, though his throat still itched and his voice cracked. “Who taught you to say such things?”
Martha pulled her hand back, not looking guilty at all, but rather innocent.
“No one taught me,” she said matter-of-factly, her voice as open as if she were commenting on the nice weather. “I'm just worried for you, Master.”
“What are you worried about?”
“It's only been a few days since you got married,” Martha said, counting on her fingers. “Every day you're stuck upstairs messing with those jars and bottles, and even when Madam Ophelia sits there all day, you barely look at her twice—”
“Were you peeking at the door?”
“I don't need to look to guess that!” Martha's voice rose slightly before she quickly lowered it, glancing around and casually brushing aside a stray lock of hair. “But Master, you're just too... too...”
She paused for a long time, as if scanning every word she knew, before finally settling on one.
“Too serious.”
Klein set the cup on the table and wiped the moisture from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. His expression was complicated—part anger, part helplessness, and the rest something unclassifiable.
“Martha.”
“Yes?”
“First, what happens between Ophelia and me is none of your concern. Second, when you deliver lamp oil, just deliver it; stop peeking inside. Third—”
He paused.
“Don't say things like that again. What if she hears you?”
“So what if she hears?” Martha seemed even more baffled, her face full of genuine confusion. “You're husband and wife.”
Klein opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
He realized he had no idea how to respond.
This girl's train of thought was incredibly direct. It wasn't some malicious attempt to tease; she fundamentally didn't see the problem—you're a legally married couple, so looking at your own wife is perfectly natural. Why are you blushing?
The problem was, he actually was blushing.
Fortunately, the kitchen light was dim.
The kitchen fell silent for a few seconds.
Klein didn't speak. He picked up the cup and downed the rest of the tea in one gulp.
Bitter.
Truly bitter.
But for some reason, after finishing it, his mouth didn't feel as dry.
“Go to sleep early.” He put the cup back and turned to leave.
Martha's voice drifted from behind him, still muttering.
“You're really not going? Such a good opportunity... Master, you'll definitely regret it tomorrow...”
Klein quickened his pace.
He lightened his steps as he went upstairs. Only a single wall lamp was lit in the corridor, its dim light casting a long shadow behind him.
The sound of water came from the end of the second-floor corridor.
It wasn't loud, muffled by a door, with a faint mist of steam drifting out from the gap at the bottom.
Klein's footsteps faltered.
Martha's words inexplicably resurfaced in his mind.
He curled his fingers, then silently entered the bedroom, pulling the door shut behind him.
Ophelia's scent still lingered in the room. Her outer clothes were folded neatly on the corner of the table, every wrinkle smoothed out. Beside them lay the cloth used to wipe her sword, also folded into a perfect square.
Klein sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at his hands.
The sound of water from the end of the hall continued.
He raised his hands to rub his face and took a deep breath, whispering to himself in a voice so low only he could hear:
“……Klein, get a hold of yourself.”
He paused after speaking.
Then he couldn't help but chuckle.
He sat there laughing for a while, not even sure what he was laughing about.
The sound of water stopped.
Rate on N.U.
