Chapter 7 : Chapter 7
Chapter 7: Adorably Cute
From the edge of the folding screen, the first thing to appear was a small section of ankle wrapped neatly in thick white stockings. The pale skin beneath was hidden by the soft cotton white, leaving only a slender curve visible.
Next, a foot in brand-new black leather shoes stepped out cautiously. The polished surface of the shoe gleamed faintly, and when it touched the wooden floor it made a soft, unfamiliar “tap.”
Cosette slowly moved out from behind the screen. Her hands remained properly placed against the sides of the navy-blue skirt, though her fingertips unconsciously pinched a small fold of the apron’s edge.
The new maid outfit wrapped her completely from head to toe, yet the details faintly outlined the immature contours of a young girl.
The navy-blue dress was made of thick, sturdy fabric. Its standing collar brushed against her chin, and the long sleeves covered her wrists. The skirt fell to the middle of her calves, its cut unmistakably that of a proper servant’s uniform.
A pure white half-apron was tied around her waist. The starched ruffled edges rose and fell gently with her small breaths, and behind her narrow waist it formed a slightly loose but carefully arranged bow.
Ryan’s gaze followed the line of her calves where they emerged from beneath the skirt, tightly wrapped in white stockings. The stockings were made of thick cotton and did not cling perfectly to the skin, yet they still faintly traced the soft curve from calf to ankle that belonged to a young girl.
The upper edge of the stockings disappeared beneath the skirt just above the knee, leaving a small transition where the fabric pressed lightly against the skin.
She stood with her legs pressed together. The fibers of the new stockings made the faintest rustling sound as they brushed together, her knees unconsciously turning slightly inward, betraying her awkwardness with the unfamiliar feeling of being so neatly dressed.
Her flaxen hair was tied behind her head with a ribbon of the same color, though several stray strands clung stubbornly to the damp skin at the side of her neck and behind her ears from nervousness.
The crisp scent of freshly washed clothing mingled with the faint smell of cotton fabric around her. She could clearly feel the slightly itchy sensation of the stockings tightly wrapping her legs, as well as the stiff sides of the new leather shoes pressing uncomfortably against her heels.
Everything felt unfamiliar—so formal, so proper—that it completely separated her from the girl she used to be, the one who had run barefoot through mud and filthy water.
She lowered her head, her eyelashes trembling, yet she could still feel Ryan’s gaze moving slowly over her like something tangible—from the top of her hair to her collar, across the apron, and finally settling on the calves wrapped in white stockings where her legs stood pressed together.
There was nothing lewd in that gaze. It was simply appraising. Yet it still sent a faint tingling sensation from her toes to her scalp, and her cheeks flushed uncontrollably.
She was afraid something might be wrong. Perhaps the stockings had wrinkled around her ankles. Perhaps the skirt had picked up dust she could not see. Perhaps the clothes that looked so proper only made her appear even more clumsy.
Ryan watched silently for a moment.
The new clothes concealed her wounds and gave her protection, yet they also seemed like a fragile shell that exposed the unease hidden inside her.
“Mm,” he said calmly. “It’s fine. Wear it like this from now on.”
The approval carried no particular emotion, but Cosette’s tense body relaxed ever so slightly.
She quietly drew in a breath. Still not daring to raise her head, she nodded faintly and answered in a small but clear voice:
“…Yes, Master.”
Ryan withdrew his gaze and turned toward the center of the room.
There stood a somewhat heavy round wooden table that had originally been placed against the wall, along with two matching wooden stools.
Without saying anything, he stepped forward and gripped the edge of the table with one hand. The muscles in his arm tightened faintly beneath his shirt, and he lifted the table with ease, moving it to a more open space in the middle of the room. When it touched the floor again, it produced a dull thump.
The effortless motion startled Cosette once more.
She watched as Ryan set the table down and moved to pick up a stool. Only then did she suddenly realize what she should be doing. She hurried forward in small, hurried steps and grabbed the back of the second stool before Ryan could pick it up.
“M-Master, please sit,” she said unsteadily, lowering her head and avoiding his gaze. Her cheeks flushed slightly, embarrassed that she had reacted a moment too late.
Ryan glanced at her but said nothing. He released the stool and allowed her to carry it to the table and place it there. Meanwhile, he walked to the other side and set the oil-paper package he had been carrying onto the smooth tabletop before sitting down on the stool she had not touched.
Cosette finished placing the stool but remained standing where she was. Her hands returned to her sides, and her eyes hesitantly flicked toward the oil-paper package on the table before quickly glancing at Ryan again, as if confirming whether she was allowed to sit—or whether she should stand and serve instead.
“Sit. Eat,” Ryan said, breaking the silence. He pointed to the empty stool across from him.
Cosette nodded quickly, as if receiving an order. She moved stiffly to the stool and sat down cautiously, letting only half of her body rest on it. Her back was perfectly straight, and her hands rested properly on her knees.
Her legs—wrapped in white stockings—were pressed tightly together. Her knees turned slightly inward, and even her toes unconsciously drew close together. She looked as stiff as a student terrified of making a mistake in class.
Ryan did not look at her again. He untied the string around the oil-paper bundle.
When the rough paper was opened, the heat and aroma of the food rose instantly, filling the air between them.
Inside were white loaves of bread, their crust baked golden and crisp, still holding the warmth of the oven. The rich fragrance of wheat filled the room. There were also two thick meat pies, their edges slightly charred from frying. The rendered fat had soaked into the bread, releasing an irresistible smell mixed with meat, black pepper, and a hint of onion.
For Cosette, that scent was as overwhelming as the hot water and new clothes earlier.
Her throat moved involuntarily as she swallowed. Her nose filled with the warm, rich fragrance.
The best food she had ever eaten in her life had probably been a piece of stale bread she found near the edge of a garbage pile that had not yet gone moldy, or perhaps, if she was lucky, a bit of oily leftovers skimmed from the top of a restaurant’s slop bucket.
Food like this—freshly baked, whole, and clean—had only existed in her vague dreams or in distant reflections from shop windows.
She stared at the bread and meat pies on the table. Her eyes widened slightly, the hazel color reflecting the shape of the food. For a moment she was almost dazed, forgetting to move and even forgetting her nervousness.
Ryan picked up a loaf of bread and broke it open, revealing the soft white interior as steam drifted out. He then pushed one of the meat pies across the paper toward Cosette.
“Eat.”
He said only that single word. Then he took a bite of his bread, chewing slowly while watching her reaction.
Cosette seemed to awaken from a dream. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the meat pie that had been pushed toward her.
When her fingertips touched its warm, oily surface, she flinched slightly before carefully holding it.
First she lifted it gently to her nose and smelled it, as if confirming the scent was real. Only then did she open her mouth and take a small, precious bite.
The crisp crust broke between her teeth, and rich meat juices filled her mouth instantly.
The sudden, overwhelming taste of real food struck her senses so strongly that her eyes became hot without warning.
She quickly lowered her head and blinked hard, forcing the inappropriate tears back. Then she began eating in small bites—yet very quickly.
She ate quietly, almost without making a sound. But every chew and swallow carried a kind of reverence, as though she wanted to carve this taste, this warmth of fullness, permanently into her memory.
Ryan ate his portion silently, occasionally glancing across the table.
He saw the girl’s lowered, trembling eyelashes.
He saw the way she held the food so carefully, as though it were something precious beyond measure.
He also noticed how, beneath the table, her knees wrapped in white stockings—bent from sitting—rubbed lightly together without her realizing.
The fibers of the new stockings made the faintest rustling sound, blending softly with the quiet noises of chewing in the room.