How The Princess Rewrote Her Tragic Ending - Chapter 88

The next morning, Reynard was in an agonizing state.

“Good god…” he murmured as he sat up, the insides of his stomach churning. “I really shouldn’t have drunk so much,” he groaned as he clutched his nightstand and struggled to stand up. “The things this stuff does to your insides is torture indeed.”

Somehow, he got to his feet, but not before he had tried to remember how he had got into bed in the first place. No way did Uncle Franke carry him all the way up. No absolute way. Reynard stared at his bed for a minute or two in deep thought before sighing and heading downstairs.

As usual, the inn was swarmed with laughter and clinking of beer jugs.. People sat in the lounging area with their meal trays in front of them, and a couple of children ran around chasing each other. For a professional inn, this was quite a cozy atmosphere.

Reynard approached his Uncle’s desk where he sat drinking a glass of juice and checking something off of his register.

“Good morning.” Reynard tapped his fingers on the desk.

“Oh,” Uncle Franke said as he put away his register, his white beard twitching. “G’morning. Slept well, I hope? Though after those numerous glasses you drank yesterday, I doubt it.”

Reynard scratched his neck, his eyes trailing away from his Uncle’s. “Um, yeah… But the Alms of Grief did put a weight on my stomach.”

Uncle Franke laughed a heavy, full-throated laugh. “That right? Well, it’ll get better after breakfast.” Uncle Franke waved over to the lounge. “Go take a seat and a server will attend to you in a minute, or you can get your tray over from the kitchen if you want to speed things up.”

Reynard nodded and with one last tap on the table, he turned around and headed to the kitchen. As usual, everyone was whipped up in a frenzy. Cooks scurried here and there, filling trays with eggs and meat and whatnot. Reynard looked around in awe at the busy workers. He noticed that a woman was struggling to tilt and pour a huge pot of what seemed like stew into a smaller container.

“Here, let me help you,” Reynard offered as he ran up to her. Gratefully, the woman handed him the pot and let him do the rest.

“You’re that man who came in looking for Franke yesterday, right?” she asked as she observed Reynard tilting the heavy pot with ease. “Did you find him alright?”

“Yup,” Reynard said as he wiped his greasy hands on a flannel. “Would you like me to help with something else?”

The woman, who was short and stout with brown hair streaked with white tied behind her head in a small bun, and who donned a white apron like any other, beamed at Reynard’s offer.

“Good boy, yourself.” She smiled a wrinkly smile as she hobbled over to another counter, beckoning Reynard to follow her. “Just chop these carrots into small bits for the carrot cake, alright? I’ll be back in a moment.” Then she hurried away outside.

Reynard stood next to the counter with a knife in his hand, trying to figure out how to chop the already peeled carrots.

“Wait, aren’t they supposed to be shredded for carrot cake?” he murmured to himself, looking upon the long orange things with mild puzzlement.

“ARE THE CARROTS DONE?” a cook from the other side of the kitchen bellowed, looking straight at Reynard. “WHERE’S MARION?”

“Um…” Reynard put his hands up in surrender, the knife pointing to his chest. “Um, she left me with the task for a moment.”

“WHAT?” the red-faced cook bellowed again, marching straight towards him.

“Um, what I mean is…” Reynard looked towards the door in a moment of desperation, “I-I’ll cut the carrots. Give me but a moment, sir.”

The man stopped in his tracks and scrutinized Reynard before turning away with a rude ‘hmph!’ and walking back to his station.

Since his hands had gotten sweaty with nervousness, Reynard rinsed them under the sink and got to work, the rhythmic ‘chop, chop, chop’ of the carrots bringing him peace of mind.

He hadn’t worked in the kitchens for a long time, but he now realized how hard but fruitful it was. Marion came back a moment later and commended Reynard on his handiwork despite it being his first time. She stood beside him and started teaching him how to do it properly, and soon enough, the carrots were cut and put in a bowl, ready to go into the cake batter.

“Thanks, laddie,” Marion nodded gratefully as she pushed the cake into the fire oven. “You were such a help! What’s your name?”

