I Hit the Back of the Tower Master’s Head - Chapter 9

Episode 9

It hadn’t been long since we cleared the table when the whole house started to smell like boiling sugar. Sweetness filled the air.

While the jam cooked, I decided it was time to finally check on Ruse’s wound—the one I hadn’t gotten a good look at earlier because I was busy sorting bread. I carefully unwrapped his bandages. The gash was still raw and red, wide enough that it would definitely leave a scar.

Lulu toddled over and handed me a bottle of medicine. I dipped some cotton in it and gently cleaned the wound.

Ruse bit down on his lip.

“Ugh…”

I worked a little faster, dabbing antiseptic on, then tightened the fresh bandage. His fingers clenched the sofa so hard they turned white—then crack! something broke. Both of us froze and turned our heads toward the sound.

“…I’ll fix it,” Ruse muttered, pointing at the hole he’d just made in the sofa like a kid caught misbehaving.

I finished tying the bandage snug and opened my notebook.

[Do you know how to sew?]

“Of course… probably.”

Probably? I narrowed my eyes. Sewing wasn’t nearly as easy as it sounded.

But Ruse nodded again like he was trying to convince himself.

“I can try now.”

At my gesture, Lulu quickly fetched needle, thread, and a scrap of cloth. Ruse pressed the fabric over the tear and picked up the needle, trying to look calm—but the moment he aimed for the tiny hole, he started fumbling.

Lulu plopped onto my lap, watching him struggle.

The thread kept slipping past the needle’s eye, so Ruse licked the end and tried again.

“Phew…”

When it finally went through, he wiped his sweaty forehead. He stared at the cloth, the sofa, and the threaded needle, then slowly asked:

“…Wait. If I just push this in, won’t the thread slide right back out?”

I shrugged without answering. He looked at me like a man dying for a hint, but I made no move to write anything. Giving up, he stabbed the cloth onto the sofa.

“Uh… how do I get the needle back out?”

I burst into silent laughter, clutching Lulu so tightly the poor doll nearly got squashed. Ruse’s cheeks flushed redder and redder. Only when Lulu squeaked in protest did I finally stop and take the needle from him. With a quick knot, I stitched the sofa neatly.

“…I think I get it now,” Ruse said, holding out his hand like he wanted another chance.

I passed the needle back. He sewed carefully this time—but his stitches were slow, crooked, and ugly. Lulu laughed so hard she rolled on the floor.

“…What’s Lulu saying?” Ruse asked.

[She’s mocking you.]

He flinched like he’d been stabbed, dropping the needle. I patted his shoulder encouragingly.

[You can do it. Don’t give up.]

“…This feels less like motivation and more like torture,” he muttered, picking the needle back up. He compared his messy stitches with mine and groaned.

“One looks like an adult’s work, the other like a child’s…”

[Which one’s the child’s?] I teased, smiling openly.

His face was still pink as he glared at me.

“You know exactly what I mean. Don’t ask on purpose.”

[Are you sulking?]

“…No one’s sulking.”

He stabbed the fabric with a stubborn look.

“See? Not sulking.”

But no amount of pride could save his sewing skills. After a few more miserable attempts, he sighed and set the needle down. I glanced at his strawberry-red face and tied off the thread myself, finishing it cleanly.

[It’s fine. Everyone’s good at some things and bad at others.]

“…I’d rather you just pretend you didn’t see,” he grumbled.

I chuckled silently again. He poked at the patched spot like he might undo it, and—rip. Another hole. He froze.

[I saw that.]

“…I’ll fix it,” he said again, laughing awkwardly at his own words.

I nodded to Lulu, who slapped his hand lightly before running off and bringing back another scrap of cloth. Sitting him down, I stitched the hole properly this time. Now two mismatched patches sat side by side on the sofa, looking oddly cute.

“…Sorry,” Ruse murmured. After a pause, he added, “Once I get my memory back, I’ll buy you a new one.”

