8. Risking a Few Lives for the Perfect Dessert #2
When Isabel wanders over to where Sapphira is reaping and tells her it’s time to go home, Sapphira has collected four turtle rose fruits. She is proud of that until Kaelen gloats about having more and she sees Isabel’s full bag.
Isabel smiles widely, her face glowing as she says, “Oh stars, you did amazing! I only collected one my first time. I was too scared I’d lose my fingers.”
Sapphira preens under the praise. Keep staring at me , she thinks when Isabel looks away. Keep telling me how good I am .
When they touch down at the cottage and she climbs off Kaelen’s back, Sapphira’s exhausted. The sky is purpling, the sun a sliver of orange over the hill as they walk inside. She sits down by the window with a long sigh.
Kaelen doesn’t come inside right away. He says he’s going to bathe in the river and promptly leaves. Isabel doesn’t sit. She hardly looks tired. She brings to the sink the sagging bag of fruit they gathered and begins to wash every piece.
Her water system is simple: a stone basin on the countertop with a hole for drainage into a pot below. The water in the pot is then boiled and reused. Isabel replaces the old water each week with fresh water from the rain tank, which she keeps a short walk away from the cottage.
While the fruit soaks, Isabel ties back her curls and puts the cooking smock Sapphira loves over her ocean-print dress. The tapa cloth, which is also used for her bedding and pillow coverings, is covered in geometric shapes and patterns.
“Your smock is beautiful,” Sapphira says, her eyes widening when she realizes the words came out of her mouth.
Isabel pauses and turns. Her smile is soft as she runs her fingers over the cloth. “Thank you, but this is very simple,” she says. “You should see the one my mother made.”
“Why don’t you wear it?” Sapphira asks.
“I do, but only for special occasions. My mother made it for my birth and worked on it the entire time she was pregnant with me. It’s my most prized possession, next to my journals,” she says, waving toward the wall of books.
Sapphira wanders closer, then sits on the countertop with her head in her hands. The cooks back home never let her watch. They’d shoo her from the kitchen like she was a nuisance, and now she can’t make anything. Not food or beautiful smocks.
Sitting, Isabel pulls a bucket between her spread thighs and places a screen on top of it.
She takes some washed fruit and shreds it with friction against the thin, crisscrossed wires.
Sapphira holds her breath, watching reverently as Isabel whips the sheared fruit into a froth. The pungent smell sweetens the room.
Running the smashed fruit through a tighter screen, Isabel separates the frothy juice from the chunky mulch. She then puts the red liquid into jars, seals them tightly, and places the bowl of soft fruit into a cooling box.
“I don’t understand how you keep that cool,” Sapphira says. “How does the cooling system work? Is it like your giant mushroom hat?”
“Not quite,” Isabel says. “It uses star stones. Once the fallen stars are dead, they turn this luminescent black and become cool to the touch. So you lay a few of them into a clay pot and put a cloth lining inside. Afterward, you can put anything you want to keep cold inside and secure the lid.”
“That’s . . . very resourceful,” Sapphira says, impressed.
“Well, it wasn’t my idea. This practice is much older than me.
The people of Cielo are brilliant. Not as brilliant as elves, though I doubt many species are.
They live centuries longer than most of us, and their ways are very advanced.
They are terrifying creatures though. You wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of them. ”
“Well, I don’t know about elves, but I couldn’t imagine anything more fantastic than this,” Sapphira says.
“Then you still have much to see.”
Isabel returns the lid on the cooling box and begins gathering more ingredients. She is pretty as she focuses, mumbling to herself as she works. Sapphira can’t look away.
Isabel talks to Sapphira as she works, explaining her processes.
She puts chunky yellow milk of ground corn into a bowl and says, “This isn’t native to the Shire of Lomadaku.
It’s one of the things I don’t forage for myself because it’s gathered through trade with the great Campo de Flores in Teotlnēchīcā. ”
There’s an insignia across the face of the jar of ground corn—a disc of muted reds and blues.
At the center sits a smushed face with a wicked tongue, surrounded by curling shapes and arrows in incredible detail.
In each corner of the jar’s label are doggish and serpentine heads. “Campo de Flores” is stamped around it.
The liquid is thick and dark as Isabel mixes it with coconut syrup. She adds, “The color change is due to the caramelization of natural sugars in the coconut sap as it’s boiled.”
