Spice and Wolf - Volume 18 - Chapter 2

GOLDEN  MEMORIES

Surrounded on all sides by mountains in the center of the world.

The long winter was finally coming to an end in the hot spring village of Nyohhira.

Curious gazes gathered on Lawrence.

“Oh my, my. Isn’t that the owner of Spice and Wolf?”

Even though the sky was bright, it took a while for the sun to show itself in this land cradled by mountains. The village was still covered in a faint darkness, and it was difficult to see a distant person’s face. Currently, the various bathhouses’ maids gathered and quietly gossiped in a corner of the village and suddenly began to create a clamor, like pigeons that began to cry when they saw nearing crows.

Lawrence stepped into the snow and stood there, with a smile as vague as his white, wavering breath visible in the cold. He let down the firewood he was carrying.

There were several places that the maids and village women gathered in this predawn hour. There was the water mill and the well and so on, but the place that Lawrence had come to today was the communal bread oven.

“What’s happened to Hanna? Is she ill?”

“I wonder if his daughter is sleeping in.”

“Have you forgotten? His daughter has bravely gone off on an adventure. I wanted to do that a long time ago, too.”

“Oh, is that so? This was the only place I knew outside of the town I was born in.”

“But it’s a surprise to see the master himself come here. Do you think Ms. Holo is ill, too?”

“Oh, that’s terrible. We must go pay her a visit.”

Once or twice a week, these women came here to bake all the bread that each household and bathhouse required. Life here was dull, so the only thing they could do for fun was gossip about the village.

Originally, this was work for the maids or, if they could not do it, the young wives or helper girls. So if a man came, that was enough to spark chatter. Even Lawrence thought he looked silly carrying firewood on his back and the kneaded dough, wrapped in a cloth, underneath his arm.

At this rate, it’ll look as if my wife ran away from home, no?

But Lawrence’s smile did not waver before this inconsiderate pigeon flock.

Their rumors spread rapidly throughout the village. Though he had spent over ten years running a bathhouse here, he was still treated like a newcomer, and he could not let his guard down.

Instead, he cursed how he had been forced into this job, as he imagined his wife Holo, who was likely still idling away at the bathhouse.

“No, we’ve received a sudden guest. The other two have other important business to attend to, so I came today.”

When he spoke, the women’s idle chatter suddenly stopped.

“Oh…Don’t tell me that person is staying as a guest at Spice and Wolf?”

“How troublesome that must be.”

She did not seem to be simply picking at crumbs of the conversation, and in fact her expression seemed sincere.

“Do you think they first stayed at Yoseph’s?”

“Oh yes. It’s the oldest bathhouse in the village, you know.”

“Then Abel’s?”

“And then Ramaninov’s after that.”

They listed off the names of bathhouse masters one after the other. They were the children and grandchildren of various people who came to this village from all over to start bathhouses, so they all sounded unique.

“Do you think this means he’ll be staying at different places until spring?”

“He’s always making such an unhappy face, like something isn’t right.”

“Oh, I know. He has so many demands, like having his lunch made so early in the morning. It was such a fuss! But he paid so well…”

“Hey, don’t be distracted by tips. My husband thinks he’s most likely investigating the village.”

“My! Do you think our guest is from that other hot spring village they might build on the far side of the mountain?”

“But he really doesn’t use the baths very much for that.”

“True. If he were planning on building a new bathhouse, you think he’d be looking all over the village.”

Their conversation flowed as though their lines had been written beforehand, and their speaking habits were so similar it was difficult to tell who was who in the faint darkness. As they came together every week to bake their bread, their ways of thinking also began to resemble one another.

As Lawrence watched them, he finally understood why Holo had made it seem like it was so childishly difficult for her to get out of bed.

They treated her differently, especially since she was a newlywed, but more importantly, she was the young mistress of a bathhouse where none of them worked. They kept to themselves for the most part. Though this was their own way of being considerate and knowing their place as hired helpers, this treatment was the most difficult for Holo to bear.

“Well, if he’s at your place, Lawrence, then that means his tour will finally end.”

He heard his name being spoken and snapped back to the present. At the same time, even before he caught up with the conversation’s context, he automatically smiled. He had learned through experience that if he maintained a pleasant expression, any situation would turn out better.

“I’m sure he has been frowning since his arrival, but it’s best to pay it no mind. He’s been like that at every house. It hasn’t been long since you’ve started your business, so I can imagine he’s been nothing but trouble…”

“There were people like that long ago, too. Such unreasonable customers!”

“That was back when you were still young…Over twenty years ago, I think?”

“Excuse you! I’m still young!”

It made Lawrence smile to watch the two bicker like close sisters, their true thoughts and emotions plain in everything they said. His bathhouse had been around for a little over ten years so it “wasn’t that old yet.”

The first place this guest stayed at was Yoseph’s bathhouse, the oldest in the village. It then naturally followed that he chose to stay at Spice and Wolf right before leaving the village because it was the newest.

It seemed it would take even more time to fit into the village.

“Well, anyway, I think it’s about time that everyone’s gathered.”

While they chatted like lively children, one spoke up, bringing them back to reality. Since the communal oven was not in the center of town, where the church bell could be relied on, time was nothing but an estimate. And since how much bread each person needed depended on the household, there was never a reason for every villager to gather and bake bread at the same time.

“All right, then, let’s draw straws.”

One woman took a bundle of twigs that lay next to the oven and wrapped it in some cloth hanging from her waist.

But the ends of all the twigs were the same length and poked out a bit from the impromptu bundle.

“Are these new? No cheating!”

“I’m getting old, so even if I did cheat, I wouldn’t be able to see which is the short stick in this darkness!”

They all laughed together, and one by one drew a limb from the bundle. Each twig was of a different length, and the longer the twig, the happier the person. Lawrence was the last to draw, and as if planned, his was short.

“O-oh, my…”

“Hey, are you sure none of you cheated?!”

There was an awkward atmosphere among the women. This draw was to decide who used the oven first.

No one wanted to be first when using the public oven. Though each person had to prepare their own fuel and materials to use the oven, it took quite a while for it to heat up. The first person to use it had to prepare extra fuel to get the oven going since it would have gone cold overnight.

“Oh no, actually, this helps.” Flustered, Lawrence cut in. “I don’t know what complaints we would get if we made that crabby guest wait. If I were last, I would probably ask to be first.”

The women were surprised, knowing that should their process’s fairness be doubted, they would lose face, so they all smiled at once, relieved.

“Well, if you say so…”

“It’s a good thing, definitely, if you think about time. Here we have some people who use too much firewood and bake their bread into ash!”

“Hey! That’s because I was so busy talking! And that was a long time ago!”

Their brightness had returned.

Lawrence smiled, relieved. He opened the oven lid, lining the insides with his firewood and lighting it.

It seemed there was still some time before they could see the sun over the mountains.

Though the freshly baked bread was wrapped in cloth, it still gave off warm steam. On the way, he stuffed his mouth with a piece of the soft bread, and by the time he reached home, the sun had risen high in the sky.

It was quite the challenge, baking bread with women whose hands and mouths worked equally hard, but between the clear sky and the smell of freshly baked bread, it also accorded him a wisp of energy.

Thanks to that, when he returned to his bathhouse on the outskirts of the village and saw that guest, standing silently outside, he was able muster the hospitality to combat the unpleasantness.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“Hmph.”

The small old man grunted discontentedly. He held the lunch that Hanna had made for him, and he stood under the eaves as though waiting for the bread. In addition to the guests who stayed for the baths, there were also those who stayed for the mountains, such as hunters and woodcutters, so it was not unusual to see patrons go out in the morning.

However, the way this old man was dressed, it did not look like he was prepared for any trade Lawrence knew.

He wore a fur-covered conical hat that was shaped like a bowl on his head, bear fur on his feet, fox fur on his shoulders, deer leather gloves on his hand, and a rather rough-looking hatchet slung behind his back. His rucksack seemed to be filled with all sorts of things, but Lawrence could not tell what was inside. The guest’s purpose was a mystery, and he almost never used the baths.

The old man tried to grab the entire package of bread as Lawrence approached him.

He seemed confused—it was far too much bread for lunch, and as though the old man realized something, he conceded and withdrew his hand. Lawrence watched and felt a strange feeling pass through him, so he took three pieces of the fresh wheat bread and wrapped them in a separate cloth. As though carefully appraising him, Lawrence passed the bread to the old man. The elderly guest remained silent, but he nodded his head slightly and walked off without a word.

He was gruff, but it was not as though he had no manners.

