"Lady Mira, are you all right? Perhaps you should rest—I shall be eating a little more, myself."
"Yes... nothing escapes you, does it, Lady Tiela."
"Well, I can see your mana, after all. You mustn't push yourself."
"Then I shall go and rest a little."
"Good night, Lady Mira."
"Good night, Lady Tiela."
Lady Mira waves and withdraws.
She hid it well, but her color was going and she had broken into a sweat.
A twentieth of my volume it may have been, but she gave blessings in all four elements. An ordinary child would have collapsed long since—that is how far she pushed herself.
Only the direct royal line could manage it at all, and even she might faint from mana exhaustion at any moment.
If only she had a Gluttony skill of her own, I catch myself thinking—but what one lacks, one lacks.
I settle in to enjoy the food with Prince Mihael and Prince Kamal.
Until moments ago they were trapped in an endless procession of greetings, and had barely eaten a thing.
Both have entered betrothal age, and the offensives come from every direction—from the noble daughters themselves and from their eager parents alike.
Just get engaged already, any outsider would say—but it sends a chill down my spine to recall that both of their supposed brides-to-be are me.
It is not that I dislike them. Only—if a girl who does nothing but eat became queen, pity the royal grocery bill.
Then again, keeping me fed is far cheaper than my chugging mana potions. Yes. We shall go with that.
For restoring mana there are mana potions, but as a rule they cannot restore beyond one's natural maximum.
I am the exception—so if a calamity-class monster ever appears, I am hardly above chugging them.
The trouble is, mana potions taste odd. Not pleasant at all.
On cost and on flavor alike, meat wins.
And so: I turn up, perfectly nonchalant, at party after party across the capital.
I even tell people, "Do feel free to invite me anytime."
A duke's own party carries rank enough by itself; but for a marquis or a count, the caliber of guests they can attract makes all the difference.
A duke's daughter settles that question on arrival—so the invitations keep coming, and I make my rounds, eating meat at parties all over town.
"Meat" being a figure of speech: fish, bread, cake, pasta, salad—I eat it all.
The capital sits some way from the sea, though, so fresh fish dishes are a rarity.
The Abeljage marquisate holds the nearest coast, and at their parties, fish rushed in by relay horse is served as a point of pride.
"The meat is delicious—and so is the fish."
At tonight's ducal party the fish was salted and dried, but that is lovely in its own right; no complaints from me.
Let the record also show that the chili-sauce dish of dried giant shrimp and great scallops, rehydrated in broth, was excellent.
A duke never hesitates over premium ingredients.
Duke Mickenheim's party is drawing to a close, and the wine has gone around.
A fair few people barely eat, but nearly everyone drinks, and the finished drunkards are in full bloom.
The veteran staff, of course, are gently herding them toward the windows, out of harm's way.
I allow myself a single glass of wine. A lady making a spectacle of herself is a risk I would rather not run, however small.
In truth, I have no idea how much it would take to make me drunk. I have never properly investigated.
I do have a hunch, though. If everything converts to mana, then I must drink like the proverbial fish.
Which is rather a letdown, in one sense—and terribly intriguing, in another.
"Well then, if you will excuse me."
Fed to my heart's content, I take my leave.
Others are tipsy, or rubbing empty stomachs after the greetings and gossip left them no time to eat.
To each their own; a buffet party is a social arena first. It cannot be helped.
I, for my part, am satisfied, so tonight's party goes down in my mental notebook as a good one.
Hardly any house serves truly hopeless food, but tastes do occasionally fail to align.
Our two ducal houses are kin, and thankfully, our palates agree.
The carriage clatters me home, and I sleep.