𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 | 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐢𝐧

𝐈𝐈𝐈 : 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐍𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐥𝐞

"Oh, yes, I'm sure you're right." Sasha was the last thing you wanted to consider early in the morning. "So, Mr. Arlert, any progress on the book?"

"Not much, I'm afraid. Mostly just note-writing. I have a decent amount of time before I have to meet with my publisher, so I'm sure I can produce something worthwhile before–"

The door flew open to break up the conversation, and Mr. Kirstein appeared, still in his clothes from the day before. His hair was ruffled like a wild beast, and his shirt had the top three buttons undone, exposing his wispy chest hair to the open air. You might have swooned over his rugged appearance if he had not sullied his reputation the previous night. Instead, your eyes hardened, and your lips pursed into a firm, straight line.

"Armin, when are we..." his voice cut off when his vision fell on you. The painter's expression reflected yours like glass. "Why is the maid at the table? Does she not have somewhere to be?"

"I invited her, and she is not a maid. Miss Y/n is a friend. She has been my guest each morning since you took so long to arrive."

Mr. Arlert gestured for his friend to sit, but the Frenchman glued his back against the wall with his arms crossed. "There is no space for me."

"I see two open chairs," you retorted, "So there is more than enough space for both you and the stick planted firmly in your rear."

Mr. Arlert snorted at your remark while you sent an ingenious smile to the artist. Your grin only bloomed wider as Mr. Kirstein's face twitched in anger. "You would be wise to watch your tongue, boudin," Mr. Kirstein's voice was full of malice as he stepped closer. "I am not a spineless man that allows a child to run her mouth."

"Mr. Arlert?" you asked, "Boudin–what does it mean? Is it as rude as yesterday's language?"

"No, but it is still most unkind. I believe he means to say you are ugly, which I would say is categorically untrue." Mr. Arlert reclined in his chair. "There is no need to sling insults at a girl you have only just met, Jean."

Mr. Kirstein's expression fell with betrayal. "De quel côté es-tu?"

Mr. Arlert shifted to you and lowered his voice to a hush. "Do you know how I would answer that?" You shook your head, interested in his answer. "I would say 'le mien.' I believe that means 'my own,' but my French isn't as refined as Jean's. Maybe he can teach you some things once he's calmed himself."

You raised your eyebrows to the painter as a challenge. He clenched his jaw and burnt angry holes in your clothes. Rising from your chair, you stepped towards the exit, only to stop right in front of Mr. Kirstein.

"I will leave you to it so you can have your precious space. Breakfast is almost ready if you wish to join. And one more thing." You smiled politely–your speech dripping in mockery, "You would be wise to watch your attitude. I am no weak woman that allows a fool to run his mouth."

After shutting the cabin door behind you, echoes of Mr. Arlert's muffled laughter filled the air, and you barely controlled the urge to cackle yourself. Maybe it was wrong, but knocking the already insufferable man down a few marks felt fabulous. You breathed away your inflated ego so that Niccolo would not ask what had stirred your change in attitude when you stepped inside. Once in the kitchen beside the chef, you began plating eggs, sausages, and fruit for him.

"I forgot to tell you," Niccolo said as he worked, "Mrs. Freudenberg dropped a dress she needs to be finished by Thursday evening while you were gone yesterday. She wants those little floral patterns she loves so much but also wants to keep the dress 'effortlessly simple.' I left it in the sewing room with your needles."