She adds the largest egg Sapphira has ever seen, nearly the size of her hand. It has a green shell and comes from a Falxis scavenger bird.
Isabel grinds cinnamon and vanilla bean—or, as she says in her lovely accent, “canela y vanilla”—and chisels them with her salt stone.
Sapphira feels useless just watching, but she doesn’t want to offer to help and ruin Isabel’s dish. This time feels more important than the other times she’s watched the woman cook.
Isabel mixes all her ingredients by hand until they’re tough, then kneads them into a round loaf. Placing a cloth over the stone bowl, she beats out the air. Then she removes the cloth and scores a beautiful pattern into the top of the cake before sliding it into the stone fireplace.
Sapphira leans her head against her fist as she watches the chimera whistle and clean, and occasionally stir the stew she prepared this morning. It all feels so peaceful. When the woman moves to pick up a broom made of coconut fronds, Sapphira jumps up to grab it from her.
“Please, let me do something.”
Isabel hesitates, her grip still tight on the handle. “It’s fine, I enjoy cleaning. It’s a part of my process. I always used to clean up with my mother.”
“Okay, then let me be your helper. It’s okay to sit back and relax sometimes. You know that, right?”
Sapphira grips the broom with both hands and slowly slides it from Isabel’s loosening fist. Her eyes linger on Isabel’s mouth, and she only wants to kiss those big, pouty lips. Instead, she says, “Go sit at the window. I’ve got this.”
Sapphira’s throat bobs with her heavy swallow when she turns her back to Isabel. She looks down at the floor, which is made of hard-packed earth and small stones. She’s never actually cleaned before or picked up a broom. And this one seems a bit different than the ones her maids used in the castle.
Remembering the steps Isabel followed as she watched closely over the past two weeks, Sapphira starts with the tapa mats, turning them over and loosening any dirt and food bits stuck in them. Then she grips the broom by the short handle and brushes it against the floor in sweeping motions.
From the corner of her eye, she can see Isabel holding back an amused chuckle. Sapphira knows her execution isn’t perfect, but she doesn’t give up. She will learn to clean if it’s the last thing she does.
After she cleans, Isabel removes the cake from the oven and sets it to cool on the wooden table.
Feeling sweaty and gross, Sapphira pulls at her clothes to cool off.
Isabel says, “Go freshen up. I’ll just set the table. Kaelen should be back soon, so we can have dinner while the cake is cooling.
Sapphira does as Isabel says, and when she returns to the kitchen, Kaelen is there. His hair is dripping, and he’s still wet behind the ears, but he’s changed into fresh clothes.
Even Isabel looks different, and it takes a moment for Sapphira to realize that she’s wearing a new tapa cloth. It’s checkered white and red and has a star in the center of Isabel’s back and chest. And there are stunning stencils of creatures Sapphira has never seen.
“Wow, you look . . .” She can’t find the words to finish the compliment. It might reveal too much if she says any more, and she’d rather spare herself the embarrassment. Besides, she thinks her eyes are saying enough.
Isabel ducks her head and gives Sapphira a grateful smile. When they all sit, she says her usual prayer to the stars. But tonight, it goes on a bit longer than usual.
Dinner is cabbage stew over roasted fish with cassava bread smeared with coconut butter. Sapphira does a little happy dance in her seat as she eats. The meal is quiet but peaceful.
Sapphira can’t help but notice that Isabel is more withdrawn than usual, her eyes wandering. And her smile is less bright. Sapphira wants to ask what is wrong but doesn’t want to overstep. Isabel doesn’t owe her anything, least of all her thoughts.
After the meal is cleared away, Isabel pulls out the dessert. Kaelen cheers, quickly washing his hands in the basin of lemon juice and herbs and rubbing them together excitedly.
Isabel places before them mismatched bowls, each with a helping of golden cake inside. The tops are smooth and glossy, and the moist cake wobbles when Sapphira pokes it.
As Isabel stands over Sapphira to scoop the turtle rose fruit mixture, she brushes her arm. Sapphira’s heart jumps into her throat at the touch, and she ducks her head as Isabel retakes her seat.
It takes Sapphira a moment to recover, her arm shaking as Kaelen and Isabel begin eating, but when she tastes the dish, a euphoric groan is ripped from her throat. The still-warm dessert is smooth and creamy, and it melts in her mouth. The chilled, bright red fruit sauce is tart and sweet at once.