“Of course, it did hurt when you called farming useless, but I’ve forgotten all about that,” Hazel answered. “But the reason I was up all night making chicory coffee is that you’re a guest at Marronnier Farm. My first guest at that. That’s why I wanted to serve you something I knew you’d like.”

Then she flashed a smile.

“Teach you a lesson? That’s just nonsense. I’m just doing what I enjoy. I love farming, you see. And to think just a few days ago, I was being yelled at by my boss, adding numbers on the abacus! I’m truly happy now!”

The Minister of Palace Internal Affairs stared blankly at the lady before him, at a loss for words.

“Oh, I just remembered. I was too careless last night. It was inexcusable behavior as a farm owner,” Hazel added, turning around.

Sitting on the countertop next to the oven was a large bushberry pie. She’d cooled it just enough so that it wouldn’t burn the tongue as the buttery crust melted into the sweet bushberry filling. Placing down the sumptuous pie on the dining table, Hazel felt prouder than a queen.

“It’ll go really well with the coffee,” she said confidently. “Have a bite.”

Nothing made her happier than serving people food that she’d put her heart into making. Seeing the young woman widen her eyes in eager anticipation, the minister felt troubled.

But I don’t like sweets... Should I just pretend to enjoy it? When he reluctantly picked up a fork and tried a small bite, he was astonished once again. “This isn’t sweet at all! No, no, it is sweet, but in a natural way. You didn’t use any sugar!”

“Of course I didn’t,” Hazel said. “The berries were packed with so much sweet juice that I didn’t need to. And do you know where I got all of these ripe bushberries? Right here, in His Majesty’s Grand Garden!”

“Is that true?”

“Yes, and I’ll tell you exactly where...”

As they made delightful conversation across the straw hat, the minister finished nearly half of the enormous pie. He even had three more cups of chicory coffee.

“Have another one!” Hazel said.

“No, it’s fine. I’m too full,” the minister said, waving his hands to the straw hat. The irritable lines across his forehead were smoothed out, and a healthy glow now replaced his dark and dull complexion.

Hazel nodded. “All right. Now you’re in a state to talk,” she said.

“Huh? Haven’t we been talking all this time?”

“I mean about the really important stuff. Please hear me out. I knew you were someone I could make understand. I’d like to explain how I came to legally own this land. Firstly, I have no intention to sell this land for a profit. I really do want to start a farm.”

“I know,” the minister answered after a pause.

“Pardon?”

“It seems I’ve made a grave mistake.”

Count Albert suddenly felt deeply ashamed of the way he’d come here last night and threatened her. And he was mortified of this ridiculous situation in which he could not look into the kind and innocent eyes of Miss Mayfield, forced to make conversation with a hat instead.

“I should get going,” he said.

“What? So soon? Hold on!” Hazel frantically filled a basket with several paper packets of the coffee powder she’d roasted all night, as well as the remaining slices of the large bushberry pie, then placed it in the minister’s arms.

The minister stepped out of the house in a daze to find the head guard and his subordinates waiting. When the minister vacantly walked past them, they shouted after him.

“My lord? My lord! Lord Albert!”

“What is it?”

“Sir...? You called for us to demolish the site.”

“Ohhh.” The minister dismissively waved his hand. “Never mind that. Call it off.”

“Sir?” The head guard stared after the minister in bewilderment. “My lord!” he called a few times, but the minister merely clutched his basket and walked away, too deep in thought to hear.

* * *

The imperial attendant Cecil cast furtive glances at his supervisor. He’d been expecting hellfire to rain down on Lot 79, but the honorable minister had instead come to work this morning in an excellent mood, his face positively glowing. It was almost like the days when he used to drink coffee.

Could it be...?

But no, it was impossible. If he’d had coffee, he wouldn’t be in such a good condition. He would have suffered from heartburn right away. Then why did he look so healthy?

Cecil suddenly had a terrifying thought. What if it was an end-of-life rally, that extra burst of energy before death?

Oh no. No, no. Cecil shuddered at the thought. Scary as the minister might be, he was still someone that Cecil genuinely respected. Any palace attendant would agree. So please...