Lawrence watched him leave and tilted his head. He was most likely not a bad person, but there was a brooding manner about him. The old man went off down the hill in front of the bathhouse. When Lawrence could no longer see his receding figure beyond the trees, he went inside and could smell something good coming from the dining hall.

On the long table was his breakfast, which seemed to have been served quite a while ago. Baked beans, thick-cut bacon, slices of cheese, and the last of the cured herring they had ordered last fall. It seemed to be the same as what Hanna had given that odd guest for his takeaway lunch. There was no mistaking that she had saved herself some trouble and decided to make Lawrence’s portion, as well.

And there at the table, always present wherever it smelled good, sat Holo.

“You’re late. Your poor breakfast has gone cold.”

She glared at her husband, who had just come back from baking bread in the cold outside.

“I told you, they pull straws to see who bakes when. This is what it’s like when I’m first.”

On top of that, this was a job that Holo was supposed to do as the innkeeper’s wife. As he argued against her unreasonable complaints, he gave the rest of the fresh bread to Hannah, who had just emerged from the kitchen. She took out three pieces from the cloth for Lawrence.

Not two, not four, but three? Lawrence looked at her quizzically, and she just smiled mischievously. Confused, he took the bread and sat down, and then he finally understood.

They ate breakfast not facing each other across the table, but side by side. In the middle of the two chairs sat a ceramic jug, filled with wine.

Before he could argue that it was too much for the morning, his eyes stopped at Holo’s empty cup. Finally, he realized what Hanna was planning and noticed Holo.

“If you’re going to blame me for doing poorly on a job you don’t want to do…” He pulled out a chair and sat next to her. “…Then you should have done it yourself, no?”

He set two pieces of bread down on his plate and one on Holo’s.

“They might compliment you out of jealousy since you always look so young.”

Holo had the appearance of a teenage girl, and she stared at her husband, having taken offense. But Holo was not a girl, nor was she human. Since no one else was in the bathhouse, she was not hiding the ears on her head or the tail on her behind. They were a reminder that her true form was a giant wolf that could easily swallow a person whole, a spirit who resided in wheat.

“And treat you with their well-intentioned distant formality for newcomers.”

After Lawrence spoke, Holo reached out for the ceramic jug. Her small hands gripped the handle of the jug, which was much too big for her, and sloppily poured wine into Lawrence’s cup. She always only poured for herself, so Lawrence could not help but laugh at her obvious behavior.

“If you’d gone, you definitely would have been hurt.”

Holo once lived in an area called Yoitsu, but on a whim, she traveled south and stayed at a village there for hundreds of years, watching over the growing wheat. Why she did so in the first place had been lost in the flow of time, and she had even forgotten the road home. In her solitude, she had become like a stone.

That was when Lawrence met her, and this was where they ended up.

She called herself the wisewolf, cunning and sage, but she was also vain and easily became lonely.

Had she been the one at the bread oven, while she would have managed to smile at the maids’ insensitivities, he could easily imagine her becoming quickly exhausted.

“Well, I used to be a merchant. I chatted a lot with them and gave a good account of myself.”

Lawrence spoke pointedly, but Holo said nothing. She split the bacon and placed a piece in front of him.

When she usually split it, no matter how he looked at it, her own portions were always bigger. But this time, the sizes were the same.

“So I’m not mad. It’s simply how we divide the labor.”

He took the second piece of bread on his plate and split it in two, placing the larger piece on Holo’s plate.

“And so you’ve watched our odd guest for me while I was out, haven’t you?”

Holo finally looked up at Lawrence, her lips scrunching up in a sour expression, as though she were gnashing her teeth.

Lawrence softly kissed her cheek and turned to face his food.

“But for now, breakfast.”

Holo carefully watched Lawrence for a while but finally began to eat.

Her big pointed ears and tail were flicking happily.

“I do not believe he is wicked. I can sense something like his core.”

This was new for Holo, who usually had a rough time evaluating normal people.

The guest in question had arrived suddenly a little after noon the day before. “Do you have a room?” he had asked quietly, in a way that was difficult to hear. Lawrence had heard that there were those who would spend an entire winter moving from bathhouse to bathhouse.

But when Lawrence, overpowered by his presence, nodded, the guest had silently placed a gold lumione coin on the register book. This was enough for a family of four to live modestly for a month. It was far more than enough to stay for the two weeks he had requested.

However, to make a two week’s stay worth a gold lumione required effort. Lawrence offered musicians and dancers, but the old guest shook his head and refused it all. He only asked for one thing—a packed lunch, early.

He was definitely odd, but he was too unhurried for someone who might be on the run after committing a crime in another town, and it did not feel as though he was sensitive enough to be discontent with every bathhouse he had stayed in so far. Really, he did not seem to have any interest in the baths or rooms at all.

The place this peculiar guest had stayed at before coming here was the most reliable bathhouse in the village.

There lived a boy who was the same age as his daughter, Myuri, and they had often played together as children. His name was Kalm, and just the other day he had come to Lawrence asking permission to marry Myuri. He was a good young man, and Lawrence did not mind having him as a son. His father, Cyrus, seemed grumpy, but he was not so bad once one got to know him. After that odd lodger showed up, Cyrus stopped by Lawrence’s bathhouse and told him everything he knew about the man.

Whenever that old man changed houses, the previous host would relay information to the next, and this meant that all the accumulated intelligence had safely reached Lawrence in the end. Of course, he told Holo the Wisewolf this information.

“I suspect he may be a medicine man.”

“Medicine man?” Lawrence repeated, and Holo nodded. Her gaze was trained on the fresh wheat bread.

Today, their bread was a pure-white wheat bread, as it was the least they could provide to a guest that had paid them a whole gold lumione. The loaves were sweet and soft, and it was easy to eat plenty of them.

But Holo had put a gash in the bread and filled it with beans and bacon. It reminded him of a boneheaded cat when his greedy wife suggested putting one delicious thing with another would just make the result even tastier. With a big smile, she bit into the fluffy bread.

“Hmm, nom…gulp. Aye. Because—”

Lawrence cleaned off the skin of a bean that had gotten stuck to her cheek and urged her to continue.

“There is the smell of herbs about him, as well as a metallic scent coming from the items he carries on his person. There must be a sickle or the likes.”

“If he’s a traveler, then he would definitely have herbs and a short sword on him. Maybe that’s not it?”

“’Tis easy to tell for those who are used to smelling herbs. No, since I know the smell, I have smelled it somewhere before…”

She closed her eyes, searching for something in her memory, and greedily bit into the bread with her tiny mouth. Some might consider the way she gobbled it down bad manners, but there was an innocence about it that Lawrence loved.

“And hmm. For whatever reason, he has wheat on him.”

Holo was a spirit who lived in wheat. Long ago, when she had snuck into Lawrence’s wagon, she was only able to do so by using wheat.

“It’s probably rations. Something you would want to have when you travel to a cold place. Even if you had a snow shed, you probably wouldn’t put food in there. It can keep for years if it’s not ground into powder.”

“Hmm? Well, you are more knowledgeable of the human world than I am. Also, the way he’s dressed. You can tell what a man’s trade is by the way he dresses in the human world, aye?”

An innkeeper was an innkeeper, a money changer was a money changer, a merchant was a merchant. A smith would proudly wear an apron of thick, burn-resistant hide; a baker would wear a special hat.

Like Holo said, regular people would wear special outfits that showed their profession rather than stating it outright.

“I’ve never seen such a big hat before.”

It seemed as deep as a pot, and when the old man wore it, it almost covered his entire face. It was so unique that if he knew what job required such a thing, then he would be satisfied.

“There is metal inside that fur. If he wears that by design to roam out in the mountains, then it must be because he’s always next to the mountain slopes so he needs to protect his head from falling rocks.”

“…Metal? Now that I think of it, another owner told me that he might be a speculator looking for a mine.”

However, mining would wreck the environment, and if the old man wanted to work here then he would need a special permit. Many of Nyohhira’s guests had power and money, and the inhabitants had many connections they could call on to protect the land. If it was not something that would bring at least as much gold as the waters here did, then there was no way anyone would be able to get a permit. A speculator of that age would certainly know this.

“The word from those in the mountains is that somebody has been venturing into their territory but they don’t know what to do. If he were a hunter, then they’d fight him fair and square, but he doesn’t have anything resembling a weapon, and he does not chase any prey, so they, too, are confused.”

Since Holo’s true form was a wolf, it seemed as though she could communicate with normal animals.

This bathhouse was in a village in the mountains, and even further in than the others since the Spice and Wolf establishment was situated on the outskirts of the village. Regular bathhouses would normally be attacked all the time by mountain creatures, making it nearly impossible to conduct business, but Holo had given them strict orders, and they had been able to avoid any incidents.

