He shrugged. "What do you mean, exactly?"
Liora stayed quiet for a moment, a small smile slowly tugging at the corners of her lips.
"I'm going to the event too," she said. "I wasn't invited… but I think there's a simple explanation for that."
A simple explanation?
Jack had no idea what she was hinting at, but one thing was certain: after knowing Liora for so long, he doubted she was joking. And when she set her mind on something, she always found a way to see it through, one way or another.
"Anyway," Liora said casually as she packed the coins into a small leather pouch, "make sure you close up shop when you leave."
"…Huh?"
She tied the pouch shut and tucked it away before answering, her tone sudden but firm. "I'm heading to the bank. And after that, I don't plan on coming back here until I'm done settling things with my niece."
With that, she left the workshop in Jack's care.
A few moments passed, and Jack didn't bother sticking around. There was no point keeping the shop open when the owner was gone anyway. Besides, he had the event in two days to think about.
But the real reason he closed up so quickly was simpler: he needed to clean himself up. The stench of meat still clung to him, thick and stubborn, even if he was the only one who seemed able to notice it.
I didn't realize I reeked this much, he thought as he stepped out of the shower, warm steam still curling around him from behind.
The water had washed away the grime of the day, yet he could almost swear the scent lingered in his mind, stubborn and hard to ignore.
He ran a hand through his damp hair and let out a quiet breath, half relieved, half annoyed that he had carried it for so long without noticing.
"Anyway," he muttered to himself, stepping out of the bathroom and heading down the hall toward his room to try on the outfit that had been prepared for him.
Some moments later, as Jack stared down at the outfit laid neatly across the bed, it became immediately clear—Sil Bernard hadn't been exaggerating about his role as head chef.
The clothes weren't ordinary at all. At the base was a crisp, ivory shirt made of a light but sturdy fabric that looked breathable and spotless, its collar high and neatly stitched, meant to frame the neck with quiet professionalism.
Over it rested a deep wine-red vest, tailored close to the body and lined with dark buttons that gleamed softly in the candlelight. The material felt expensive just by looking at it, thick yet flexible, as if made for long hours of movement without sacrificing elegance.
Draped beside it was a long half-coat, cut shorter in the front and longer at the back, dyed a deep charcoal gray with silver thread woven faintly into its seams. It gave off the air of nobility without being stiff, something worn by a man who worked with his hands, not one who merely observed from a distance. The inner lining was dark crimson, and when he lifted it, he could tell it was meant to flow rather than drag.
The trousers were black, sharp-creased, and fitted just enough to suggest formality without restricting movement. Even the boots were prepared: polished leather with reinforced soles, clearly designed for standing long hours in a kitchen rather than walking marble halls.
The final touch was a short, dark apron folded carefully on top; simple in design, but clean and dignified. Not the apron of a street butcher… but of a man meant to command a kitchen.
Jack exhaled quietly.
"They expect me to wear this?" Jack muttered under his breath. He leaned closer, eyeing the fine fabric and careful stitching. "Just how much silver did they pour into this… or did they go straight for copper?"
He straightened and exhaled through his nose, still staring at it as if it might move on its own.
"Anyway… I'm not trying this on until Nyx gets back," he said quietly, turning away at last, though his eyes lingered on the outfit a moment longer.
A faint glint of gold caught his eye from inside one of the shoes.
"Hm?" he muttered. What's that?
He crouched and reached in, expecting nothing more than a forgotten trinket, but when he pulled it out, his breath stilled. It was a gold wristwatch. And etched neatly along the back of its cover were words that made his chest grow tight:
We'll be waiting.
"Desperate, are we?" Jack said, a playful grin spreading across his face. "I know I'm the head cook, but this… this is taking things a bit too far."
Gold wristwatches were notoriously difficult to come by, rare even in the wealthiest circles. Yet somehow, Sil Bernard had managed to acquire one and had cleverly hidden it within the outfit he'd given Jack. It was a subtle wager, a test to see whether Jack would actually show up at the event, or if he'd find a reason to back out.
Meanwhile, back at Sir Bernard's mansion, Sir Bernard and Vanessa were engaged in a quiet conversation, quietly debating whether Jack would actually show up for the event or find some way to avoid it.
"Are you sure he's coming back?" Vanessa's voice echoed softly across the room as Sil Bernard sat in his chair, adjusting his reading glasses with a measured, deliberate motion.
"Of course. Why wouldn't he?" Sil Bernard replied in a low, measured tone. "And if he doesn't show, well… I suppose I'll just have to pay him a little visit and give him some encouragement to attend the ceremony." He paused, letting the thought linger.
"And that wristwatch… You set it up for him?" he asked, eyes narrowing slightly.
Vanessa nodded, a small smile playing at her lips.
"Then everything we need to ensure his presence is already in place," Sil Bernard said, letting a soft chuckle escape. "All at the cost of a single wristwatch."
"But Master, what about the fruit from Mr. Dave? Do we know when it'll arrive?" Vanessa inquired, her tone tinged with worry, yet her lips curved into a gentle smile as she spoke.
"…Yes, I think," Sil Bernard replied, his voice low and hesitant. "But you needn't worry about that—Vikii will handle it."
"Vikii?" Vanessa breathed, her eyes widening in surprise. "She… she'll be at the ceremony too?" Her voice trembled slightly, a hint of panic creeping in as the thought sank in.
"Yes… But don't get your hopes up," Sil Bernard advised, his tone calm but measured. "She might not even attend."