Chapter 9
MY NEW ASSISTANT
After a decadent night of sleep in my cream puff of a bed in the palace, Rafia woke me before dawn.
I dressed in my usual working dress and apron, tossed my cookbook and magic spoon in my satchel and hurried from the door, but not before I noticed another small carving upon the maple.
A whimsical carving of my new kitchen cottage in the gardens graced the wood, complete with fanciful smoke puffing from the chimney.
I marveled at the detail, but could not delay as Rafia and I made our way down the five flights of stairs to the kitchen.
The lingering smell of yesterday’s sugar cookies and old wood cabinets cheered me as I made my way through the front door.
It might be a rundown mess, but it was my mess.
It felt right to have my own place. One I could fix up to my liking.
This was a good place to be, even if surrounded by elves on every side… not all of them were terrible.
Rafia stoked the fire, and I readied the dough. We worked in companionable silence as I stretched the dough and allowed it to rise.
With my cardamom and nutmeg to complete the recipe, it wasn’t long before I had fifty flawless cinnamon rolls plated before me. They were perfection, made exactly to every measurement with each ingredient. These could not fail to live up to the king’s ridiculous expectations.
Like yesterday, Isola and Gale arrived with the rolling trays to bring the pastries up to the king. I took the time to straighten my dress, brush off the extra flour, and make sure my hair and face were at least presentable.
We delivered the rolls and exited the breakfast room without any trouble. Whew. I was grateful to escape before the king’s retinue arrived, eager to forget about the whole “bacon incident.”
So why was my stomach in knots? I was very definitely not wanting to look at the hateful Elf King’s ridiculously handsome face, to maybe see his reaction to the perfect cinnamon rolls.
No. That would just be unwise.
I wiped the sweat from my brow and went to my rooms to bathe when I noticed an additional carving on my wooden door.
It was of a single cinnamon roll with steam curling from it in a wisp of delicately carved smoke.
It nested directly beside the kitchen cottage in a fanciful design.
Beautiful. I looked around and didn’t see anyone about.
Was this the carving of an artist or some strange magic working upon my door?
After my shower, Rafia braided my curls into one of her special plaits.
She walked me to my cottage, then left me alone as she ran off to retrieve some items. I fluffed the couch cushions, then wiped down my kitchen counters again, preparing any moment for a letter of gratitude from the king. I fully expected a glowing report.
But as I waited…my stomach rumbled. Something savory sounded lovely. I plucked some branches of rosemary and basil from the herb garden behind my cottage, then started on a yeasty dough when a loud rapping sounded at my door.
“Come on in, Rafia.” I called, eager to hear the report from the king. “No need to knock.”
Boots stomped through the doorway revealing a tall, stately elf with brilliant white hair. The Elf King himself.
He ducked slightly as he entered through the door, then strode in, the wood floor groaning beneath his leather boots.
He looked around the kitchen, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, but when those eyes landed on me, the smile slipped as if it never was.
He carried a platter of about half a dozen of my cinnamon rolls and loomed over a head higher than I above the counter.
The rolls looked as if they hadn’t been touched.
“These were not the rolls I ordered.” The earlier smile I’d noticed was a phantom dream, replaced by his signature icy glare as he dumped the platter of cinnamon rolls directly into the dough I was mixing. “Where is the magic I tasted in the human realm?”
“Magic?” I scoffed as I stared at the cinnamon rolls he’d plopped in the center of my bread dough. How dare he? Venom poured from me. “So, it was magic that caused you to flip out and destroy my clean little kitchen back in the village?”
“I am a king. I do not flip out.” The Elf King sneered over the unfamiliar words. “I demonstrated my feelings.”
“What feelings cause a king to react in such a childish way?” I asked. “Though I guess you were disguised as a child, so—”
“No no no.” The Elf King waved my words away. “This will not do. I brought you here for your magic. Your baking. This is merely a delicious pastry.”
“Merely a delicious pastry?” I asked. “I swear there was a compliment hidden in there somewhere.”
“Then I apologize.” The Elf King ran a hand through his wavy white hair still damp from a bath.
“I need your magic. Now please. Do it, woman.” Then the Elf King did the strangest thing, he crossed his arms and stood towering over me as if his mere force of will would have it be done. “I shall wait here.”