In exchange, sometimes a bear would come to the baths, barely escaping with its life from a hunter. It was a peaceable coexistence.

“If you say that, then I can’t imagine he’s doing anything else but searching for something in the mountains.”

“Hmm.”

Holo finished her bread and licked her slim and delicate fingers. Ever since their daughter’s birth, she had not acted like this, so for Lawrence to see it for the first time in a while made him feel as though time had turned backward.

Moreover, Myuri acted the same way.

“But we do not know if searching is all he’s doing.”

“What do you mean?”

Lawrence didn’t understand and Holo gave him an irritated look.

She sighed a bit, reached out for the jug, then poured wine only for herself.

“He moves from inn to inn, aye? And he seems to hold no interest in the baths, the rooms, singing, or dancing. So…?”

“…Oh, that’s right!”

The maids at the communal oven even spoke about how he was staying at the houses in order of oldest to newest. If he was searching for something in the village bathhouses, then that made sense.

“I feel like I’ve heard a story like that before…a rich merchant falls ill in a town during his travels. Then he secretly writes about where his hidden fortune is cloistered somewhere in the house.”

Lawrence told it like a funny story, but his expression suddenly became serious.

“What if…that was real?”

“Huh?”

“It’s how much he’s paying—all that money. I haven’t seen a gold lumione in a long time. If he were searching for something, you could understand how that would be payment for searching. Lots of our customers here have status, fame, or money, anyway.”

“Hmm. Were that true, then you think he goes from house to house, searching for the hidden message, and then takes his lunch out to look for the fortune buried in the mountain?”

“It’s possible it could be a light treasure, like a will or a charter.”

Lawrence began to think seriously, but Holo suddenly sighed and snatched his piece of bacon.

“H-hey, that’s mine!”

“’Tis too much for a fool in the morning,” Holo said and inhaled the morsel.

She licked the grease off her fingers and then looked at Lawrence, irritated.

“Have you forgotten that he has no interest in the water or the rooms?”

“…Oh.”

“Were there a clue in the walls or the ceiling, he’d be searching until his eyes ran with blood. And there could be something hidden under the rocks in the bath. If he was doing something like that, we’d know right away. He’s been moving around the village all winter, aye?”

“That’s right…Hmm…But searching for something as he goes around to each inn really makes sense.”

“He may be searching for something we can’t see.”

“Huh?” Lawrence asked and, at the same time, was shocked.

Holo was looking at him, a sad and lonely smile on her face.

“Like memories.”

“…”

Holo was embarrassed and suddenly stood from her chair.

Then, she wrapped her arm around an unmoving Lawrence’s neck in an embrace. The reason she let go so quickly was likely just a show.

“Well then, I shall go tidy the mending,” Holo said in a deliberately bright manner and hurried up the stairs. Lawrence followed her with his gaze, watching until he could no longer see the fur on her tail.

Bound by her memories, Holo had stayed in the same wheat field in the same village for hundreds of years. As she did so, she had forgotten the road home and many things disappeared in the flow of time. Even after she left the village, the places she visited on her journey were so different from how she remembered that there were times she shed tears. In the end, she was able to realize she had visited this or that place before by the smell of their traditional food.

The old guest, who wore the strange fur hat on his head, seemed much older than Lawrence. It was possible that in search of memories from days long past and long forgotten, money was no object for this man.

If he visited the bathhouse where he had stayed on a previous visit to Nyohhira so long ago that he had forgotten the establishment’s name, maybe he could recall what it was that he had left behind in these mountains.

Perhaps that is why he seemed to be thinking so hard.

Lawrence brought more beans, which had already gone cold, to his mouth and chewed. Though they were cool, the flavors had blended together and it was delicious. One or two stories would embed themselves like this into a bathhouse after a long time.

Lawrence quickly finished his meal and rose from his chair.

It was not uncommon for travelers to perish during their journeys while staying at roadside inns. Though there existed hospitals on pilgrimage roads, with monasteries as the parent building, the operating costs for these facilities mainly came from the wills of those that died there. It was often said that one could profit handsomely from a well-placed hospital on a famous route.

Though there were occasionally guests that passed away while staying in Nyohhira, they often wrote their wills before coming, and there were no rumors of anyone inheriting large sums. Since many of their guests were of old age, and Nyohhira itself was located quite far to the north, customers came prepared.

Besides, it would be distasteful to leave one’s fortune at a relaxing place such as a hot spring village.

But customer death itself was not unheard of, so everyone had to be ready for that possibility.

“By the time he moved to Ramaninov’s place, most of the other owners should have questioned it already.”

Cyrus, the owner of the bathhouse that the mysterious guest stayed in before moving on to Lawrence’s, spoke with a grim look.

It was not that he disliked Lawrence, nor was he looking down on Lawrence’s shallow thinking. Cyrus was a hard man to read, with his beard covering more than half of his square face, and his eyebrows were as thick as two fingers. Moreover, he was not very expressive, and when combined with a mild demeanor, Cyrus was often misunderstood.

Lawrence quickly found out that he was a good person, though, once he talked to him.

“But, Mr. Lawrence, the competition between bathhouses here is fierce. What do you do with the room once a guest has gone home?”

“Of course, clean every nook and cranny. They leave piles of trash, you know.”

“That’s right. Even under the roof and in the basement. Skimp on the cleaning, and suddenly there are mice and owl nests everywhere. If someone squirreled away their will somewhere, we’d have found it by now.”

“We wouldn’t know right away—it could have been left as a symbol,” Lawrence retorted, and Cyrus suddenly coughed, pouring alcohol into the cup that sat on a record book. It was bittersweet liquor made from the lingonberries gathered in the summer.

Upon closer inspection, Lawrence could see that the face across from him was smiling.

“I don’t hate notions like this. I’d enjoy some occasional drama and adventure around these parts, too.”

Lawrence was not sure if it was a compliment, but he accepted the liquor. The alcohol Cyrus kept at his place was always good. The bathhouse masters often combined their hobbies with practicality and brewed their own, but Cyrus was particularly absorbed in it. The man simply treasured truly delicious drink, and he was thankful that he could blame it on the alcohol anytime he uttered something foolish.

“But…I don’t think that guy’s looking around the insides of the houses. I think every owner would say the same, since they know at all times where even all the mice families roam.”

If that was true, then it was not as though the elderly guest would secretly be searching inside the ceiling in the middle of the night.

“Do you know where he goes during the day?” Lawrence asked, and Cyrus, unyielding, shrugged his rugged shoulders.

“It’s only recently that most guests have left and gone home for any bathhouse. No one has time to keep track of his activities during the busy daytime hours.”

Cyrus lapped his liquor and tilted his head as he closed his eyes.

“It’s a bit too sweet,” he murmured, much more aware of these things than Lawrence was.

“According to hunters and loggers, it seems he’s taking the trails that branch from the village. Sometimes, he apparently goes off them. One of the hunters complained that the hunting grounds were unbearably wrecked.”

This matched the stories that Holo heard from the animals in the mountains.

“But why now?”

Cyrus posed his question suddenly.

“What do you mean?”

“Hmm…I don’t want you to think bad of me, but he’s staying at your place, Lawrence; that means he’s probably going home soon.”

Lawrence immediately understood what Cyrus was getting at.

“Right. I also thought that nothing would really come of looking into it now.”

The more senior bathhouse owners had all racked their brains over this mystery already, so it seemed incredibly pointless for Lawrence to do anything. If he was still going to try, he would need a special reason to do so.

“It’s mostly pure curiosity. I used to be a merchant, you know.”

“Curiosity…?”

To those who spent all their time in an unchanging village where the same things happened over and over, it must have sounded foreign. The bear-like Cyrus repeated Lawrence’s words, quite interested.

“And the rest?”

“Pride, actually.”

Whatever he said was the alcohol’s fault. Lawrence took another drink, as if trying to convince himself.

“This is Nyohhira. Any and all troubles melt away in our spring water, and everyone can spend their days happily. Don’t you want them to go home happy?”

He recalled the old man’s gloomy face.

“I think it’s perfect for a newcomer like me to simply maintain that practice.”

He added that the customer in question was an excellent patron who paid in gold coins.

Cyrus’s eyes twinkled, and he scratched his head.

“That’s true, though only a newcomer could say a naive line like that.”

“Everyone else already smells like sulfur, anyway.”

Cyrus agreed, shaking his shoulders in laughter, and stretched out his back. He faced the entrance of the house, almost as though he expected to see that old man walking in right at that moment.

“I didn’t think he was a bad guest.” Cyrus spoke again, quietly. “He paid well, and he didn’t complain much.”

