"The norm is for everyone to die together? Very glad that I'm still alive? Fortunate that I'm still alive?"
Klein shivered. The words replayed in his head, cold and absurd. He stumbled to the door, heart hammering, intent on chasing after the policemen and begging for protection.
But just as his hand brushed the doorknob, he froze.
If what that officer said was true… why didn't they leave someone to guard me?
An important witness, a key lead—and they just walked away?
That was too careless.
Or… were they probing him? Using him as bait?
A dozen thoughts tangled in his mind, his pulse racing with suspicion. The idea that he might still be under surveillance oddly steadied him. If they were watching, then he wasn't alone.
He forced himself to breathe, then cracked the door open and called down the stairwell in a trembling voice, "You'll protect me, right?"
Tap, tap, tap…
No answer. The footsteps continued downward, steady and indifferent.
"I know! You'll do that!" Klein shouted again, trying to sound like a frightened, desperate man.
The steps receded, fading into the distance.
Klein exhaled through his nose and let out a soft laugh. "Isn't that response a little too fake? Their acting could use some work."
He didn't chase after them. Instead, he closed the door, leaned against it for a moment, then returned to the center of the room.
For the next few hours, Klein fully embodied what people back in the Foodaholic Empire—or China, as it was once called—might call "the restless arts": pacing, muttering, wringing his hands, flinching at every creak of the floorboards. Even with no audience, he didn't slack for a second.
The self-cultivation of an actor, he thought wryly.
By the time the sun began to sink westward, painting the clouds in shades of reddish orange, the apartment building had begun to stir with returning tenants. Voices drifted through thin walls. Keys jingled. Doors opened and shut. Klein's nerves slowly unwound.
"Melissa's probably getting out of school soon…" he murmured.
His gaze drifted to the stove. He lifted the kettle aside, peeled away a layer of coal, and reached into the hidden compartment beneath.
The revolver sat there, cold and heavy. He retrieved it quickly, then slipped it into the narrow space behind the bed's lower board, wedging the weapon between the wooden slats.
His every movement was deliberate, rehearsed. Even so, anxiety prickled at the back of his neck. What if the door burst open now—police storming in, guns raised?
He swallowed. If this were just the Age of Steam, I could trust in shadows and reason. But this world has Beyonders.
And Beyonders saw more than they should.
He waited several minutes, listening. No footsteps, no knock. Only the muffled laughter of two men heading down the street toward the Heart of the Wild bar on Iron Cross Street.
Klein exhaled in relief. "Phew."
Everything would be fine. He just needed to wait for Melissa to come home… and cook the stewed mutton with tender peas.
At the thought, his mouth watered. He could almost taste the rich broth. He pictured Melissa at the stove—how she boiled the meat, added onions, salt, a dash of pepper, then peas and potatoes before sealing the lid for nearly an hour.
"It's crude, but honest," he murmured. "The kind of dish that lets the meat speak for itself."
He smiled faintly. There weren't many spices in the Moretti household—no wine, no herbs, no luxury—but there was warmth in the simplicity. For people who could only afford meat once or twice a week, a meal like that was a small celebration.
Klein wasn't exactly a skilled cook himself. Back home, takeout had been his savior. But here, after several weeks of practice, he'd achieved what he called a "passing standard."
"When Melissa gets back, she'll be starving. It'll be ready around seven-thirty," he mused. "Time for her to see what real cooking looks like."
Smiling at his own excuse, he relit the stove, fetched water from the bathroom, and began to wash the mutton. Then came the cutting board, the knife, the rhythmic thock-thock-thock as he chopped the meat into small chunks.
If she asks why I suddenly know how to cook… I'll blame it on Welch.
His lips twitched. Yes, the late Welch McGovern—hired a chef who loved Midseashire cuisine. It's only natural he shared a few recipes with me.
A pang of guilt followed the thought. Then again, in a world of Beyonders, the dead don't always stay silent…
He shook his head, brushing the chill away, and dropped the meat into a bowl. From the condiment box he scooped a spoonful of rough yellowing salt, added a few black pepper grains, and mixed them with care.
