Chương 17: Flowery Pekoe

Clara pressed her face into the pillow and screamed. It wasn't a long scream—the hectic mornings at Ashford Hall's servant's quarters had proven the walls here were painfully thin—but it was visceral all the same. It had been building up since Warren Righton walked into that amphitheater with his stupid grin and his pretentious suit and his insufferable finger-wagging. She flipped onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

A crack ran along the plaster above her bed, faintly illuminated by the last traces of evening light seeping through the curtain. Emma hadn't come back yet, so Clara was alone in the room. If the girl wasn't here soon, Clara would be worried; for now, she decided to give her some privacy. All teenage girls have their secrets, after all. She sighed. Warren Righton was here. In this world. Yet he didn't recognize her. She was certain of it.

Clara had spent years reading his face across conference tables, and she would definitely have spotted some sort of tell in court. Which meant that, somehow, he might not have the memories of his previous life, like a twisted mirror of her own situation. Clara had all her memories of the modern world, yet none of Stella's memories. What if Warren had the memories of this world, and not the other?

And just like Clara had inherited Stella's skills—she hadn't had any trouble with her maid work, hadn't needed anyone to teach her—Warren could have kept the skills from his modern life. Now that I think about it, I wonder if that's why I suddenly started liking fish. Maybe Stella favored it? Oddly, it was a comforting thought, and Clara felt a bit closer to the woman who used to exist in the place she now occupied. She turned the pillow over to the cool side and pressed her cheek against it.

Warren was still an asshole. That much clearly hadn't changed between worlds.

'Let's dance, shall we?' Who says that? Who actually says that in a court of law? Warren Righton, apparently. And the finger-wagging. She could not get over the finger-wagging. Yet for all her exasperation at his theatrics… Clara felt something else underneath. It was the one part she didn't want to think about, hiding underneath the irritation and the competitive fire. If Warren was here, that meant she wasn't the only one.

She was not the sole outsider in a world that ran on magic and pompous nobles and drill-haired villainesses. There was someone else who'd have the same kinds of thoughts she did, even if he didn't recognize it. Someone who knew her. Her chest tightened, and she laughed softly into the dark. Would it be possible to restore his memories? The Blessing of Truth had let her peer into Stella's, so maybe… Then she pressed her face into the pillow and screamed one more time, for good measure.

After their morning routine of breakfast, hair brushing, and extended deliberation over which shade of burgundy ribbon best complemented today's necklace—the answer, apparently, was 'the third one from the left, obviously, Clara, have you gone blind?' —Iris handed her a folded piece of paper.

"The guest list for the tea party tomorrow afternoon. I've selected the five ladies from our year who are most likely to know something about Forrest's little confession. We'll need to book a tea room at the Westwick Plaza," said Iris.

"That's the hotel right outside Claves." Clara unfolded the paper and scanned the names. She didn't recognize any of them, but Iris had helpfully added small annotations next to each one.

'Notorious gossip, knows everything'.

'Top of her class, friends with Helena'.

'Part of the Spellweaving Club'.

'Owes me a favor'.

'Insufferable, but her maid is secretly dating a boy in Forrest's dorm'.

"This is very thorough, my lady."

"Naturally. Now, I have classes all day, so I'll need you and Emma to handle the preparations. I've written down a list." Iris handed over a second, much longer piece of paper.

"The stationer on Kettle Street does the best card stock for invitations. For tea, go to Hargrove & Sons Imports near the market square—ask for their Oriental Flowery Pekoe, and if they say they don't have it, tell them I'll have their cousin dismissed from Papa's guard." Clara gulped. Hopefully, it won't come to that.

"Remember to taste-test the pastries. They need to be better than anything from the academy kitchen; I wouldn't serve those to Viscount Vainglory's parrot." Clara looked at the list, which went on for quite a bit longer than she'd expected.

"My lady, is all of this really necessary for six people? Fruit scones? Miniature cakes? Ten different varieties of macarons?" Iris glared at her as though she'd just suggested they serve the tea in buckets.

"Clara. This is not merely a tea party. It is a carefully orchestrated social event designed to extract sensitive information from the daughters of minor noble houses while they believe they are simply enjoying my impeccable hospitality." She paused.

"So yes, the apricot macarons are indispensable." Experiencing the Westwick city center in the morning spring light was a pleasant reprieve from the looming trial. It reminded her of Leuven, where she'd gone to university: a cozy university city lined with quaint shops and cafés. Except Belgium smelled of waffles instead of horses. Emma walked half a step behind her. At first Clara thought the girl was just slow, but then she realized it was deference. She stopped.

"Emma, there's no need for that. You can walk next to me."

"Erm…" Emma hesitated.

"Are you sure, Miss Casewell? You're a lady's maid, and I'm just a junior servant."