“What about the early-morning lunch boxes?”

“The kitchen maid complained to me, of course.”

Lawrence laughed, but Cyrus continued.

“And another thing. What I liked was that he was quite the drinker. He drank carefully, like he savored and tasted it. That’s unusual for guests here.”

“Everyone else drinks like a fish.”

Cyrus narrowed his eyes, still gazing at the entrance, and emitted a small sigh.

“He moved on with a glum face, but I was the one left smiling. I think the steam from the baths clouded my eyes and soul as a bathhouse master.”

He dropped his eyes to his hands and took a drink of his specialty liquor.

“It’s the same with the strange festival you came up with before, Mr. Lawrence. We’re worn down in our everyday lives, little by little. A stone in the river becomes nice and smooth, but the current can carry it away. It can’t stop or endure the pull anymore. But then we’re used to it, and even if we look for excitement, we end up missing everything. I was ignoring the guests who seemed grouchy, who couldn’t say what they needed to say to the ones closest to them, even though they were right here in Nyohhira.”

Cyrus spoke at length, then suddenly closed his mouth. He hung his head, his expression a bit sad, then murmured as though speaking to his reflection in the liquor.

“This is unlike me. I talked too much.”

It seemed as though he was blushing behind his beard.

Lawrence took a drink and then spoke.

“I actually like how sweet this is.”

Cyrus lifted his head and laughed in relief.

“That’s probably because your own bathhouse is so sweet.”

“My own bathhouse?”

“It’s a thing among the guests. They say watching the couple that owns Spice and Wolf interact is much more interesting than the musicians and dancers there. It’s a reflection of the bathhouses in Nyohhira.”

“…”

Lawrence tried to show his personal opinion with a feigned expression, but it did not seem to fool the other man.

Cyrus seemed to be pleased from the bottom of his heart and took another sip.

“I can see how young Myuri was raised to be such an open, innocent girl.”

All the guests at Cyrus’s bathhouse had already gone home, and all was quiet.

His gentle speech softly echoed throughout the building.

Lawrence’s face was hot due to the alcohol and nothing else. As he told himself this, Cyrus laughed.

“I’ll do what I can to help you with that guest,” Cyrus said as they parted, and he waved his hand. Lawrence ended up staying quite a while at his place. Cyrus treated him to all sorts of fruit liquor that had matured during the winter, and Lawrence departed for home a bit drunk. He had also offered some lunch before he left, but Lawrence could not bring himself to accept that on top of everything else.

They had talked about the mystery guest, and once Lawrence thanked him for the alcohol, he left.

He started feeling it as he walked back, and mastering his shaky legs, he finally reached home. There, Holo and Hanna were doing the mending together in the dining hall. The second they looked at his face, they furrowed their brows.

“You seem in good spirits, aye?”

He could not argue, since he had left the needlework to the women as he came home drunk.

Meekly, he dropped his head partly out of regret, as though she would bite off his head, but that just made him feel dizzier.

“The liquor at Cyrus’s place…hic…is really…good…”

“Honestly, you fool.”

Holo placed the hemp sheet on the long table and stood, pressing close to Lawrence.

When he thought she would give him a good punch, she lent him her shoulder.

“I cannot stand the smell of alcohol in the bedroom. Hanna, fetch water and a blanket.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

As though she already expected it, Hanna had also risen from her chair. As Lawrence watched her, Holo pulled him into the next room.

It was a carpeted room, where a hearth was carved into the floor. Hanging from the beams on the ceiling were meats and fish that they caught near the village, which were often smoked or roasted as a snack to accompany drinks for those who stayed awake at night. Occasionally, this was a place to rest for those who got drunk too early in the day and could not navigate the stairs.

She left him to lie there, and he stared absently up at the sooty ceiling.

This ceiling, which had been around for a little over ten years, looked as though it had been used for a long time, but a closer examination showed that it was still quite new.

It was said that a bathhouse would be considered seasoned when soot made the joinery in the wood invisible.

Not fighting his heavy eyelids, he murmured to himself, “From now on, from now on…”

“You shan’t sleep yet.”

Just as his consciousness was about to blink out, he could feel someone tugging his head up and something shoved into his mouth.

“You must drink some water.”

Holo looked down at him, a serious expression on her face. She’s worried about me, he thought and smiled in happiness.

“Don’t laugh, you drunk. Drink!”

She scolded him, and he swallowed the cool water. It must have been snow melted in the hot baths. It was trouble to draw water from the river every day, so most bathhouses used snow this way.

When he first drank it, after tamping snow into a jug and boiling it into barely potable water, it tasted too much like sulfur, as though the steam had dissolved in it. But now, he thought of it as the unique taste of Nyohhira’s water.

“Honestly, ’tis much too early for you to smell like such delicious liquor…Lingonberries, currants…Mm, oh, is that blackberry?”

Holo sniffed him, as though discerning which smell was which, and complained bitterly.

“It was…good. He’s particular about…the water, right?” Lawrence said, laughing, and Holo smacked him on the forehead. Then Hanna soon covered him in a blanket and took the time to place burning charcoal in the hearth and added a bit of wood.

“You fool. You owe me, aye?”

Holo admonished him and secured her own future right to get brazenly drunk during the daytime.

Lawrence smiled and closed his eyes and heard a sigh.

Suddenly, she picked up his head and something was placed between that and the floor.

“…?”

He opened one eye to find that a cloth had been placed on his face.

“Wha—? What is it?”

“Mm?”

Removing the cloth, he noticed Holo’s face decorated with a bit of a mischievous smile.

It seemed she received the rest of the mending from Hanna.

“’Tis a bother that only I am working.”

She laid her drunken husband’s head in her lap.

This would be considered the act of a wonderful wife if that was all, but it was Holo’s style to place the mending cloth atop her husband’s face.

“If you find it unpleasant, I shan’t mind if you move, you know.”

If he did move, there was no doubt that she would not speak a word to him for at least three days.

Lawrence sighed, giving up, and closed his eyes.

Holo secretly smiled, but he could feel it through her legs.

She ran her fingers through his hair, and as she did that, he fell asleep.

When he suddenly came to, the view of a ceiling that was not his bedroom’s greeted him. The guilt of taking such a long nap and irresistible comfort came together into a yawn. He must have felt incredibly tired because he had dreamed that Holo was throwing acorns at him. They hit his head with soft thunks.

When he thought that it was oddly warm in the blanket, he noticed Holo was with him. She breathed softly, going “fuu fuu” in her sleep, comfortably. Thinking she should at least take off her head covering while she slept, he reached out to remove it but stopped.

He could hear the unmistakable sound of water dripping.

He thought for a moment there was a leak, but that was not it. The sound told him to remember something more serious, more important. Right. What Holo was throwing at him in his dream were not acorns…

That was it.

He shot up and looked toward the entrance to the bathhouse.

“…”

There stood the strange guest, completely drenched from the snow.

“I—I didn’t realize!”

His dream about acorns hitting his head had actually been footsteps sounding against the floor.

He could not believe he had shown the man such a disgraceful sight, the master of the bathhouse himself leisurely taking a nap. He hastened to right himself, but then he remembered Holo, who clung to him. He tried to hide her, pulling the blanket over her, as though it would somehow trick the man at this point.

The old man stared at him.

Lawrence could do nothing but show him a strained smile.

“…Mm…Hey…,” came a muffled voice from inside the blanket.

Lawrence ignored his wife, pulling her off before lifting her and wrapping the blanket around her. “Huh? What?!” Holo wriggled inside, but he pretended not to hear.

“Please wait there a moment! I will bring you something to dry off with and prepare the fire shortly!” he said to the old man, who stood silently in the doorway, and rushed off, carrying Holo to the second floor. He was painfully aware of the old man’s stare following them.

How embarrassing!

Though the old man likely had not seen Holo’s ears and tail, it still cast a shadow on their service quality.

Dropping the Holo bundle onto the bed, Lawrence hurried back down to the first floor, ignoring his wife’s censure.

Having fed both the hearth and the stove with plenty of wood, the guest’s wet items were drying. There was no such thing as being too thorough with a single guest, and one that paid in gold at that.

However, no matter how many times Lawrence spoke to the old man—“Why don’t you use the baths to warm up?” or “Would you like something to eat before dinner?” or “Where did you go today?”—he was met with silence. He sometimes shook his head or nodded, so it was not as though he was completely ignoring the questions, but the mysterious man was still difficult to deal with.

Lawrence felt indebted after showing his customer such a foolish scene and found himself on the defensive. But if the host paid the guest too much attention, it could backfire and make him even more uncomfortable. Lawrence told the old man to call him if he needed anything and let him be.

