Now then—my own family, the Elgrid ducal house, must host a party of its own.
It would hardly do to let the other ducal house throw every party while we throw none; these things go by turns.
Our family holds vast, fertile lands a little south of the capital, so money is no object.
Being so near the capital, the territory boasts no famous specialty—just wheat fields rolling on and on.
And thanks to my existence, House Elgrid has lately made its name as a house of gourmets.
"The Elgrid party, eh? Whatcha gonna eat?"
"Listen to yourself—you sound just like Lady Tiela."
"I can't eat that much! Ahaha."
That is the sort of talk one hears here and there—but the upper nobles, who know that this gluttony of mine is in effect the capital's last line of defense, never make such jokes.
If a dragon ever appears, they mean to fight it with my grand magic. Our nation's leadership is entirely serious about this.
I have never actually done it with attack magic, mind you—but I did once perform the take-a-normal-spell-and-make-it-enormous trick, showering the whole capital in blessings. They call it the Miracle of the Glutton Princess, everyone knows the story, and so their confidence is very well founded.
That time, I had been merrily uncorking a truly excellent wine—not drunk, merely in high spirits—and I spread my arms from the balcony with a cheery "Blessings upon you all~!" And oh dear: particles of blessing went streaming from my hands to every corner of the capital, were witnessed everywhere at once, and the city descended into pandemonium...
The leadership, I am told, still argues over whether I should raise a barrier or take the offensive.
Since both options were too good to give up, I suggested—at the council I attended—that they simply throw me two parties. The entire room went silent.
I fail to see why.
And so the day of House Elgrid's party arrived.
A few days beforehand I ate an especially hearty meal, then went up into the mountains the next day and hunted down a wyvern.
I made sure to pick out a young female, nicely sized for eating. Aren't I conscientious?
For the meat, of course.
Exceed Cow is A-rank and delicious—but a house famed for its gourmets that cannot even put S-rank wyvern on the table? Our ducal dignity was at stake. There was no helping it.
Hamburg steaks of wyvern blended with Exceed Cow—and hamburgers.
Extravagant wyvern steak.
And wyvern thigh karaage in four sauces:
Salt and pepper, tartar, chili, lemon herb.
Plus, naturally, an all-you-can-eat salad spread, fresh-baked white bread, herb-roasted shrimp, mushroom-and-tomato pasta, and plenty more besides.
Planning the menu is not properly the lord's family's task—but nobody else can go out and hunt a wyvern, so I had it added to my schedule.
Closing the clinic for two days weighed on me, but they managed in my absence, so all was well.
Lady Mira filled in while I was away, and proved quite the sensation, I am told.
Her four elements were wonderfully versatile, by every report.
Aqua Heal, in particular, was a great success.
Duke Mickenheim's party was a matchmaking affair for the young.
Ours draws the middle and upper nobility—every one of them a seasoned palate—so gourmet reputation or not, we could hardly help going all out.
The guests are mostly silver-streaked men and women of middle years, many with the younger generation in tow; even an upper-nobility guest list makes for quite a crowd.
"Announcing Lady Luminaria, daughter of Marquis Dabundorde!"
Well, well. Straight into the heart of enemy territory—and yet look at that composed face, that poised carriage.
Say what you will of her pride, in moments like these it reads as genuine elegance.
What color her heart runs underneath, I could not tell you—and I suppose one is not meant to look.
I am no mad scientist, unlike some people.
"Good evening to you."
"Good evening, Lady Luminaria."
"Ohoho."
Smiles, smiles. They do say the smile is the most frightening part. Quite right, too.
Her house ranks sixth or so in the realm; not inviting them was never an option.