Lingering Taste

The day passed in a blur of idle rest and fleeting thoughts. Eleanor, confined to her bed, barely moved, her body still weak from the injuries she had sustained. Even the slightest shift on the comfy bed sent a dull ache through her skull, reminding her that recovery would not be swift.

Yet, despite the lingering pain, something else occupied her mind.

Her heart was beating faster than usual.

She lay still, staring at the ceiling, confused by the sudden awareness of the rapid rhythm in her chest. There was no immediate reason for it—no shocking revelation, no alarming event—just the lingering taste of lemon on her tongue.

The memory came unbidden: a golden macaron, soft yet tangy, dissolving in her mouth. It was the one she had chosen, the only one she had eaten from the box Duke Kenneth had given her.

Eleanor frowned. Why had she picked the yellow one? She had simply reached out, yet now, with the sour taste lingering, her thoughts circled back to the man who had gifted them.

Kenneth Emmeline.

A striking figure in a noble society. Handsome. Intimidating.

And just as that realization settled in, heat rushed to her face.

Eleanor immediately shook her head, cursing herself under her breath.

What nonsense.

She was not some naïve noble girl swooning over a mature Duke simply because he had sharp eyes and a composed demeanor. The mere coincidence of choosing a yellow macaron should not be enough to make her heart act like this.

Yet… it did.

This is ridiculous.

Eleanor groaned inwardly.

She closed her eyes, trying to push away the ridiculous notion that she had somehow associated the taste with him. Yet the memory remained, stubborn and persistent.

With an irritated sigh, she dismissed the thought and focused on the steady ticking of the clock. Time passed sluggishly, and before she knew it, dinner approached.

She had expected another quiet meal in bed, just like the previous nights, accompanied only by her parents. After all, they had promised to return after escorting Duke Emmeline out earlier.

But as the door to her room creaked open, Eleanor, lying on her side, caught sight of male servants carrying in a medium-sized dining table.

Her brows furrowed slightly.

The spaciousness of her room allowed for the addition, yet she had never required such an arrangement before. Did her parents plan a formal meal with her despite her condition?

She watched as maids trailed in, setting up the tableware and occasionally glancing at her—furtive, pitying looks.

Eleanor knew why.

She had not yet seen her own face since the injury, but the thick bandages around her head were enough to paint an unflattering image. To them, she must have looked fragile, pitiful even.

She could almost hear their thoughts.

Poor Lady Gwendolyn…

She must be in such pain…

How pitiful…

Eleanor fought the urge to roll her eyes.

I'm not dying, you know.

Her patience was wearing thin when Tina finally approached, stepping to her side with a sharp glare toward the servants, silently warning them to stop gawking at their lady.

Approaching the bed, Tina spoke softly, her voice laced with familiarity and concern.

"The Marchioness has sent a message, my lady. She wishes to know if there is anything else you would like for dinner."

Eleanor blinked slowly, her mind still sluggish from fatigue. She hadn't given much thought to food, but as Tina mentioned it, an image of the macarons resurfaced in her mind.

A question slipped past her lips before she could stop herself.

"Are there… no purple macarons?"

Tina tilted her head, surprised by the unexpected request. "Purple macarons, my lady?"

Eleanor nodded. "Yes. The box Duke Emmeline gifted me earlier had none."

Now that she thought about it, she had only chosen the lemon-flavored one because there had been no purple. And the only reason she had wanted a purple macaron was—

Ah.

Her eyes narrowed.

That was because of his eye color.

No, no. I just happen to like purple, and coincidentally, the Duke's eye color is the perfect match for my favorite shade—nothing more!

The realization sent another wave of frustration through her, but she forced herself to remain composed as Tina continued explaining.

Tina hesitated. "The purple shade can only be made from a rare tropical fruit that grows in the eastern kingdom. Because of that, it's not commonly used for everyday desserts."

Eleanor raised a brow. "So it's that rare?"

Tina nodded. "Yes, my lady. The fruit is highly prized, and anything made from it is considered a luxury."

Eleanor hummed in understanding. But she couldn't help but feel a little wistful. The description reminded her of the grapes from her original world, a taste she hadn't realized she missed.

Sensing her lady's interest, Tina added, "If you wish for it, my lady, it wouldn't be difficult for the House Gwendolyn to procure some. We could even have the chef prepare them for you."

For a moment, Eleanor was tempted.

She wasn't sure if this world had anything remotely similar, but Tina's description of the fruit made her curious.

Would it taste the same? Would it have the same satisfying balance of sweetness and acidity?

But reality quickly grounded her.

This was not important.

She had far greater concerns than indulging in luxury sweets.

Eleanor exhaled, pushing aside the childish craving, and shook her head as much as her injury allowed.

"No need," she murmured. "Just… tell my mother to decide whatever is convenient."

Tina hesitated, then nodded, taking it as a dismissal.

As the maid left the room, Eleanor exhaled deeply. She turned her head slightly, regretting the movement when a sharp throb pulsed through her skull.

"Auch—!"

She closed her eyes, cursing inwardly.

Why was she still thinking about that lemon macaron?

Why was she still associating it with Kenneth Emmeline?

Had he poisoned her or something?

… No, if that were the case, the maids who ate the remaining ones would have shown symptoms.

Eleanor sighed heavily, pressing her fingers lightly to her bandage temple.

Her head hurt.

Her heart was still beating too fast.

And worst of all—she still couldn't shake the taste of lemon from her tongue.

Damn that lemon macaron.

And damn Kenneth Emmeline for still being in her head.

***

Dinner proceeded smoothly, much to Eleanor's relief. Despite the lingering taste of lemon and the occasional throb in her skull, she managed to maintain a composed expression.

The last thing she wanted was for her parents to misunderstand her troubled look and assume her headache had worsened. If that happened, she feared they would force her to continue wearing this ridiculous bandage for even longer.

No, she needed to recover quickly.

Summer was fast approaching—the season when the novel's main story would unfold. Time was running out, and Eleanor had yet to gather any useful information. She couldn't afford to remain bedridden while her enemies moved unchecked!

As the dinner progressed, her parents kept the conversation light, avoiding anything that might strain her mind. The Marchioness, ever the gentle presence, spoke about trivial matters—the latest garden blooms, a new dessert shop in town, a charity banquet being organized by some noble ladies.

Eleanor played along, offering short responses where necessary. The warmth of the meal and the steady rhythm of conversation helped ease her thoughts, allowing her a brief respite from her own concerns.

But then, a subtle change in the atmosphere caught her attention.

The Marquess and Marchioness exchanged a brief glance.

A sense of unease crept into her. Her parents were careful, too careful as if weighing their words before speaking. It was a familiar sight—one that only appeared when they had something important to tell her.

Her grip on the silverware tightened slightly.

What now?

Was this about Duke Emmeline? Had something happened after he left? Or worse—was this about her again?

Eleanor fought the urge to fidget, keeping her expression neutral even as her heartbeat picked up.

She didn't have the energy to deal with more surprises.

As if sensing her growing tension, the Marchioness reached out, placing a gentle hand over Eleanor's. Her mother's soft, reassuring smile did little to ease her nerves.

"Eleanor, dear," her mother finally spoke, her voice as gentle as ever. "Your brother, Alger, will be coming home."

"... Huh?"

Eleanor blinked.

For a moment, her mind went blank.

The Marquess added, his tone calm but firm, "He left the southern border this noon and should arrive at dawn tomorrow."

Eleanor remained still.

Of all the things she had expected, this was not one of them.

Alger Gwendolyn—her second brother.

A brother she had barely thought about in the midst of everything.