But after his heated discussion with Cyrus, there was a lot Lawrence wanted to ask the curious visitor. Of course, for the man’s own sake as well, Lawrence wanted to help him leave with a smile.

First, it was clear that since he had come back covered in snow, he had spent the entire time walking around the mountain. Lawrence could also tell that whatever the elder’s intentions, it was likely not going so well if he was searching so hard.

What on earth is he looking for?

It seemed that the more Lawrence thought about it, the more questions he ended up with, and he complained as much to Hanna in the kitchen. Ever since he unceremoniously bundled Holo off and abandoned her on the bed upstairs, she had not deigned to leave the bedroom out of anger, and because the odd guest was warming up by the hearth, Hanna had nowhere else to be.

“But I agree with your wife. He is probably an herbalist.”

Hanna spoke while she prepared dinner. She chopped and threw vegetables into the pot. She had been growing them throughout the winter, and they were an almost unnatural shade of dark green.

“Is there a reason?”

“I offered him some mulled wine earlier, but he was eating snow!”

“Snow? Did he want cold water?”

Lawrence might have been mistaken assuming their guest wanted something warm after being in the cold outside. He was probably thirsty after moving around a lot.

“That’s not what it seemed like, I’m telling you.”

She added jerky and pickled cabbage into the pot and then generously sprinkled salt onto it.

“He ate it slowly, as if he was checking it. It means that something is definitely wrong.”

Lawrence did not understand what Hanna was saying. He stared at her blankly, and she gave him a surprised look.

“Oh, did you not know, sir?”

“What?”

“In the south, where they grow olives, you can sell snow as medicine. People say it works well for headaches, stomachaches, fevers, and toothaches. Well, I think it’s only the nobles that buy it.”

Lawrence shook his head. He never traveled that far south, not even when he was a merchant.

“Even in the south, they gather snow from the tall mountains in the winter, you know. They pack trunks with it, and they cram those into the holds on their boats, like they’ve bundled up the mountain itself. Then, they bury the snow in deep holes, and once the weather becomes hot, they dig everything back up and sell it. Since it’s possible to get the goods without paying, people say you can earn quite the profit from it, but different places vary and all that, of course.”

“Uh-huh.” Lawrence sighed in admiration. It was definitely a trade where a large company used a widely cast distribution network to do business. With their skill and expertise, they could turn even things that fell from the sky into gold. “So you think…he’s a southerner?”

A southerner from so far south that he thought of snow as medicine and the land itself had no connection to the cold. A place that even he had never been to, one that he had only heard of in stories…

Lawrence, coming to a conclusion, suddenly raised his voice.

Hanna, who was peering into the oven, turned to face him with a questioning look.

“Could it be…?”

Lawrence suddenly turned on his heel but ended up kicking a colander full of fava beans.

“Waah! Ahh!”

He stepped onto the bellows as he tried collecting the scattered beans. He could hear Hanna laughing behind him.

“You’re quite scatterbrained, sir.”

He could only show his embarrassment by gesturing with his shoulders as he gave a half smile.

“It’s all right. I’ll do the rest. I don’t know what you’ve thought up anyhow.”

What she must have wanted to say was that she could not have him making a mess in her territory anymore.

“Then, my apologies, I leave the rest to you…”

Hanna, still laughing, shrugged her shoulders.

Lawrence returned the colander to its place and left the kitchen. Then, he took out crude paper and a pot of ink from beneath the counter. He thought the contents might have frozen in the cold, but it seemed usable. He snatched a quill pen and headed to the hearth room.

The odd guest sat staring at the fire and was, of course, eating snow. He ate slowly, chewing it well, as though letting it seep into his body. The old man, who had the countenance of a hermit, heard Lawrence’s footsteps and looked up.

Lawrence entered with a simple “Excuse me” and sat at the other end of the hearth, pen in hand.

Then, he wrote “hello” in every language he knew and showed the paper to the old man, who opened his eyes in surprise and looked at Lawrence.

As Lawrence gestured to each greeting one at a time, the old man looked as though he had seen a dragon in broad daylight and pointed to one. What surprised Lawrence was that the writing the old man pointed to was a language used all throughout the world and probably even in heaven. It was liturgical script, the language of the Church—something that was unreadable without education.

“Who…are you?”

Lawrence asked, not thinking. The old man opened his mouth to respond but immediately closed it. Instead, he pointed to the pen and paper Lawrence held. He gave them to his guest, and the man nodded in thanks before beginning to write fluidly. He was not unfriendly, nor was he stubborn. He had simply been unable to speak.

In addition, having come from so far south, he likely had not thought that a bathhouse owner from such a remote town in what was considered, up until recently, pagan land could read and write in liturgical script.

However, anyone that stayed here a long time would know that there were many high-ranking clergy among the clientele. He should have been able to communicate with the bathhouse masters through them if there were any inconveniences.

As Lawrence thought this odd, the old man showed him what he wrote.

“This is…?” he asked with his eyes, and the old man nodded.

The following was written there:

“I have come here on a mission by the orders of a certain exalted personage. For this, I require special, good water that should be here in this village. However, both snow and pure water here do not seem special. I ask if you are familiar with this.”

His writing was elegant and fluid.

He remembered the term medicine man. Then he remembered what Hanna said—snow as medicine.

The old man did not let the details of his goal slip easily since the one that likely required the medicine was this certain exalted personage. If someone who held an important position showed weakness, they would become a target. It was likely that this person was hiding the sickness from their peers. There were many guests from the south that stayed in Nyohhira for extended periods of time. If he had asked another guest who could understand liturgical script to mediate an exchange, it could very well be that the other guest in question was connected to someone influential that opposed his own master. He must have been hesitant to speak openly about searching for medicine.

Coupled with the old man’s gloomy expression, this made sense to Lawrence.

“I…”

He began to respond, but he remembered that the old man did not entirely understand the regional language.

He bowed lightly, taking back the pen and paper, and wrote:

“I don’t know much about it, but I will ask someone who does.”

After reading, the old man raised his head and again bowed deeply.

But Lawrence could not help but ask:

“Why did you decide to tell me of your objective?”

Lawrence thought that it was likely he had given up finding his objective on his own. The old man’s expression was troubled, but he finally took the pen in hand. He wrote lightly:

“You seem to be someone I can place my trust in.”

Lawrence racked his brain, attempting to recall what the guest might have seen to come to such a conclusion. He decided it was probably more that the old man thought Lawrence was easy to control, rather than trustworthy.

But of course, it was not a problem that this man had placed his confidence in Lawrence. Satisfied, he nodded, resisting the temptation to give the excuse that he was a slightly foolish bathhouse owner.

When looking for something in the mountains, there were plenty of dependable people who could be called on.

If Lawrence asked the most reliable of them, then he could immediately find the good water his elderly visitor searched for. He could learn everything immediately if it had to do with the mountains of Nyohhira.

The problem was, Lawrence rolled up that so-called godlike presence earlier and abandoned her on the bed.

If he went to her empty-handed, he would likely receive nothing but snide remarks. Putting on a fur coat, he first made his way to Cyrus’s bathhouse. Tucked in his arm he carried salted lamb ribs, something even Holo adored. It was in thanks for earlier that day, as well as a way to secure liquor that could placate Holo. And since Cyrus’s hobby was making alcohol, he might know the whereabouts of good water that could be used in medicine.

It was late in the afternoon, and once the sun dipped behind the mountains, darkness quickly fell over the village. This was when Nyohhira became like a flame that refused to go out when softly placed in water. Usually, the evening was the busiest time of day with preparations for dinner parties, but there were no guests during this season.

When Lawrence reached the bathhouse, Cyrus’s sons sat opposite each other at the long table. They looked to be learning how to use an abacus made of wooden balls and sticks.

The moment Myuri’s childhood friend, Kalm, noticed Lawrence’s arrival, he instantly straightened his back and forced a tense smile. He probably had trouble deciding whether to smile amicably at the father of the girl he wanted to marry or to show a manly expression.

Lawrence smiled soothingly, and it seemed some of Kalm’s tension dissipated.

“Is Cyrus around?”

“Y-yes, my father is in the back with the firewood.”

“Thanks,” Lawrence said and added, “Study hard.”

“Yes!” Kalm responded in a strong voice and nudged his little brother, who just stared blankly at what was happening.

Like his son had said, Cyrus was in the back, taking a break with ax in hand. Exertion rose as steam from his shirtless body.

“Oh, how can I help you?”

“This is thanks for earlier.”

He handed over the wrapped package he held in his arm. Cyrus took it, and his eyes widened when he checked inside.

“This is…I’ve gotten pretty good at business, too. Just a bit of liquor’s brought some wonderful meat.”

