Chapter 7
Matthias was surprised to find that the palace bakehouse was considerably smaller than the sprawling kitchen spaces he had used at the academy.
The large, domed bakehouse oven had been built decades—if not centuries—prior.
It was so large that he knew it would take hours to bring the massive structure up to an even heat.
Older kitchens often separated the bakehouse from the kitchen precisely because of how much heat the massive oven produced.
However, Matthias quickly realized that because the palace bakehouse was a real, working space that fed hundreds of people daily, it was overrun with flouriers two hours before dawn. Breads and pastries had to be hot and ready for the waking palace inhabitants to break their fast.
So, unlike the academy, if Matthias wanted quiet time to better his skills—at least that was what he’d told Renaud—he would have to stay up late rather than get up early.
He did want to better his skills, just not his codex skills. But he was really looking for the freedom to experiment with new textures and flavors.
Moving his belongings to the palace had been a simple affair, as he had relatively little with him.
He had been given a small room in the guest wing near the bakehouse.
His chest of notebooks and parchments was half the size and double the weight of his chest of clothes and other personal belongings.
The third and final item he brought with him was a small wooden shipping crate with wide gaps between its slats and a hemp rope tied haphazardly around the entire thing in every direction.
The day after he had won the title of Royal Apprentice, he had gone to the docks and purchased the crate with the last of his meager funds.
He no longer had to save for a second year at the academy—or pay for the long trip back home to Kanask.
So he had chosen to celebrate his new position in a way that brought him the most happiness.
Now, five days later, after a busy week of learning his place at the bottom of the busy bakehouse beneath the actual Masters who worked there, Matthias had finally found a moment alone to open the crate.
First, he sliced into the thick hemp rope which wrapped around it, holding the wooden lid in place.
He could already smell the soft aroma that wafted from the loose slats.
It was a strange mix scent that sat somewhere between salt and old wine, but he had grown fond of it over the last year.
He had even slowly learned how to tell the difference between too much tang—a fermentation gone sour—and the perfectly dried contents of the crate.
And judging from the scent alone, this crate had been worth the price.
A price he really should not have spent.
But there were only so many times a man could count the turns in his perfectly rolled croissant dough without going mad.
Matthias had not even touched a single grain of wheat since he had started working in the palace bakehouse.
Renaud had told him to simply watch and observe the masters at work so he could understand the mechanics of the kitchen, and would not break them out of their rhythms when he actually started working with them.
Despite the tiredness in his body from the late hour, his mind was itching to make something. He needed to make something new. Something that would give him a fresh sense of energy and a reason to get up every morning.
Inside the wooden crate sat a fat burlap sack.
Matthias used a small knife to undo the stitches which held the sack closed, and leaned his face over the bag to inhale the strong, fresh scent of bitter, earthy, cocoa beans.
These beans were perfect.
Reaching his hand inside the sack, he let the beans sift through his fingers as he lifted them up into the low light of the lantern next to him. The oven fires had long been banked and the wall candles extinguished. He had brought his own light into the dark kitchen with him.
The fermented and dried beans made a lovely soft crackle as they splashed against each other.
There would be little sleep for Matthias tonight.
Gathering three bowls, he set to work.
Lifting a bean into the light, he rolled it gently between his fingers, checking for the soft give of a moldy interior.
The bean itself was slightly larger than the pad of his thumb.
A quick examination with his eyes showed no hole or crack.
Which meant that the dry, pasty interior of the bean was likely still intact.
He dropped the bean into the first bowl.
The second bowl was for the obvious discards. Despite its strong, bitter flavor, Matthias had found cocoa to be incredibly delicate to work with. A single moldy bean could throw off the taste of an entire batch.
The third bowl was for the beans which needed a second examination. He had spent money he did not have to purchase the small crate of the foreign ingredient, and he couldn’t risk wasting a single bean. Nor could he entirely trust his tired eyes in the lamplight.
The sorting was slow, but in a meticulous way that Matthias found engaging rather than dull. The rules he was following here were his own. And they gave his mind the space to imagine all the new creations he could make with this small supply of cocoa.
