Chapter 4
“Enoch, who believes he can solve everything with his face.
You’re not actually planning to show up here unannounced, are you? I’m not saying I’d reject your offer, but if you really want to show me, just send a photo! You’re a wizard—surely stealing a camera would be easy for you, right?
My superiors wouldn’t like a civilian wandering around here. And we mustn’t make them angry—especially if that civilian happens to be a ridiculously handsome man. In that case, they’d be even more furious.
You want me to tell my story? It’s really boring. Like I said before, I’ve never participated in that festival myself, so all I can do is repeat what I’ve heard from others.
Still, if you want to hear it, I’ll tell you. Writing it down isn’t hard.
When my grandmother Victoire was very young, she said people worshiped the moon as a god. Of course, no one does that now. Back then, they saw the moon as a benevolent being watching over the night sky and protecting people.
We lived our lives at night, but at the same time, we thought of night as an ominous time. We believed that while the sun was off looking at the other side of the world, all sorts of demons and sinful souls would sneak out from the shadows. So the moon, being the brightest light in that darkness, was like our guardian deity.
That’s why a moon festival even came to exist.
I don’t know all the details, since I only know what my grandmother told me. But she seemed to mean it from the heart. She never called the moon “the moon.” Whenever she mentioned it, she used the word “Ruen.” It’s not that she couldn’t speak Imperial; I think she simply believed it was disrespectful to call her god by an Imperial name.
It was inevitable that the festival disappeared. In the Empire—where I live—the moon is seen as something extremely ominous. For people who find the moon creepy and unsettling, a festival celebrating it wouldn’t have been welcome.
That’s all I know about Ruen Doh. See? Pretty boring. But I sometimes imagined what it might have been like. And you know what? I think it must have been a lot like your Golden Moon Festival in your world. How can there be a festival in the magical world so similar to Ruen Doh? It’s amazing!
Grandmother Victoire would’ve loved your story, too.
— H. A”
“Dear Miss Helen Atwell,
So you’re also a descendant of those who worshiped the moon! We really do have so much in common. Are you sure you’re not a witch?
I’m thrilled to have found a connection between us. See, I’m so happy that I’m writing this with my most treasured quill! Honestly, the end result looks no different, but the way it feels on the paper can’t be compared.
And today, I had my favorite meal for dinner—beef soup simmered with all kinds of vegetables. It’s the one food that makes me happiest in the world! The savory richness fills the soul—you must experience it someday! What did you have for dinner? Surely dessert too? Cinnamon-dusted cake or cream-topped pastries? Don’t tell me you didn’t end the meal properly!
A full belly and a sleepy night,
Enoch Greer”
“Hey, Enoch, are you messing with me?
I had tomato soup today. Calling it soup is an insult to cooking. It was basically sour tomato juice. How are we supposed to fight a war on that? And yet, annoyingly enough, it still made me feel full—which only made me angrier. They must’ve put something suspicious in it.
I also had rock-hard black bread that could break teeth. These days, with supply issues, we survive on stuff like this.
And you dare to talk to me about beef and vegetable soup? And cake with cinnamon? Even in civilian life that cake was rare—do you think it would magically appear here?
I won’t even ask for cake. But I’d love a proper bowl of soup—just one spoonful would be enough. Was it delicious? Did it taste even better because you ate it alone? From now on, be grateful for your food while thinking of me.
Since you made me hungry, I’ll get revenge by filling this letter with foods I want. First, mushroom cream soup with plenty of pepper. Then spaghetti with slightly spicy rosé sauce and juicy beef on the side. For dessert, that damned cake you mentioned.
And cotton candy from a street stall. I’ve wanted it since I was little—just the name sounds tempting. Cotton candy! You don’t have that in your world, do you? Winter cotton candy is the best.
I could go on for pages about food, but if Morton catches me writing so aggressively, it’ll be a pain. (Morton’s a major here—his hobby is patrolling like a sleepwalker, with the most gloomy face you’ve ever seen. Good thing he’s the youngest and most decent-looking man here. Still, I don’t want to be friends with a guy who always looks half-dead.)
Your letter wasn’t all bad, though. At least I could imagine wonderful food for once. If this war ends, I’ll eat until I become a walking pig. I swear I’ll indulge in food every day! Of course, I’ll need money for that.
By the way, have you gotten that camera yet?
— H. A”
“Dear Miss Helen Atwell, who loves money, handsome men, and food,
I really enjoyed hearing about the foods you love—it’s practically a feast! May I suggest something? Dip warm, hand-torn bread into mushroom cream soup with plenty of pepper. As you bite down, the fragrant bread and hot soup will fill your mouth—perfection.
As for steak and spaghetti, I’d cut the steak into pieces, spear one with a fork, then twirl spaghetti around it—one perfect bite!
Cotton candy—what is it? Candy made like cotton? I’ve always wondered what cotton tastes like, but I can’t just eat it. Candy spun like cotton, though? One day, I’ll have to steal some!
You clearly know good food well—I envy the meals you must have had. As for me, I can only make beef vegetable soup at best. One day, I want to try the meals you described. (Surprisingly, we don’t have restaurants in my world. Everyone is a witch or wizard, so no one bothers making money from cooking—we all cook at home.)
One day, take me to a “restaurant.” I’ll pay! How much would such a meal cost? Would a ruby the size of my thumbnail be enough?
On a night when crows steal chicken,
Enoch Greer
P.S. I’m borrowing the camera… wait for it! Borrowing takes time.”
“To Enoch Greer, who seems desperate to kill me,
Could you please not describe things so vividly? It’s night, and I’m hungry. And today, once again, I was given tomato juice for rations!
Even without your explanations, I’ll someday have a grand feast—remember that. Want an invite? I’ll decide based on how you behave. For the record, I like men who can be playful.
Of course, back in civilian life, I ate much better things than what I mentioned. And I will again—if the war ends and I escape this hell. When that happens, I’ll teach you about all kinds of food. You’ll see a world beyond beef vegetable soup!
But writing about it has its limits. Come and eat with me in person—food must be experienced.
And just give me that ruby. I’ll feed you until you burst. I’ll even buy you cotton candy—so hand it over.
I want this war to end soon. For the first time, I actually have something I want to do when I return. Until then, I can’t think of anything else.
Still, I really want mushroom soup and spaghetti… Why am I so hung up on these dishes? After reading your letter, I want them even more. How are you going to make this right?
— H. A”
