The Villainous Princess Wants to Live in a Gingerbread House - Chapter 88

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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The Villainous Imperial Princess Wants to Live in a Pastry Shop
Chapter 88

After Myura had polished off the cake, she launched into a sincere apology so profound that Asha felt her soul momentarily leave her body. The words that tumbled forth were eerily reminiscent of the commendations she’d once received in fan letters.
“Wait, so you thought I was lying in order to get a portrait of you?”
Myura nodded. Her expression was hazy with incomprehension.
“But in that letter, you never even gave your name. Why would I try to steal a painting from someone I couldn’t identify?”
“I thought it would be easy enough to investigate and find out… so I ended up entertaining such suspicions…”
“Ah…”
What followed was a string of Myura’s courteous apologies for her misunderstanding and discourteous behavior.
“I made a biased judgment based solely on your station and appearance. I am truly sorry, Your Highness.”
“No, that’s… well…”
When Asha trailed off with an ambiguous expression—neither angry nor amused—Myura watched for her cue.
Asha decided simply to smile gently. For someone to suspect that the author had lied about making a cake that she hadn’t actually made in order to seize her painting, and then used her station to intimidate the real baker, required one essential premise.
Someone would have to desperately want her painting that badly.
“Well, I suppose it’s admirable when an artist has such confidence…”
Splash.
At that very moment, the young man beside her—Lus—sprayed out the tea he’d been drinking. He launched into a flustered string of apologies before his laughter caught in his throat and triggered a violent coughing fit.
“Hack, cough, cough—I’m—truly—so sorry—cough cough!”
“It’s fine… you can go finish coughing out on the balcony if you need to.”
When Asha waved her hand, Lus bolted urgently toward the balcony. Myura’s face flushed with acute embarrassment.
“Your Highness… Your Highness is absolutely right. That was my arrogance.”
“No, not arrogance exactly. I just… I never would have imagined such a misunderstanding. But thinking about it now, I can see how it might happen.”
A cake so extraordinary that she’d been moved to tears and rushed over wanting to draw its maker—if you stopped to think that the actual creator was a member of the imperial family, a mere ten-year-old girl, then?
It wouldn’t have been unreasonable to suspect someone was lying somewhere in the chain.
And while it was certainly a premature misunderstanding, the fact that Myura had shown such rudeness even to the Imperial Heir on behalf of the genuinely wronged baker only made Asha like her more.
“So you’ll paint my portrait, then?”
“I would very much like to. Of course… if you wish it.”
Myura’s sharp demeanor softened considerably. Asha grinned and nodded. At that expression, Myura let out a sheepish sigh and spoke in an even more embarrassed tone.
“And once more, I must truly apologize. My name isn’t Myura—it’s Myura. I gave you a false name because I thought you were pretending not to know.”
“Myura?”
“Yes. My name is Myura Ailau.”
Asha’s eyes blinked.
‘Myura Ailau?’
Where had she heard that before? It was definitely familiar from somewhere…
“Oh! This teapot!”
Asha clapped her hands and pointed to the teapot currently sitting on the tea table—the one made by Myura Ailau, of which only thirteen sets existed in the world.
“I, ah… I did make one that’s here…”
“So that’s why you kept staring at it?”
Now Myura’s cheeks flushed crimson. Deeply embarrassed by her own past conduct, she fanned herself repeatedly with her hand.
“Myura, or rather… Myura…”
“Please, call me however you’re comfortable. Or perhaps… it would be better if you just called me Myura.”
With her face burning red, Myura waved her hand and sighed again, her expression that of someone wishing she could turn back time. Just then, Lus returned, his face flushed and his eyes glistening with tears. The violent coughing seemed to have finally subsided.
“…Your Highness, shall I continue with the portrait work?”
“Yes, go ahead. What do I need to do? Just sit still?”
“Just sit however feels natural. I remember exactly how you look.”
Realizing that staying still would only deepen her mortification, Myura moved with renewed focus. Asha found the situation entertaining, but she refrained from teasing Myura further.
“Can I see the sketch?”
“Nothing particularly impressive, but… of course.”
Myura cleared her throat and showed Asha the canvas she’d been keeping on the easel.
The moment Asha saw it, she understood why Myura had harbored such a misunderstanding. On the canvas was a girl glancing slightly backward, rendered with such vivid precision that it seemed to leap off the frame itself. Every overlapping pencil stroke was clean and exact—as if Myura had traced a completed portrait of Asha beneath it with perfect fidelity. To someone like Asha, who knew nothing about art, the sketch alone felt like a finished work.
“I look… I look more beautiful than I expected.”
“I haven’t yet captured your full beauty. Once I add color, it will be even better.”
As Asha continued to marvel while returning the canvas to Myura, the latter laughed self-consciously, clearing her throat.
“How long until it’s finished?”
“Two weeks should do it.”
Myura quickly picked colors from the palette Lus held open and applied them to the canvas as she answered. Asha didn’t quite follow the process, but she lavished praise on it before carefully opening her mouth.
“Say, Myura.”
“Yes?”
Myura, who had been switching brushes to touch this shade and that, tilted her head.
“About the portrait. Could you possibly paint another one? I’d be happy to compensate you.”
“If it’s Your Highness’s portrait, then given the rudeness I committed today, anytime at all——”
“Oh, no. That’s not it. My grandfather’s birthday is coming up soon, and I have no idea what to give him. But your paintings are so wonderful that even I can only marvel at them, so I was wondering if you’d be willing to paint my grandfather’s portrait?”
“Your grandfather? Well, if it’s your grandfather——”
Myura was about to answer readily when Lus, who stood holding the palette, made a strange coughing sound.
“Ahem-huff-hack-cough.”
“Hmm?”
“…My lungs…ahem.”
“…?”
Myura fell silent only after Lus had coughed three or four more times, and she grasped what he was trying to say—”His Majesty the Emperor!”—
Asha smiled awkwardly.
“…If Your Highness’s grandfather is…”
“Right. He’s over there.”
Asha pointed with her fingertip toward where Ashtad Palace stood. Myura pressed the tip of her brush against the crown of her messy gray hair, tapping it repeatedly, and spoke in a voice that had grown noticeably pale.
“Your Highness may not know, but I once refused an order from His Majesty to paint a portrait, and fled instead.”
“Really? Why?”
“I thought my skills were lacking. I also wanted a breath of fresh air.”
Myura seemed genuinely terrible at lying. The part where she said, “I thought my skills were lacking,” sounded distinctly awkward.
“But… since it is Your Highness’s request. And my technique has improved somewhat over these past few years.”
“I’ll definitely reward you!”
With that, Asha sprang to her feet and fetched the Lace Pouch she’d left on the opposite counter.
“This is a liquor I made myself. After making it, I realized I couldn’t drink it, so I’ve been sharing it around. I’ll give you some too.”
“The reward really isn’t necessary, but… since you say it’s something you made, I’ll gratefully accept it.”
“Oh, but how should I go about painting your grandfather? Should I secretly bring him here?”
“Please don’t worry. I’ve seen him before—before I fled.”
Hadn’t she said that was several years ago? Asha tilted her head curiously, but since Myura seemed confident about it, she asked no further.
“Once the painting is complete, I’ll return to show you both. His Majesty’s portrait as well.”
“All right. I’ll be waiting. Today was… fun.”
As Asha spoke with a smile, Myura started to cough again and bow, but then caught sight of a small painting nearby and tilted her head.
“Might I ask what that painting is?”
“Oh! This one. I wanted to sell something this time, so I made a wrapper design for it. The painter I contracted with drew up a proposal quickly.”
“……”
It was a paper adorned with cakes and pastries in vibrant, vivid colors—bright yellow and pink—and what looked like a frame where a product name would go. Myura gazed at the painting with an extremely serious expression for a long moment.
“This person must be the one who painted the signboard for that shop.”
“Huh? That’s impressive—how did you know? Can you really see that sort of thing?”
Myura smiled faintly.
“A painter’s eyes see only paintings. And the extraordinary talent of another. I would very much like to meet this person.”
“I was curious too. That signboard was pretty, after all. Then next time you come by, should I bring it up?”
“If that were possible, it would bring me great joy.”
With that, Myura bowed respectfully to Asha and turned to leave.

