On a round wooden disk with a hole in the center, I wove cotton threads and thin iron wires, alternating them to create a braided cord.
We had been traveling along the northern highway day and night for five days now, and the scenery had changed considerably. At each village and town we stopped at, we exchanged horses and replenished our supplies. Inside the carriage, I was busy crafting various tools to assist Mr. Gilbert as he prepared for battle.
Bathed in the sunlight streaming through the skylight and accompanied by the sound of the wind rustling through the wheat fields, Ms. Barbara spun thread on a spindle while I diligently braided the cord. Mr. Dolf was at the Coachman’s Seat, and today, Mr. Gilbert was unusually focused, switching between a chisel, a knife, and a file as he worked on some wood.
“Alright! It’s done. Miss Flora, this is a thank you for the meals you’ve prepared every day. I hope you’ll accept it,” he said, presenting a wooden brooch carved with intricate flowers in the palm of his hand. It was so beautifully crafted that it was hard to believe it was made from a simple piece of wood.
“Wow…! Thank you so much! Mr. Gilbert, you have such skilled hands,” I exclaimed, astonished.
After I expressed my gratitude, Mr. Gilbert suddenly became fidgety and retreated to a corner of the carriage.
“What’s wrong, Gilbert? I thought you were unusually quiet, but here you are, doing something quite fancy,” Mr. Dolf remarked.
“W-well, you see, this is surprisingly good rehabilitation for me,” Mr. Gilbert stammered, glancing at his hand as he opened and closed it repeatedly. He didn’t seem to be struggling with his dominant hand, but apparently, he had some issues with grip strength. The braided cord I was making was intended to be adorned with wire inside, allowing it to be attached to his battle axe. When the axe digs deep into the ground, it requires more grip strength to pull it out. I wasn’t entirely sure how the cord would be used, but I made sure to weave it tightly so it wouldn’t easily tear.
“I’ve been feeling unusually light and in good shape lately,” Mr. Gilbert said, hanging from a beam in the ceiling and starting to do pull-ups.
“Of course! You’re eating Miss Flora’s cooking three times a day or more. That’s only natural,” Mr. Dolf replied.
“Indeed, the benefits of delicious food are undeniable. Thanks to that, I feel great,” Mr. Gilbert added.
Since we were on a journey, I couldn’t prepare anything too elaborate, but I was motivated to cook because it brought joy to everyone.
“It’s not just about being delicious; it’s overflowing with blessings,” Ms. Barbara chimed in.
“Blessings…?” I echoed, lifting my gaze. Had I done something special while cooking?
“We’ve long referred to the act of offering prayers and receiving protection for others as blessings. You always pray, Miss Flora,” Ms. Barbara explained.
“Prayers… in cooking?” I asked, puzzled.
Ms. Barbara smiled warmly. “You might not be aware of it, but everyone does. Praying towards the Goddess Statue isn’t the only form of prayer.”
With that, she opened the window. A warm breeze flowed in, revealing farmers in the distant fields pulling weeds. Among the passing scenery, I spotted a small cottage where a woman sat on her porch, knitting.
“Whether they’re farmers or craftsmen, when creating something, they unconsciously hold feelings in their hearts. They want the recipient to be happy or to be of help. There are various emotions tied to that, right? Even when cooking. We say we put love or heart into it, but…”
Ms. Barbara wore a gentle smile.
“That which exists for others is an intangible prayer. We’ve long called the blessings received from it ‘selfless blessings.’ When blessings gather, sometimes a little bit of magic happens.”
Then, with a sly grin, Ms. Barbara turned her gaze toward Mr. Gilbert.
“That brooch you made is just like that.”
“Eh…?” Mr. Gilbert stammered.
“Because you made it thinking of Miss Flora, right?”
“Well, of course, but…”
I caught Mr. Gilbert’s gaze, and I noticed his face turning crimson. My own cheeks felt warm, a mix of happiness and embarrassment, and the brooch in my hand seemed to radiate warmth.
“But, in addition to that, Miss Flora, you surely—”
Just as Ms. Barbara was about to say something, the carriage came to a sudden stop, accompanied by the sound of a horse’s neigh.
From the small window at the Coachman’s Seat, Mr. Dolf peeked in.
“We’re about to arrive at the next town, but something seems off,” he said.
Through the opened window, I could see a walled town in the distance, still small, but rising above it were several plumes of black smoke.
Further back, away from the black smoke, I spotted thin white smoke. Whether it contained something or was reflecting the sunlight, it flickered occasionally.
“That looks like… the signal smoke often used by the knight brigade…” Mr. Gilbert murmured, grabbing his battle axe and heading straight for the Coachman’s Seat.
“Barbara, Miss Flora, we’re picking up the pace. Hold on tight!” Mr. Dolf called out as the carriage rumbled to life.