My cheeks flushed at the pure attention of his gaze. “Your staring at me will not overwhelm me.”
“I shall decide how I make you feel, woman,” the King said, still looming.
“Actually, you don’t decide how I feel, King.
” I removed the cinnamon rolls from my dough, hoping to salvage the yeasted bread dough I’d been kneading on the floured surface.
“You may take me from my family, steal me across the lands, and place me in your sweet little kitchen to bake for you, but you do not get to decide how I feel.”
“I did not think a human would dare speak to their king in such a manner.” The Elf King’s large forearms flexed.
“You are the Elf King.” I kneaded the bread dough into a neat oval. “And I am, as you continue to remind me, a lousy little human. Humans don’t have magic.”
“I am your king.” The Elf King said in a low growl. “And you shall bake your magic.”
“I’m sorry, King, but I do not have magic.
Just good ingredients added together in just the right way.
” I paused. That did sound a little bit like what Jel had done to create his magic potions.
How different was baking from making a potion, really?
Adding the exact ingredient at exactly the right time, baking the dough, and having it magically turn into a tart or cake or bread? The two acts were stunningly similar.
But I didn’t have magic, only skill, knowledge, and a certain knack. A feel for the right ingredients and a precious cook book written in my father’s practiced hand, which really was an awful lot like the magic book the gardener and mage followed to create his potions.
“Why do you think I could bake magic?” I raised my eyebrow, deep in thought.
I would not look directly at the Elf King, as if his very presence didn’t fluster me enough.
“I felt it. In your bakery. I hoped—” The king’s mood seemed to soften in confusion. He reached a hand out to the dough, but pulled back and cleared his throat. “I shall have fifty tarts by this night at eventide. I expect them to have your magic.”
I placed an incredulous floured hand on my hip. “Fifty magic tarts? I can’t do any magic!”
“Fifty magic tarts.” The king fixed me with an icy glare, chin up. “By eventide. I shall send in an assistant to facilitate you.”
I gaped at his beautiful face as he nodded once to me, then cleared his throat again, his eyes unreadable. He ran a large hand through his damp white-gold hair and huffed as if second guessing his request. “Treat him with kindness. He’s been asking after you for days. It’s insufferable.”
With that, he turned on his heels and left the kitchen with a swoosh of his ridiculously shiny cloak.
I just stood, covered in flour, my braided hair falling down my back, mind reeling. Fifty magic tarts? By eventide? Fifty tarts were no problem, I could make them with my eyes closed, but full of magic? Impossible. Absolutely impossible.
The king said he’d felt magic in my baking. He had to be mistaken.
I punched at the elastic dough, sending plumes of flour into the air, finding it oddly satisfying.
Then I folded in some of the fragrant rosemary and oregano.
The smell was intoxicating but not enough to clear the buzz of incredulity from my mind.
I drizzled some oil and covered the loaves in a white cloth to rise.
“Hi.” Chirped a little elves’ voice from the doorway.
I jumped in surprise. Like all of their kind, this little one was very quiet on his feet. Aldaar, the king’s younger brother. Was he to be my assistant? So now I had to babysit and bake fifty magic tarts?
“Hi.” I offered a kind smile I didn’t quite feel. “My name is Noelle.”
“I know.” Aldaar stomped into the kitchen, proudly swinging a wooden sword.
“Can I help you bake some yummy stuff? My brother says you’ll let me help, and I’m really good at making things.
See this sword? I made it from an elder tree and it only took me two weeks to carve.
My brother likes it when I have projects.
He says he can hear himself think better when I have projects.
But I wouldn’t think it would be that hard to hear yourself think since your voice is in your own head, y’know? ”
I blinked back at the barrage of words. Well, at least it would be a bit like having Daisy in the kitchen with me.
What was she doing now? Coloring by the fireplace?
Toddling about the kitchen with bare feet?
I didn’t allow myself to feel the stab of sorrow at the thought.
“Yes, of course, young sir. Know your way around a kitchen?”
Hopefully he’d be a better help in the kitchen than his oaf of a brother.
I gave the small white-haired elf a tour of the cozy space which took mere moments.
“Looks really nice and warm in here. I like it. Makes me feel warm, too,” he said.
I smiled. “Good. As long as you are kind and clean up after yourself, you’ll do just fine. Now, do you know where I can get some magic?”