“A token of my gratitude, and an advance for a question I have, as well as for a favor I need.”

Cyrus laughed, shaking his shoulders, at how nonchalant Lawrence sounded.

“Ask away. This is good meat; it’ll go well with plenty of drink.”

He rewrapped it before leaving to store the gift in the kitchen connected with the firewood yard, then returned and took hold of the ax.

“I hope you don’t mind if we do this while I split wood.”

“Of course.”

Cyrus nodded. He brought the ax up and, without straining, let it drop. With a satisfying noise, the wood cleaved in two.

“I managed to get that old man to tell me what he was looking for.”

Cyrus, placing the next piece of wood on the stump, directed only his eyes toward Lawrence.

“He’s come far from the south, and the reason he was always so quiet was only because he didn’t understand the language here.”

“So how did you talk to him?”

“Liturgical script. I had to use it every once in a while when I worked as a merchant.”

“…How much liquor would it take if I asked you to teach my sons?”

If he really wanted them to learn, he could ask any of their clientele. It was Cyrus’s way of joking.

“Ask me any time. And our guest said that he’s looking for good water.”

“Good water?”

“In the south, they apparently use snow as medicine. So I wonder if it’s for that.”

Cyrus gazed off into the distance, but his body continued to cut wood without faltering.

“I see. A spring of miracles that gives long life and cures sickness is a common myth.”

“Do you know anything about good water that could awaken even the dead?”

“Yes. You drank some today, Mr. Lawrence.”

“Do you use it for your liquor?”

“I do. Water from the river is enough for most customers, and the melted snow that tastes like sulfur is fine for the drunks. But for guests who have refined tastes, there’s a certain kind of water I use for their liquor. Or for the high-class guests that pay in gold.”

“Could you tell me?”

There was a reason Lawrence brought first-class lamb ribs. He thought that since making alcohol was Cyrus’s hobby, he might know where this water would be.

But if the secret to his signature liquor’s taste was in the water, it was likely he had no inclination to tell others.

“I know that’s what you’re thinking.”

Cyrus said the exact words that Lawrence was thinking and smiled.

“It’s not a secret. If you go north on a path the hunters call the Gray Wolf Road, you’ll run into a deep valley. If you go in until your body barely fits, you’ll find a spring that doesn’t freeze no matter how cold it is. The water there is exquisite.”

“Oh…Th-thank you.”

He had told him so easily that Lawrence suddenly felt deflated. When he thanked him, Cyrus shrugged his rough shoulders.

“Everyone in the village knows about it.”

For a moment, Lawrence felt as though a line had been drawn between them.

But he trusted the man in front of him, and it could be interpreted as though Cyrus was telling him, It’s about time you knew, too, Lawrence.

“I will pay you back for this.”

“You already have.”

Cyrus smiled and returned to his firewood. Lawrence wanted to thank him again, out of habit as a businessperson, but he resisted. If they were friends, then it would be rude instead.

“On your way out, tell Kalm which liquor you like and take it. You went home drunk, so I bet your cute wife was pretty mad at you.”

“…That’s rather accurate.”

“Everyone’s the same.”

Cyrus smiled, and Lawrence sighed in defeat.

“See you later.”

“Bye.”

Cyrus did not watch him go. Lawrence turned on his heel, returned to the front, and collected the liquor.

He looked back when Cyrus’s place had grown distant, and lingering there in the growing darkness was a beautiful bathhouse.

Lawrence gave Holo the liquor he received from Cyrus, and once she finally regained her good mood, he asked about the water again. He also asked Hanna, who often ventured out on the mountain to gather vegetables, and she also indicated the place Cyrus mentioned was the best.

Holo nipped at him, hinting that there was no need to get liquor from Cyrus if that was the case. But if she was in a better mood, then that was good enough reason for Lawrence.

The old man, with whom Lawrence could finally communicate through liturgical script, introduced himself as Ceres. Though, it was likely not his real name, because he had been entrusted with a secret mission from his master, but it mattered not.

Since there were no other guests besides Ceres, and it was rather quiet in the bathhouse, Lawrence invited him to eat dinner with them, and he gladly accepted. His usually grumpy expression seemed to be his natural one. He complimented the food precisely and only slightly, and he seemed to narrow his eyes in enjoyment when he saw Lawrence cautioning Holo about showing her large appetite to a guest. It was embarrassing, being watched as though they were his bantering grandchildren, but if Ceres was having fun, then Lawrence should, as a bathhouse master, give over and let him smile.

The next day, Lawrence offered to help with collecting the water, but Ceres slowly shook his head. All he asked for was an earthen jug to draw the water with. He said it was his job. The pride he held in carrying out his work seemed to be like that of a knight.

Lawrence told him where the Gray Wolf Road and the marker for its entrance were and saw him off with Hanna before daybreak. Holo was fast asleep in bed, unwilling to go out in the cold.

As he departed, Ceres seemed glum as always; looking at him from behind, it seemed that his steps had a new lightness to them, though.

Lawrence sighed in content, relieved that all was finally settled.

Then, after a quick nap and working hard on his daily duties, morning became afternoon.

Ceres returned, his expression dejected.

“You didn’t get the water?”

According to Cyrus, it would not freeze no matter how cold it became, but it was impossible to tell what would happen in the mountains. Thinking this, Lawrence had posed his question, but Ceres slowly shook his head. He was likely expressing his disappointment rather than a lack of understanding.

“Well, first, let’s dry out your wet clothes.”

As Lawrence fed firewood to the hearth and stove, Ceres stood nearby, staring into the ceramic jug he cradled. It was a brooding, sad look.

“Here.”

Lawrence gestured to the fire, and Ceres reluctantly complied. He respectfully received the jug and handed it to Holo, who was watching quietly. Then Lawrence helped with drying Ceres’s wet clothes.

When that was mostly finished, he handed Ceres some mulled wine. In the dining hall next door, he whispered to Holo.

“This isn’t it?”

Holo sniffed the inside of the jug and tilted her head in puzzlement.

“’Tis it.”

With a wolf’s sense of smell, she could discern the smell of that superior water.

But if that were so, why did Ceres seem as crestfallen as he did? Lawrence thought about it, and it suddenly bothered him. Why was this water not what he wanted? Conversely, what qualities did the water need to satisfy his search?

“Hey, does a spring of miracles really exist?” Lawrence asked suddenly, and Holo looked at him blankly. “You know, like water of youth, or water of healing, something like that,” he explained, and she finally nodded.

“I, too, know of such myths. You have eaten the bread of the wheat from Pasloe, where I slept, aye?”

That was where Holo, in a strong sense of obligation, watched over the growing wheat for hundreds of years. Years before, Lawrence passed by the village occasionally on his trade route.

He looked at her, puzzled, and she smiled mischievously.

“Then you have eaten bread blessed by my miracles, though your foolishness was not cured.”

“…”

Lawrence sighed, and Holo cackled. But he understood easily.

“If so…”

What was Ceres really looking for in the water? Or did he really believe the myths and think he would know immediately if he should drink it? Here he stood in front of what everyone in town lauded as the best water in Nyohhira, and he was perturbed.

Then, Ceres suddenly appeared, his mouth drawn taut.

“Oh, hello…This?”

It seemed he wanted the ceramic jug. Lawrence of course handed it over without a qualm.

Then Ceres put his lips to the container’s mouth and heavily gulped down some of the contents. He closed his eyes, swallowing it.

He opened them after a few moments, and his expression was still that of disappointment.

“Good…”

With strange pronunciation, he spoke.

“Good…”

He said it again and shook his head. Lawrence and Holo looked at each other, and then he looked at Ceres. He gave a big sigh and placed the jug on the long table.

“No.”

They were clear words of denial. Before Lawrence could say anything, Ceres turned on his heels. Lawrence thought if he could ask what was wrong with it, then they might find a way to a solution.

Or perhaps he had to tell Ceres that what he was looking for in the water was nothing but a myth.

As Lawrence was thinking this, Ceres reached out to the thing that sat next to the hearth.

“…His hat?”

What Holo was talking about was his conical hat, covered in fur and lined with metal. But Ceres flipped it over and pulled on a string inside it, removing the wet fur on the outside.

“It’s a pot,” Lawrence suddenly realized.

With it, Ceres took out a few small packages from his rucksack. There came a grainy sound, and when Lawrence looked at Holo standing next to him, she shrugged.

“Alcohol.”

Ceres spoke up, and Lawrence, suddenly snapping back to reality, hurriedly tried to make his way over to the kitchen. Ceres stopped him.

“No. Alcohol.”