The saucepan went onto the stove. As it warmed, he sliced yesterday's carrots and today's onions, hands moving on instinct. A spoonful of lard sizzled in the pan, melting into a thin layer of shimmering fat. The air filled with the sharp sweetness of onions, the earthy aroma of carrots.
When the scent deepened, Klein poured in the mutton and stirred. The meat hissed against the metal, browning at the edges.
Cooking wine would make it perfect, he thought wistfully. Even red wine would do… but a glass of beer a week is all we can manage.
So he made do. Boiled water instead.
Twenty minutes later, he added the peas and chopped potatoes, a cup of hot water, two spoonfuls of salt. He lowered the flame and exhaled, content.
The room grew heavy with fragrance. The savory richness of the meat melded with the sweetness of onions and potatoes, and Klein's stomach grumbled in quiet betrayal.
He checked his pocket watch again and again, waiting.
At last, footsteps sounded in the hallway—light, unhurried, yet familiar. A key turned.
"Smells… good?" came Melissa's doubtful voice from outside.
She stepped in, veil still on, her schoolbag hanging from one arm. Her eyes widened as they darted toward the stove.
"You made this?" she asked, disbelief softening into wonder. She inhaled again, visibly melting under the scent. "You really made this?"
Klein grinned. "Afraid I'd waste the mutton?" he teased. "Don't worry. I learned this recipe from Welch himself. You know, the man had a talented chef."
Melissa frowned slightly. "First time?"
"Looks like I've got talent." Klein laughed. "Go wash your hands. It's almost ready. I promise it's edible."
Her brother's steady tone and easy smile stopped her for a moment. For the first time in days, he looked… normal. Warm.
"Do you prefer the mutton cooked longer?" he asked with mock seriousness.
"Ah—no, it's fine!" she said quickly, setting down her bag and hat before hurrying off.
When she returned, Klein lifted the lid. Steam surged upward, filling the little room with a golden haze. Beside the pot sat two pieces of rye bread, already softened by the stew's rising heat.
By the time Melissa sat down, two plates were filled—stewed mutton with peas, potatoes, carrots, and onions glistening in rich brown gravy.
"Come on, try it," Klein said, pointing at the fork and spoon.
Melissa hesitated only a moment before spearing a potato. She took a bite, and her eyes widened. The starch soaked in the meaty broth burst with warmth, and she couldn't help herself—she devoured the rest in quick, small bites.
"Try the mutton," Klein urged, amused.
She did. The meat melted on her tongue, tender and rich, its flavor deeper than she expected. It was simple, yes, but perfect in its honesty.
Without realizing it, she'd eaten several pieces.
"I—this was supposed to be for you!" she stammered, cheeks flushed.
"I already sampled it. Cook's privilege." Klein smiled, picking up his own utensils. He alternated between mutton, peas, and bread dipped in gravy, savoring each bite as if it grounded him in this fragile reality.
Melissa relaxed. For a while, the apartment was filled with nothing but the sound of quiet eating and soft contented sighs.
"It's delicious," she said earnestly, staring at her empty plate. "I can't believe this is your first time."
"It's still a long way from Welch's chef," Klein admitted. "When I'm rich, I'll take you and Benson out for a real meal."
Melissa giggled—and then hiccupped, startled. "Your interview… burp—"
Her hand flew to her mouth, embarrassed.
Klein bit back a laugh. The stew's fault, he thought, secretly proud.
He nodded toward the dishes. "This is your mission."
"Yes, sir!" she replied at once, grabbing the basin and rushing out.
When she returned, she checked the condiments on the shelf, blinking in surprise. "Did you use these?" she asked, holding up the pepper and the lard.
Klein only shrugged. "Just a little. The price of a masterpiece."
Melissa's lips twitched, torn between scolding and smiling. After a long moment, she sighed in defeat.
"…Let me cook next time," she said finally. "You have to focus on your interview. Don't get distracted."