He had used the last of his last batch to create the small cocoa spheres for the choux crown. It had been his best work to date with the unwieldy ingredient, and he was proud of the small, bitter bite he had created. But he knew he could do better.
The few letters he’d been able to get translated that had traveled with the cocoa described a smooth, delicious texture that he had not yet been able to produce.
He had learned how to process the good beans. To roast them just long enough to develop the flavor and dry out the shells. Then, he cracked them open, winnowing away the husk until he was left with the actual meat of the bean.
For the presentation, he had ground the dried nibs until his arms had ached, creating a paste that he had heated with sugar, bound with wheat, and molded into a spherical shape of a gem.
It had been dense and somewhat gritty. Different and interesting, yes.
But a far cry from what he believed it could be.
His notebook was filled with ideas that he wanted to try, flavors he wanted to add to the cocoa itself, and techniques he wanted to perfect with it.
The only question was, which one he should attempt next.
He was excited about several of the ideas but he had to make a guess at which ones would be most likely to succeed.
Perhaps if he could find a way to grind it longer he could create a smoother texture . . .
The bakehouse door scraped open, creaking slowly.
A tall thin woman with an upturned nose stepped quietly inside, closing the door behind her. She wore a tight shawl around her shoulders despite the warm night air. Her eyes instantly found him.
Matthias could not fully explain what happened in her expression when she saw him. The physical features of her face did not appear to change, but she instantly seemed to stand taller, stiffer. Her eyes became guarded.
Matthias set the bean he was holding into the third bowl and gave her his full attention with a smile.
He knew it was not a welcoming smile, but some part of him was happy to see her.
She would add an element of interest to his tedious evening, and, if the displeasure on her face was anything to go by, she was not likely to remain long.
“Apprentice," she said. Her word was both a greeting, and a statement, but her tone was condescending. She walked into the room. She was carrying a wooden bucket filled with water—likely from the cistern right outside the bakehouse door.
Matthias realized that he had no idea how to address her in response. Her father's surname was Lavelle, but calling her Lady Lavelle did not sit right. "Codex Master," he replied, finally landing on a suitably condescending retort.
She huffed, leaning to the side as she walked to offset the weight of the water pail she carried.
Matthias smirked, pleased with the title he had landed on for her.
Walking past him, she used the pail to fill the iron kettle which sat on a flat surface off of the side of the large oven.
"What are you doing here?" he asked when she offered no explanation for her actions.
"I live here," she said, carrying the now empty bucket toward the door.
"So do I," Matthias reminded her.
She stepped outside the door and returned a moment later, hands empty.
"I didn't ask," she responded. Walking back into the room, she arranged a knife and cutting board on the counter across from him. Pulling a large handful of fresh herbs from the pocket of her skirt, she set about stripping and chopping them.
Matthias picked up another bean, holding it up to the lantern light. He had only sorted four more beans before the smell reached him.
The bright herbal scent overpowered the musty tang of the cocoa which was no small feat. He set the bean he was holding onto the counter without choosing which bowl it belonged too. This new scent was sharp, fresh, and familiar, but he could not place it.
He looked over at her cutting board. She had a fistful of leaves bunched up in one hand and she was eviscerating them with quick, even passes of the knife she held in the other.
He recognized the pale, velvety leaves of sage and the long, shiny sprigs of lemon balm. But there was a third plant, darker, already worked into the pile, and it was that third note his nose kept reaching for.
"What is that," he said, the words were more of a statement to himself than a question to her. His mind knew the answer, he just could not place it.
"Tea," she said, not looking up.
"I know it's tea." The kettle had begun to make the small ticking noises that said the water was beginning to heat. Matthias walked around the end of his counter, stepping closer to where she worked so he could inhale the scent without the undertones of cocoa.
Sage was a savory leaf. Lemon balm was tart and bright. He would never have placed them together, and the third note enveloping them was even more confusing.
