Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

"What? That was a goddess of beauty?" Winters asked in slight surprise, for he had actually only seen a nude female figure.

Anna smiled sweetly and nodded her head.

Although the girl in front of him was all smiles, Winters clearly saw two faint wrinkles form between her eyebrows. He also noticed that Anna's left hand, which was holding a candlestick, had become pale at the joints from gripping too hard, while her right hand was twitching slightly, unconsciously.

Did I say something wrong? Winters was a little puzzled. He also found it hard to understand why Lady Navarre's daughter, clearly very angry, still masked it with a bright and sunny exterior.

Those admired in the military were men like Layton and Field, men of strong character, bold and unrestrained. Even if Winters didn't like Major General Layton very much, he was willing to follow him onto the battlefield.

Although Winters wanted to remedy the situation, he was not one of those art connoisseurs who spoke eloquently. The painting conveyed to him only the most straightforward visual impression, so he honestly shared his thoughts, "If you hadn't told me that was Aphrodite, I would have thought it was Athena."

"Why would Athena be presented naked to the viewers?" Anna blinked in slight confusion.

"Is that so? Then I am superficial." Winters blushed with embarrassment, searching hard for the right words to describe his direct impressions: "But the goddess in the painting feels to me more like a…female warrior, a female knight. Yes, that's it!"

His thoughts suddenly became clear, and he explained with gestures: "Although the figure in the painting is female (her breasts feature secondary sexual traits), she is very fit, valorous, and well-proportioned; even I don't have such beautiful abs… I feel she would look more harmonious with a shield and a spear in her hands, so I mistook her for a goddess of war."

Anna covered her face and smiled heartily: "Mr. Montaigne, I have never heard such comments before; they're quite refreshing." Her brows were no longer furrowed, her fists no longer clenched, and her eyes resembled crescent moons, reflecting a smile that came from her heart this time.

Winters said embarrassingly, "I don't understand painting, these are all my wild thoughts."

"Such interesting thoughts, Mr. Montaigne."

"Perhaps there will be a chance to ask the painter himself what he thinks."

"In my opinion, even the painter doesn't know what he wanted to convey."

"Who exactly is the artist who created this masterpiece?"

"Not any known artist; it was bought by my mother from some obscure little painter."

"But I think it's beautifully done."

"It's nothing more than a clumsy imitation of classical art. Many statues of goddesses from the classical era are just as fit and brave. Many are even male statues converted into female figures," Anna said as she removed the bolt and pushed open the kitchen door leading to the living room. "Come on, Mr. Montaigne, you can tell the cook whatever you want to eat; please don't be shy."

But the spacious kitchen was empty, with only a faint glow emanating from the oven. The door to the backyard was open, indicating the servants who worked there had all sneaked out.

Anna stood motionless in the doorway to the kitchen, her back toward Winters.

"It's too late; it seems the kitchen has already closed for the day. Let's not trouble them then, and head back," Winters said, somewhat concerned that the young lady of the house might find it hard to step down.

"How could that be?" Anna entered the kitchen and lit the oil lamps with the candlestick: "If you don't mind, I'll prepare something for you."

Winters was flattered: "I'm not hungry anymore; how could I trouble you to personally make something?"

"There are some ready-made ingredients; it's quite convenient, as long as you don't mind," Anna's tone was gentle but left no room for Winters to decline: "Please stoke the fire in the oven a bit more."

Winters subconsciously obeyed, and began to add more wood to the oven.

Anna found two pieces of wheat bread left over by the servants, and cut off the hardened crust that had formed from sitting too long.

Then she sliced thin pieces from a large block of dry cheese and smoked meat, layering them onto the bread. Lastly, she fished out a pickled cucumber from a jar, cut it in half lengthwise, and placed half on each slice of bread.

Winters wanted to help but found he couldn't do anything; he could only watch as Anna, in her dress, bustled about the kitchen.

The bread, having been processed a second time, was placed by Anna into the oven to bake; the cheese began to melt, seeping into the crevices of the bread. After a few minutes, Anna took out the baked bread, cut it into bite-sized pieces, and led Winters out of the kitchen to a secluded gazebo in a corner of the garden.

The air was filled with the delicate fragrance of a certain rose species, and the sound of cicadas ebbed and flowed around them. The bright moonlight eclipsed the radiance of most stars. Through the neatly trimmed shrubs, one could vaguely see the light from the windows of a nearby side hall.

"Please enjoy."

Winters hadn't expected things to turn out this way; he had casually asked for something to eat, but it ended up with the young lady personally cooking for him.

He said apologetically to Anna, "You can leave me here alone; I'm truly sorry to have taken up so much of your time. Lady Navarre must be getting anxious."

But the girl did not leave; instead, she sat down lightly on the stone bench, lifting her dress slightly, and smiled at Winters, "I should thank you, Mr. Montaigne, for giving me an excuse to escape from that tedious party. I didn't want to attend such gatherings at all."