Ceres shook his head and repeated his words again. There were hemp bags in the pot he was holding.

Lawrence recalled what Holo had said yesterday. These were things he carried on his person.

What was inside the bags was wheat. If so, then the pot he brought…

“You’re…a brewer.”

Ceres, not understanding Lawrence’s words, furrowed his brow and once more said, “Alcohol.”

Two pieces of metal with the same shape, one lying inside the other, and they could be turned into two pots. In one pot, he poured out the water he had drawn earlier and placed it over the hearth. In the other pot, he emptied ground wheat from a hemp bag.

“Oh, ’tis local wheat.”

Holo identified it just by looking.

Ceres boiled the water in the first vessel, occasionally stirring it. Steam billowed, but just as it seemed to start bubbling, he removed that pot from the flame. Retrieving a wooden ladle from his rucksack, he mixed the water into the wheat. This continued until all of the water in the pot had been shifted over. In the end, he checked the temperature with his finger, adjusted the pot’s position on the fire pit, and flipped over the now-empty water pot for use as a lid.

It seemed the first step was finished.

Ceres faced Lawrence and indicated he needed a pen and paper.

“I am a chef employed by a certain country’s royal family.”

Ceres first wrote this and paused. Lawrence was not surprised to read “royal family” since he had paid so well and how freely he used liturgical script, which indicated a well-to-do upbringing. A regular brewer would not be the same.

“However, I originally worked for the princess’s family, and I was placed where I presently am as a part of her dowry.”

He wrote and suddenly took the pot in hand and closed his eyes, as if checking for something.

Then, he stuck his fingers directly into the hearth’s coals and adjusted the flame. He did not seem at all bothered by the heat, and it appeared he was not burnt. The hands of a master craftsman are thick, or so the saying went. That seemed to be exactly the case here.

“When the princess learned she would marry, she indulged her selfishness only once. She said she wished to soak in the famous waters of Nyohhira. If she did, she said, she would be able to overcome anything.”

Those events had happened during a time more unstable than now. Lawrence nodded, and Ceres slowly closed his eyes. When he did, it seemed as though he could still hear the turmoil.

“She hid her origins and put up at an inn, while I accompanied her as her servant. She had a wonderful time and spent her days in what might have been her last moments of freedom, as well as preparing herself for the future.”

For those who held high social status, bloodlines were nothing but a tool. Lawrence translated every detail for Holo, who made a sympathetic, glum face.

“However, the princess happened upon a young man there. He, too, was of noble lineage and they recognized one another’s identities immediately, so we could not outright ignore him. While I looked on in amazement, the two became close.”

As Lawrence conveyed this to Holo, her face darkened even more. With a saddened expression, she drew close to him and clung to his arm. It seemed as though she was praying, I hope this will have a happy ending.

“The princess was a noblewoman that quite gracefully maintained court etiquette, but in Nyohhira, she was simply herself. She held her liquor well so she did nothing but drink and dance, so much that the young man finally admitted defeat.”

Holo was happy, moved by a woman who loved to drink and dance.

“But the fun days soon passed, and the princess was not so weak as to make a mistake and give into a passing temptation. When the time came, she quietly gathered her things, and said good-bye to the man she had danced with, with a single handshake.”

He straightened his back but did not smile, as though imagining a strong princess who put on a brave front. Still clinging to Lawrence’s arm, Holo stared intensely at Ceres’s writing, even though there was no way she could have understood it.

“On the way home, the princess spoke not even once. When she finally did, it was the day of the wedding, when her life in a strange land, in a strange castle, with strange people began. I had not known how anxious she was. She was strong. She did, however, say one thing to me, who had accompanied her from her homeland. ‘Do you remember the taste of the liquor there?’ she asked. I, of course, could not dishonor the princess. I told her, ‘I am a chef that has mastered the food of the court, and on my pride, I do remember.’”

Ceres glanced fleetingly over at the pot again and then slowly continued to write.

“Then she said, ‘It’s all right, then. If I can drink that anytime, it’ll be all right.’”

The old man’s hand stopped, but he did not look up from the paper. The only sound in the room was the crack, crack of the burning coal in the sunken hearth.

The rustling sound of clothes was Holo, leaning forward.

“So…Was there a familiar face where she was sent to marry? No?”

It was common for nobility to not know the face of the person they were promised to in political marriages. Since that was expected, it was easy to imagine stories. Though it was to be a calculated marriage, they both already knew and grew attracted to each other in a place where they did not know their identities. It was a popular fantasy among the village girls.

And of course, Ceres was already well aware. Though he did not entirely understand Holo’s words, he slowly shook his head.

Holo inhaled sharply. Lawrence wrapped his arm around Holo’s small back.

“The king was a wonderful man, twelve years her senior. He took good care of her. They were blessed with children, and I’d never seen such a happy court before.”

Ceres looked at Holo and gave her a little smile.

Holo, knowing she had been fooled, for some reason hit Lawrence’s arm. He could tell that she seemed genuinely relieved. Ceres was excellent at telling stories. He likely told this one to his own grandchildren as well.

But there, he stopped writing.

There was one difference between stories and reality—reality did not stop there.

“The princess did not ask for that liquor once. There was no need. However, the king has taken ill, becoming bedridden for a long while, and she suddenly called upon me. She told me to fetch that liquor.”

It was likely not for her own sake, but for the king that was pained in sickness and did not have much time left.

The kings of old colored their lives with battle and politics. The luxury of leisurely soaking in a hot spring was for nothing higher than the caged daughters of nobility.

He recalled Ceres’s gloomy expression.

A chef’s trade had the sole purpose of making people happy. In Ceres’s professional life, this was likely his last and most important job.

“But you can’t re-create the taste?” Lawrence asked as he wrote the same. Ceres dropped his shoulders and nodded.

“I have tried several different methods of brewing with local wheat already. I remember the taste, the ingredients, everything. But I cannot re-create it. The ale I was treated to here was so pure. I can tell the result of the brew if I know the taste of the water. Otherwise, I thought, as I went from house to house.”

“Otherwise?”

Lawrence’s question appeared on his face, and Ceres looked back at him before looking at Holo, for some reason.

His eyes squinted slowly, as though he was calmly smiling.

“They say the air of the land seeps into the drink at the time of the brewing. A dreary air produces a dreary brew. A cheerful air produces a cheerful brew. That is why I thought this could be the place.”

After writing the last letter, he gave a meaningful smile. Holo cocked her head in confusion, but Lawrence cleared his throat in embarrassment. Earlier, he had seen them napping together by the hearth, and even now, Holo stuck to his side like a little girl.

Lawrence, by any means, had no courage to say that his own bathhouse was the best in Nyohhira, but he could say that it was different. Cyrus, too, had said such a thing to him earlier that day.

Lawrence and Holo, as husband and wife, definitely got along best in the whole village.

Lawrence, too, had heard of such a brewer’s superstition, but he did not believe it. Ceres was likely the same. He was just searching desperately for some sort of clue.

“The water here is good. That is true for every house here. Since it is the same water they use to brew, the drink is also good. But it is an average good. That special flavor I tasted thirty years ago has not shown itself.”

When Ceres finished writing, he produced several small hemp pouches from his rucksack. Inside was every possible variety of herb that could be harvested from the area. Holo, who had a strong nose, gave a small sneeze at the sudden explosion of scent.

“Flavor…”

Or perhaps the air of that time itself had melted into the taste.

Ceres, glum face unchanging, glared at the metal pot.

It sat there silently.

Holo had a good nose and was thus picky with taste, but she could not produce it. Hanna did not know much about making alcohol, either, so in the end, Lawrence went to Cyrus.

“The taste of the ale from thirty years ago?”

When he told him the story, Cyrus became clearly flustered.

“That’s when I first came here…,” he said, then closed his mouth and directed his gaze to the spot beside Lawrence.

Standing there was a visitor that came before he did.

“I was about your age then, boy.”

The speaker was an elderly man who had a perfectly round head and a long, white beard that gave the impression of steam rising from the baths. He was not tall, but in old age, one could see the reminders that he had been quite stout in his younger days. His name was Jeck, and he was the now-retired, former master of the bathhouse that served the best food in all of Nyohhira.

“But ale, right? That’s difficult stuff. With local wheat, if the malt roast is about the same, you won’t get a difference. If he says he’s mastered the food of the court, I don’t think he’d get that wrong.”

Without mentioning his true intentions, Ceres shared his information with Cyrus and the others.

“Does it depend on the year of the wheat?”

Cyrus asked this, and Jeck shook his head. The pair, separated in age almost as much as a father and son, were brought together by their love for making alcohol and seemed to be rather close as master and pupil.