But his mouth had already started to water just imagining the combination of flavors over his tongue. "Sage and lemon balm don't go together," he said.
"Again,” she said, sweeping the pile of chopped herbs to the edge of her board with the flat of the knife, “I didn’t ask.”
"What's the dark one?" he asked.
She glanced up at him at that, looking at him for the first time since that moment she realized he was in the kitchen when she walked in.
Her eyes crinkled with the slightest bit of amusement.
Was she laughing at his ignorance? Then her eyebrows tightened and she looked back down at the cutting board.
"Something that grows in the garden," she said.
"That narrows it down tremendously." He squinted in the low light, but could not properly make out the shape of the leaves. Most of them had been chopped already.
She scooped her herbal concoction into a thick-walled clay cup and carried it past him to place near the oven. She lifted the lid of the kettle, letting out a small puff of steam.
She set the lid down to the side, staring into the kettle as she waited for the water to boil and not deigning to fill the silence.
Matthias went back to his counter, picking up the bean he had set down. She clearly had no intention of sharing her time with him. And he had no reason to convince her otherwise.
Well, he did, but he had all year to convince her to try his confections.
He continued to sort, the only sounds in the room being the gentle click of each bean as he dropped them into the bowls until the steadily growing thrum of the near-boiling water took over.
"Why the third bowl?"
Surprised by her question, Matthias looked over at her. "It's for one's I can't tell yet. Whether they are good or bad."
She stepped away from the pot, taking a few steps toward him. He could hear her sniffing as though she was doing the same thing he had just done to her herbs. "What are these?" she asked.
"Cocoa beans." He did not hide the smug tone that crept into his voice. He was willing to answer her questions even if she had chosen to evade his. He tossed the bean he was holding up into the air. It made a large arc, coming down just in front of her.
She held out her hand and caught it.
He grabbed another from the burlap sack.
He could feel her examining the bean, but he kept his eyes on his own work.
"Is this a good one?" she asked, the kettle behind her began to bubble loudly.
He nodded.
"Which bowl does it go into?"
He pointed to the bowl on his right.
She stepped forward and dropped the bean into the good bowl then returned to the pot of now-boiling water. Using a cloth to protect her hands from the heat, she poured the water into her cup of herbs.
The bright scent he'd noted earlier bloomed out into the room, more fragrant than before.
Matthias closed his eyes for a moment, letting this new, lovely smell wash over him. It was green and bright, the lemon balm lifting the sage. And there, he could smell the third note more clearly now. A sharp, bitter undertone.
It was rue. He almost said it out loud but did not want to give her the satisfaction. It wasn't even an herb. It was a bitter weed that most gardeners tore out.
No one chose rue. But from the pleasant scent of it, she had built an entire cup around it. His mouth continued to water as he imagined the tart lemon balm grounded by both the earthy sage and the bitter rue.
He opened his eyes and flipped to a fresh page in his open journal. The girl who would scarcely bite into the most delectably sweet dessert chose to brew a cup of bitter tea for herself in the dark kitchen while no one was watching.
He held himself back from noting it down while she was still in the room, however.
When he looked up at her, she was watching him, her hands holding the rim of the cup where it was least hot. "You can't have any," she said.
"I didn't ask," he replied, repeating her own twice-spoken words from earlier.
"You were about to."
"Actually, I was going to offer you some of this.
" He gestured at the bowls. It was a lie, mostly, he was merely embarrassed that she had almost caught him about to take notes.
On her. Not that she would have known. "When it's ready, that is.
But it's bitter. You'd hate—" He stopped speaking before he could reveal what he discovered about her.
Fortunately, she did seem to have noticed as she spoke over him with a small smile. "I already told you, I will never eat anything you make."
"You said create. You said you'd never eat anything I created." He held up a raw bean. "This is a bean. I didn't create it. A tree did."
For a moment—just a moment—the corner of her mouth moved. Not quite a smile, but she was amused. "Goodnight, Apprentice," she said. She carried her steaming cup out of the bakehouse.
Matthias grabbed his pen, dipping it in ink to record his findings.