“Reynard,” he replied as he wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. With the intensity in the kitchen matched with the pressure put upon him by the cooks, Reynard had been eventually doused with sweat.

The woman smiled at his name. “You really are as nice as your name. I have a son your age named Roy. He’d be a great son if he even had an ounce of what you do. Really, I ought to give that lazy bum a spanking one day.”

Reynard and Marion laughed.

“I actually came here to get my breakfast,” he remembered suddenly.

“Ahhh, is that so. I’m sorry I whipped you into my work,” she replied apologetically. “Just grab a tray from the table over there. I won’t mind if you ask me for a second helping.”

Reynard chuckled and went on his way after saying ‘goodbye’ to the dear old lady. Grabbing his breakfast tray, he walked back into the lounging area and sighed happily at the cool atmosphere outside the kitchen. Really, cooks should be commended for their jobs.

“Got yourself some sustenance?” Uncle Franke perked up when he saw Reynard coming his way. “Go take a seat. Or pull one up here and we can have breakfast together.”

Reynard shrugged and placed his tray on his Uncle’s desk. Then he pulled a chair away from a table and brought it up to the desk, sitting right across Uncle Franke.

“Here ya go, Franke,” a woman emerged from the kitchen and placed a tray of food before him. “Got you an extra serving of meat.”

“Thanks, Marion,” Uncle Franke smiled at her.

With growing interest, Reynard took careful observation of the interaction between Marion and his Uncle Franke, and he smiled suggestively.

“What’s going on here, then?” he asked after Marion left, his tone amused. “She has a kid, y’know.”

Uncle Franke shot him a glare. “She’s a widow.”

“Ohhh~ and what are you trying to explain by that claim?” Reynard smirked as he stuffed his face with egg.

His Uncle smacked him on the head and Reynard held his head in pain.

“Aughh, you know I’m right!” he exclaimed as he rubbed the back of his head. “How dare you try to hit it up with a widowed woman?”

“I never!” Uncle Franke groaned. “Shut up or you’ll end up next to your father’s bed in the health center, I mean it.”

Reynard chuckled as he ate his breakfast, deciding he’ll tease his uncle about it some time later.

As he ate, he looked around and took in the cozy, comfortable atmosphere of the inn, which was totally different to Mama Ruth’s. There was light everywhere. The windows were wide open and birds chirped on the sills. Small spells of wind kept the inn airy and cool. Laughter rose around him, and the delicious aroma of food wafted all throughout the inn, announcing to all the late-sleepers that breakfast was ready.

There was no comparison to Mama Ruth’s inn. But lately, he had noticed that the princess had shuffled things around a bit, forcing Mama to open the windows and let some air in. She had also started putting a lot more effort into how she used to look, by applying rouge and brushing her hair every morning. Reynard smiled at the thought of Mama smacking her lips after applying rouge on her lips. It struck him as out of character.

“Anyways,” Reynard muttered as he turned back to his Uncle, who was scoffing down thin slices of meat. “My hair’s been getting a little dull since Mother got bedridden.” He didn’t dare say she was dead.

“Is that so?” Uncle Franke glanced at his hair and indeed, it had turned from a jet black color to a slightly grey. “Is it because you’re getting too old?”

“No,” Reynard muttered as he drank some water. “Mother used to massage my hair with a special kind of oil every two weeks. It’s been almost a month since my last hair massage.”

“Hm? What oil? Recommend it to me so this old man can get black hair again.”

Reynard chuckled. “I really have no idea. It was mustard oil or something similar, mixed with another mystery substance Mother assured would do wonders and keep my hair healthy.”

“Oh? That’s good then. Ask Rosa to do it for you when she gets the time. Busy girl, she is.”

“Yeah,” Reynard nodded. “I hear her pottery business has been booming lately.”

“I know,” Uncle Franke said as he pointed to a large ceramic vase on a table. “That’s her craft work right there. She really knows how to get the right shape and to make the colors pop.”

This idle chatter made Reynard realize how much better he felt away from home. Back at their household, he had felt the absence of his mother, but here, he had been whipped up into a different situation. Constantly talking and eating and drinking made him forget about the worries at home.

Hopefully, it’ll keep that way.