"Yes, I'm sure. And call me Clara, at least when it's just us." The girl blinked, then nodded cautiously.

"Clara." Clara smiled.

"Our first stop should be to the left of here, the stationer on Kettle Street." They walked a bit more, passing by what looked to be a train station under construction, until they found the narrow shop, tucked away in the side street. It smelled wonderfully of ink and fresh paper, and the shelves were filled with rolls of parchment, wax seals, and an assortment of pens and quills.

"We need five invitation cards and five place cards," Clara told the shopkeeper, a stout woman with dark-stained fingers.

"Cream card stock, if you have it, with burgundy seals. And we'll need the invitations printed with—" She pulled out Iris's note and read the wording aloud, which was essentially a summons followed by a reminder of House von Rhenia's importance in roughly forty words. While the shopkeeper got to work with her small hand press, Clara browsed the shelves. To her, this was almost like being in a rare antique shop; she couldn't even remember the last time she'd had to do any real writing that wasn't on a keyboard.

In college, I suppose. The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Emma hovered near the doorway, looking at everything with wide eyes but touching nothing.

"Have you been to Westwick before, Emma?"

"Only once, Miss—Clara. My family's village is about a day's ride south, and there was a year we came for the holiday market." Clara closed her eyes and tried to picture it. What would Christmas look like, in a world without Christ? Given the roots of this region, maybe something like the Roman festival of Saturnalia? She remembered her first time at the Leuven Christmas Market. Her first Christmas after…

"Do you miss them?" asked Clara. Emma's expression flickered.

"Sometimes. But they need the wages, so I try to do my best to help them." Clara put a hand on her shoulder.

"I'm sure they miss you too." The shopkeeper called them with the finished invitation cards—Clara had to admit the quality was excellent—and they moved on to Hargrove & Sons. The tea shop was a far grander affair, with glass-fronted cabinets displaying dozens of labeled tins. They walked inside, and Clara inhaled. The scent was quite unlike anything she'd ever smelled before: layered and floral, with a hint of citrus underneath.

She was more of a coffee person, so she'd never been able to tell teas apart in her old life. Were these Stella's senses?

"The Oriental Flowery Pekoe, please," she told the young boy behind the counter. He narrowed his eyes.

"Miss, I'm afraid—" Clara cleared her throat.

"Emma, remember to be careful while carrying those invitations. Lady Iris would be furious if they were crumpled." Emma nodded.

"L-lady Iris?" The boy's eyes widened.

"One moment, Miss." The boy went to the back of the shop, and moments later a burly, mustached man came out.

"Welcome, honored guests. I'm Jack Hargrove. How can I help you?"

"As I was saying, we're looking for Oriental Flowery Pekoe. Enough for a dozen."

"Ah, excellent choice." He nodded and pulled out a tin from under the counter.

"While I prepare that, would you like to have a taste of our new jasmine oolong blend?" Emma looked at Clara, then back at the tin, then back at her again. Clara chuckled.

"Yes, please. Thank you." They took a seat, and soon after, the boy from earlier brought two small porcelain cups filled with a clear, amber tea. Emma took a careful sip, and her entire face lit up.

"It's sweet! I didn't know tea could be sweet without honey!"

"It's naturally sweet from the blossoms," said Jack from behind the counter, looking pleased. From there, they went to the confectioner. As instructed, Clara asked for samples before placing any orders, so they were directed to a small adjoining salon, where they sat down and waited.

"Emma, while we wait, shall we write out the place cards for tomorrow?" It was a simple enough task, but Emma's face fell.

"I…" She looked down at the parcels in her lap.

"I can't, Clara."

"Can't? Why not?"

"I don't know how." Her voice was very small, and her cheeks had gone pink.

"To write, I mean. Or read." Ah. Clara wanted to slap herself—that was an inconsiderate thing to ask. She'd been so immersed in nobles and libraries and Latin that she'd forgotten to consider the obvious: in a world like this, of course a poor girl from a countryside village would be illiterate.

"I'm sorry," Emma added quickly.

"Don't apologize," said Clara, more firmly than she intended.

"You just haven't been taught." The confectioner soon brought out a tiered tray of beautiful treats—tarts, pastries, candied fruits, even a small sponge cake on top, and Emma's mood quickly improved. They tried each and every one of Iris's chosen sweets; Clara thought they were all quite good, though not as refined as what you'd find in a modern artisanal bakery. She bit into a thick, creamy custard tart and raised an eyebrow. I wonder if I could make 'that' here. Emma might love it.

After they approved all the samples and finalized the order for the tea party, Clara placed a small 'extra' order of her own, to be delivered to Claves tomorrow morning. She'd had an idea—a bit of a cliché, she had to admit, but it could pay off hugely. They left the shop, and the next item on the agenda was the hotel, where they'd need to reserve a tea room and instruct the staff on preparations. Then, they would head back to Claves and finalize the invitations to be distributed tomorrow morning.