“I don’t know if the harvest is really bad, but if you add wheat grinding to the wort before it becomes alcohol, something will come of it. That’s for someone with much greater skill than us.”

Jeck was also mindful of Ceres; it seemed the old bathhouse owner’s pride had been a bit hurt when Ceres looked unhappy about his food and drink. But when Lawrence told him that Ceres was a court chef, Jeck was shocked for another reason. For anyone who stood in the world of cooking, this man was an existence normally far beyond reach.

“He said ‘special flavor.’”

“Hmm…It might be the taste of the time…”

“Isn’t that a brewer’s superstition?” Cyrus asked.

“Hmm? Ah, you mean how the taste changes depending on the air of the place. That is true, but—”

“Huh?!”

Lawrence and Cyrus both raised their voices at the same time, and Jeck snorted.

“But it’s not about the mood of the place, which you hear often. As the weather changes, the earth does, too, and the taste of the drink can actually change, even when made from the same ingredients. I’m sure, even the spirits of drink in the heavens alter like we do when the earth changes. And that’s why our guest here came back. You can get the ingredients as long as you have gold, and something will come of it. Isn’t that right?”

His question was directed at Lawrence. As a former merchant, his face was known throughout this northern land in a way. Jeck smiled like a mischievous child, and Lawrence could only feel obligated.

“That’s, well, yes…It will take some time, but I can get them.”

“He has the skill, he has the ingredients, and he’s come all the way here. If he doesn’t get the flavor after brewing with all that, then what tints it is the air of time…In a word, his memories.”

However, would a chef who decorated the plates of royalty forget such a taste, even if it was thirty years ago?

Neither Lawrence nor Cyrus said anything, but shared this question between them with a glance. Jeck gave an exaggerated sigh.

“You two are still kids.”

He spoke frankly.

“The food you eat when you’re having fun is good because of that. It’s even better when you’re with pleasant friends. But if you sit and eat with your wife when you’re in the middle of a fight, it won’t taste like anything! That’s how it is.”

“…”

The two looked down, as though apologizing for their inattentiveness, and Jeck nodded dramatically. Lawrence liked him—he reminded him of Holo.

“However, letting our guest go home with a frown is not Nyohhira’s style.” Jeck grumbled, running his hand over his head.

“When Cyrus told me earlier about our guest, he told me what you said, Lawrence. I agree with you. I was angry—‘what a stubborn customer! It’s his fault!’…and such. I didn’t realize steam was clouding my soul. How regrettable that is.”

Jeck spoke as he took Lawrence’s hand.

“You’ve reminded me what’s important at this old age. Thank you, Lawrence.”

Hearing those words was too much for Lawrence, and he was at a loss. But Jeck was not teasing him nor making a joke, it seemed. Lawrence looked back at the old man in awe, like a child.

He gripped Jeck’s hand in return with natural strength.

“Heh-heh. When you first came and built your bathhouse here, I thought, look at this timid man with no spine.”

Jeck smiled and spoke freely, and though Cyrus did not laugh outright in front of Lawrence, he played it off with a cough.

“Sometimes, a person never fits into the place they live. But you were meant to come here, Mr. Lawrence.”

Jeck clasped his shoulder, and he felt as though something was peeling off from his stiffened face.

Lawrence’s expression, now soft, showed a smile of pure happiness.

“But when I first drank the water here, I was sick all the time.”

“Ha-ha-ha. That’s the sulfur in the water. I had my first bath in these waters, so it’s nothing to me, but Cyrus here kept his mouth closed at first, too.”

“Even the water I used for bread was from the river or pure mountain water.”

When he said that, Lawrence recalled the cool taste of the water that Holo gave him after he came home drunk. Water made from snow melted in the heat of the baths had that taste. That was the aroma of Nyohhira.

That is why Cyrus continued, not thinking about it.

“You can taste the hot springs in everything.”

What?

They all spoke at once. Even Cyrus was surprised at his own words. The bathhouse masters, from the oldest to the newest, all looked at one another. “Impossible,” was written on all of their faces.

Lawrence went back through his memories. He immediately recalled his conversations with Cyrus and Ceres.

Good liquor came from good water. But the best water that Ceres had collected from the mountain was, according to him, just good. Following that, if they only thought based on what Cyrus said, then the reason Ceres could never reach his answer was clear.

This was Nyohhira. The guests were treated with the utmost care. Grumpy but well-paying guests were given even more special attention. Lawrence offered to call in musicians and dancers just for Ceres, who paid in gold pieces. Even the bread they gave him in his lunch was of the best quality. They did all they could in their bathhouse. That was why there was something he never tasted while he was here.

It was what Cyrus said—liquor made from the least troublesome way to obtain water, the one they gave to drunks who could not tell the difference in flavors.

A simple ale made from snow that melted in the heat of the baths.

“…They do say that it is darkest underneath the candle stand.”

Jeck groaned. Though there was no solid conclusion that was the answer, they felt close to touching something.

“I’m sure we can maintain Nyohhira’s reputation with this,” Cyrus said.

Lawrence watched the two of them, and they suddenly looked back.

“Well, what are we waiting for?! We have an unhappy guest at Lawrence’s place!”

As though he was being scolded by his trade master, Lawrence jumped and hurriedly turned on his heel, soon placing his hand on the doorway. But then he realized this was not just his own accomplishment. When he thought this, he turned around to find Jeck and Cyrus smiling quietly.

“We’ll be holding a commiseration party for those who could not make a guest smile. Go.”

Jeck waved him off with a big smile of his own.

“We’ll hear about it later.”

Cyrus echoed his senior, picking up the barrel that sat at his feet and placing it on the counter. They did not look at Lawrence anymore, but he interpreted it as a sign of closeness. They saw travelers off for a long time because once they were gone, they would not meet again, perhaps for a long, long time. So why would they do that for him?

Lawrence, his chest bursting with happiness, left Cyrus’s bathhouse and quickly returned to his own. Holo and Hanna, who were watching the next part of the brewing process with great interest, saw him return with curious faces.

Lawrence explained the circumstances, and Hanna, half in disbelief, brought water from snow that had been melted in the heat of the baths.

Ceres took a sip and closed his eyes and gave a deep sigh.

And when he opened his eyes, he smiled, as though the sun had finally shown its face through the clouds.

They ended up using two kinds of water in the brewing process, but the rest of the ingredients were the same. Indeed, even the brewer was the same, so the difference in taste simply depended on the water.

After a few days, the difference in the results was clear.

“I didn’t know it would be so different.”

Lawrence contemplated the taste of the frothy ale. He would not know the difference if it was just given to him, but side by side, he could tell. Ceres knew the difference, as he was always comparing with his memory from thirty years ago, though that was to be expected.

“With this, my final mission is complete.”

After finishing the two brews, Ceres wrote this on a paper. He was getting quite old, and though they were orders from his master, this court chef was likely already no longer in charge of the kitchen if he was able to be away from the manor for so long.

“Truly, I thank you.”

Ceres, the weight lifted from his shoulders, was a kind and gentle old man. Since he had found what he was looking for, there was no point in staying longer. He began to collect his luggage. Lawrence tried to offer change for the gold piece that Ceres gave him with a silver piece, but he refused.

He said it was a sign of thanks, and his expression became stubborn again.

And with the same look on his face, he wrote:

“It is payment for when I come here again, when I am retired and bored.”

Ceres faced him with a smile, and there was nothing more he could say. Even if it was just his word, Lawrence wrote in large letters, “We will be waiting for you!”

Ceres nodded happily.

When they saw their guest off, carrying the liquor he made on his back, he walked with a more vigorous step than when he came, which had been only a few days prior. Like liquor, it seemed waiting a bit helped bring back the memory better.

“’Tis your age,” Holo said flatly, pouring the rest of the ale that Ceres made into a cup.

“Hey, leave a little for me.”

Holo pretended not to hear, deliberately drinking it down and savoring the taste.

“Honestly…” He sighed, and with a big white frothy mustache under her nose on her silly face, Holo looked happy.

As he wondered why, she rested her head on his shoulder and said, “I must remember this taste.”

A taste to recall this land, this moment.

“Only in moderation.”

There was a hint of bitterness in Lawrence’s words. He would not live the same length of time as Holo. After he died, he did not want her to suffer from it.

But that, too, was the same as ale. A drink’s quality did not come from its sweetness.

“You fool.”

Holo wore a troubled smile and took Lawrence’s hand. When he died, instead of olive oil, he would rather this ale be used to anoint him. As he thought this, he took a drink from the cup Holo shared with him.

It was a drink from the bathhouse that conjured smiles and happiness. Indeed, perhaps it was a bit too sweet.