I patted his shoulder to say, don’t worry about it.

Just then, Lily shouted from the kitchen:

〈Stop playing around and come help!〉

Lulu grumbled back:

〈Why don’t you just do it yourself!〉

I followed them into the kitchen. Pinocchio was chopping apricots like a machine, but the place was a disaster. Ruse poked his head in nervously.

Lily stirred a pot with a long ladle, then pointed at the pile of fruit—grapes, strawberries, apples—all over the counter.

〈Get cutting.〉

Lulu climbed onto the table, rolled grapes into a neat row, and started squashing them with a rolling pin, rolling across it like a little log. Juice spattered everywhere. Thankfully none hit his white body—if it stained purple, it’d be a nightmare to clean.

“Uh… do we have to help too?” Ruse whispered.

Pinocchio nodded without hesitation, shoved a knife into Ruse’s hand, and pushed him toward the apples. Clearly, he wanted out of the work.

Ruse sighed and started slicing, while I smashed strawberries beside him. The whole room smelled tart and sweet—Lily was boiling blueberries.

“How small do I cut these?” Ruse muttered. He pressed down too hard, mashing the apples into pulp. Lulu yelped in horror, slipped off the rolling pin, and landed in the grape mush—now completely purple.

Oh no. A half-purple, half-white duck was… not a good look.

〈Purple duck is fine!〉 Lulu protested.

No, it’s really not. You look like a two-tone disaster.

He trembled as I grabbed him, dipped my finger in the grape juice, and wrote on him:

[I’ll go do laundry.]

Ruse waved awkwardly like he was seeing us off.

In the bathroom, Lulu flopped in the tub looking like he’d given up on life. I tossed him in, added soap, and scrubbed until the stains came out. He splashed me in the face once, but I wrung him out and hung him on the line to dry.

When I got back, Lily was yelling at Ruse again while Pinocchio pretended to be busy.

“Translation, please,” Ruse begged, gesturing helplessly.

Lily stomped the table.

〈He didn’t cut apples, he made applesauce!〉

Sure enough, the board was covered in half-juice, half-pulp. I calmed Lily down and wrote:

[Ignore her, Ruse. It’s fine.]

Lily smacked my hand, but she couldn’t really hurt me.

“…Something smells burnt,” Ruse suddenly said.

Lily panicked, leapt down, and turned off the fire. I stirred the pot—blueberries had started to scorch. I tasted a spoonful. Faintly bitter.

I offered some to Ruse. He blinked, chewed, and nodded.

“…Yeah, it’s a little burnt. But… I can eat anything.”

He coughed awkwardly, and behind me Lily was scraping the pot, trying to hide the evidence.

Too late to throw it away. I told her to just jar it up. Pinocchio snickered:

〈A cooking doll who burns food—what a joke!〉

Lily trembled but didn’t answer.

The apples were practically mush already, so I dumped sugar in and simmered them. Meanwhile Ruse picked up raspberries.

“Do I crush these too?”

Before I could shake my head, Pinocchio snatched them away. Ruse sighed and slumped into a chair.

Knock, knock. Someone was at the door. I wiped my hands and went to answer. It was Theo, carrying a string of fish.

“Whoa, it smells sweet in here. You making jam?”

I nodded.

“Mom said to give you these.”

He handed me three salted fish. I accepted them with another nod.

[Tell her thanks, we’ll eat well.]

“Got it. I’ll tell her.”

He bowed lightly before leaving, and when I glanced back, Ruse was awkwardly bowing in return. Their eyes must have met. Theo walked off toward Annie’s house, probably to deliver more fish.

When I closed the door, Pinocchio grabbed the fish and vanished into storage. I sat where he’d been and cut an apricot in half.

Ruse flinched at the knife, and without thinking, I popped a piece of fruit into his mouth—just like my mom used to do for me when I hung around while she cut fruit.

He blinked, chewing slowly.

“…I was gonna cut that,” he mumbled.