* * *

After Myura departed, Asha spent her days busy yet at peace. First she sent the liquor and Lime Pie to Kalno, and then liquor and baked pastries to Valery.
She heard that since Valery’s food-processing factory had closed, his visits to his salon and social gatherings had become less frequent.
She replied to a letter that came from Natalya, and had tea time with Alexei each day, baking fresh scones for him. She also set aside groceries and clothing to send to Yuriye and Irina, and every evening she called Ibven to feed him a hearty stew brimming with meat.
‘At least everything I make with my own hands seems to go over well.’
Ibven, devoted to his swordsmanship training, remained small and lean, yet compared to when they first met, he was far more vibrant.
‘Uncle Valery’s eating the pastries well, Ibven’s eating well, and the one Prasty with the Nocti Elves is quiet for now. …So that leaves two Prasties? It was divided into five pieces, after all.’
After a filling dinner with Ibven, Asha returned to her room and lay on her bed when a sudden thought came to her, and she rolled onto her side. A yellow chick, lying on Asha’s pillow with its belly puffed up round, rocked up and down with her breathing and moved its beak.
<One piece has already been dealt with.>
‘When?’
<Ten years ago.>
Asha’s eyes showed she wanted to hear more details, but Pibi deliberately said nothing more.
‘So if we count it that way, there are four Prasties whose whereabouts I know? Where is the last one?’
<As for the whereabouts of the last one… I still cannot speak of it.>
‘Can’t talk about it? Not yet? There’s a specific time when you’re allowed to tell me?’
……
Asha tilted her head. Pibi wore an expression of profound discomfort, as if she’d swallowed something the wrong way, and tried to look away. She shifted her plump body back and forth, as though attempting to hide her rounded belly.
‘Wait—Pibi, are you saying you can’t speak of the future like someone who’s been sent back in time?’
……!
Asha had meant it as a joke. Yet for a moment, she could have sworn she saw Pibi’s yellow feathers shift to an ashen blue.
‘…Wait?’

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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