So, there's time. Time for redemption. In my chest grew anxiety, sharp as a rose thorn, and with it—determination. I remembered our last quarrel, sharp words thrown in heat, and her gaze full of pain I didn't want to notice. Now that pain returned as an echo, amplified by the castle's emptiness.
— Elsa, — I resolved, — will you help me bake a pie? From those berries I gathered.
The maid's face lit up with a maternal smile. Amazing thing—some women are born to be moms to the whole world.
— A pie? And what's with this sudden culinary inspiration?
I scratched the back of my head—a gesture betraying embarrassment since infancy:
— Messed up with Mom. Want to make amends. You know how it is—say stupid things, then think: lord, what an idiot I am.
— Oh, I know, I know, — Elsa laughed. — Men are all the same—first open their mouth, then turn on their brains. Give you the recipe or help?
— Just the recipe. Want to do it all myself. This should be... a personal act of penance.
Elsa nodded with the understanding of a true woman:
— Good. Write down the berry pie recipe. It's also called "Soul's Consolation"—because it can melt even the coldest heart.
And she began dictating, and I wrote, marveling how ancient culinary traditions turn simple ingredients into something magical...