It was all very rushed, but it was the only way to ensure Iris could gather the information they needed before the trial. Putting it like that, it struck Clara that there was definitely something odd about the fact that a man's fate depended on a teenager's tea party. Yet the strangeness of it all hadn't even registered when the idea first came up. Was she getting too used to this world's sensibilities?

That would probably be useful in the long term, but would that mean losing herself, losing the person who she used to be? That thought gave her pause. Now wasn't the time to get bogged down on philosophy, though. There was one impromptu stop Clara wanted to make before the hotel.

"Come on," she said, gesturing back to the side streets.

"Clara, that's the wrong way. The hotel is on the other side."

"We're not going to the hotel yet."

"Huh? Then where are we going?" asked Emma, confused.

"Back to the stationer."

"But we already picked up the invitations—""We're not going for invitations," said Clara.

"We're going for a notebook, a pen, and some ink. I'll write the place cards tonight, but starting tomorrow, I'm going to teach you how." Emma stared at her.

"You'd teach me? But why? I'm just a—""If you say 'just a junior maid' again, I'll make you carry all of Lady Iris's luggage next time we travel. By yourself." Emma let out a sound that was a half-laugh, half-hiccup.

"Yes, Miss! I mean—Clara!" The following day, after the breakfast rush, Clara made her way to the kitchen at Ashford Hall. It was large, equipped with multiple wood-burning stoves lining the wall and a long preparation counter running the length of the room. Copper pots hung from ceiling hooks in neat rows, and shelves of jars held flour, salt, and even some spices. It wasn't a sleek modern kitchen with stainless steel and induction ovens, but it had a rustic charm to it.

Under her arm was a wooden box, which the confectioner had only just delivered. She set it on the counter and felt a rush of excitement as she opened it. Inside it, nestled in straw, were six glass jars of a thick, white liquid. No, that sounds wrong. Six glass jars of creamy, delicious— Also no. She couldn't help but let out a small laugh. She held a jar up and tilted it under the light, and the condensed milk swayed inside it, sluggish and dense. Looks like they got the consistency just right.

This world didn't have canned condensed milk, so Clara had to explain to the confectioner how to make it, combining milk and sugar and simmering for hours, until it reduced by about a third. She unscrewed the lid and dipped in a finger, then put it in her mouth. A smile crept across her face as the sweetness spread over her tongue. With this, she could finally make ' it'. She was only eleven when she first tried it, on a vacation to Brazil with her parents.

The details of the trip were long since blurry, but there was one part Clara remembered as if she were under the Blessing of Truth. They'd been walking through the Mercado Municipal in São Paulo, her mother holding her hand while her father tried his hardest to haggle in a terrible mix of European Spanish and Brazilian Portuguese he'd picked up from Rosetta Stone. The woman behind the stall had offered her a tiny paper cup with a dark ball inside.' Brigadeiro, querida?' she had said.

And when Clara took the first bite, it was dense and fudgy, and the smooth richness coating her tongue made her think it was the best day of her tiny life. Later, back at home, she'd spent a whole evening with her mother trying to recreate it exactly by mimicking subtitled cooking videos, burning through three pots of condensed milk before they got the consistency right. After the accident, Clara had kept making it. Not as often as before, maybe once or twice a year, when the loneliness got too bad.

She set the jar down and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. There was work to do. Besides the condensed milk, the box contained two other ingredients: a tin of cocoa powder and one of sugar. As for the butter, Ashford Hall's kitchen had plenty. Ideally, she would also have chocolate sprinkles, but since those didn't seem to exist in this world, she would make the coating out of ground cocoa mixed with sugar.

Clara spent the next hour combining the ingredients in a pot over a low flame, patiently stirring until her arm hurt, then switching to the other arm. She was only making one jar's worth for now; the others were extra, in case there were any mistakes. Eventually the mixture thickened, and the color deepened to a dark, glossy brown. She closed her eyes and breathed in. Perfect. After checking the consistency, she transferred it onto a buttered plate to cool, washed the pot, and wiped down the counter.

Then she prepared the rolling station while the mixture cooled. When it was firm enough to handle, she buttered her palm and pinched off a small portion, rolling it, then dipping it in the cocoa-sugar coating. It came out slightly lopsided, but not too bad for a first try. She tasted it. The flavor was deeper than she was used to, less overly sweet, probably because it wasn't canned condensed milk. But it was good. Really good. The second was better.

By the fifth, her hands had remembered the motion entirely, and the little dark spheres were coming out round and uniform. Eventually, she had twenty brigadeiros arranged on a small ceramic plate. She covered it with a cloth napkin and carried it carefully to her and Emma's room. It wouldn't be right for me to be a transmigrator and not bring over some modern food.