“Perfect,” the minister suddenly said.

Cecil jumped. “Pardon?”

“It’s absolute perfection. The best.”

“Uh, I’m sure it’s unlikely, but are you referring to my report, sir?”

“Of course not. I meant this pie.”

Cecil finally noticed the small plate on the minister’s desk. His frightening, charismatic boss was sitting there savoring a pie, taking tiny bites at a time to make it last for as long as possible.

“What pie is that, sir?” asked Cecil. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

“It’s bushberry. Did you know that there are heaps and heaps of bushberries growing in the Grand Garden?”

“I didn’t know that at all, sir.”

“Me neither. Hmm, yes... The palace did need some...”

“Do you mean bushberry, sir?”

“What are you talking about? I meant interesting people! This palace has had nothing but boring people! Didn’t I just tell you there were already heaps of bushberry here? You nincompoop! What kind of useless...” the minister said out of habit before he stopped himself. “I’ve decided not to say that word anymore.”

Cecil’s eyes widened. But the shock didn’t end there. The minister canceled his entire schedule for the day, then lugged out a massive book that was thousands of pages long, called The Imperial Code of Law.

“I thought you memorized the whole book, sir. Why do you need it?”

“I just need to check something.”

After flipping through the pages for hours, the minister finally found what he was looking for and nodded to himself.

“Yes, yes, but of course.”

Then a smile slowly spread across his face.

“It appears change is coming to the palace indeed...”

* * *

The broom outside collapsed at a gust of wind. Hazel paused in the middle of sewing her bedspread and got to her feet. Something bumped against the door as she opened it.

It was the basket she’d handed the minister this morning. When she picked it up, she heard a rustling sound coming from inside. She opened the basket and saw a thick envelope addressed to her hat.

To the straw hat, from Lysander Albert, Minister of Palace Internal Affairs.

“He’s a lot funnier than he looks,” Hazel remarked. She tore open the envelope to find a letter several pages long, written in flawless calligraphy.

The minister started by inquiring after the straw hat in a heartfelt manner, asking whether there were any loose pieces of straw sticking out yet, and whether the bugs were pestering it... Then, he sincerely apologized for last night. He had been especially on edge because of a stubborn boss who wouldn’t take his advice—all while he couldn’t have a single sip of coffee.

“Oh, I understand. I more than understand.” Hazel recalled the grumpy branch manager at Rochelle Municipal Bank and found herself strongly relating to the minister. Then she turned to the next page, where the minister shared an old story with the straw hat.

She read down the tale with interest, and soon her eyes grew wider and wider. Then she sprang to her feet, unable to contain her excitement. Not even noticing that the only chair in the house was toppled over, Hazel sprinted outside.

* * *

Palace employee Marianne was staring out the window when she noticed something.

“Oh my! Oh my!” she cried in alarm.

A woman with brown hair and a straw hat was walking toward her. Marianne had never met her before, but she recognized her right away, having seen the announcement describing her appearance.

“What should I do?”

“What else can you do?” her colleague said. “Just ignore her as the guidelines say. Pretend not to hear if she says anything to you.”

The palace employees braced themselves. But when Hazel marched forward and slammed a document down on the table, everyone couldn’t help but flinch.

“Look at this,” Hazel demanded. “I might be invisible to you, but this document isn’t.”

That was true. The employees hesitantly glanced at the paper, then winced at what they saw.

Palace Salon Application, the document was titled.

“Private properties can’t exist within the imperial palace, but there’s only one exception—a salon run by an aristocratic lady. It’s a wonderful law that was passed by His Majesty Ramstein the Second, who wanted to actively embrace new culture through trendsetting salons. Everyone forgot about this law because it’s been so long, but it still holds to this day. Therefore, nobody can chase me out. If you have anything to say, you can tell this straw hat right here.”

Nobody could dare answer her.

Hazel felt triumphant.

Thank you, Minister, she said silently. Then she returned home.

Underneath the large door plate that read Marronnier Farm, she added in teeny, tiny letters with chalk: Salon.

It was an extremely satisfying day for Hazel Mayfield.