2. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Emma
Someone is screaming my name amid a clamor of voices.
“Behind!” I snap as I duck behind the other students in the dining hall kitchen. There’s barely enough room for me to squeeze by in the cramped space, full of sizzling pans and hot, yeasty odors.
As I get closer, I recognize the panicked murmuring of my friend Kitty. She has flour and dough staining her black apron and jet-black hair.
“Verity is going to kill me.”
The smell of burnt biscuits saturates the air, and I shield her from prying eyes. The others will use this if they know. It’s competitive, even at the volunteer level. But it’s always like that at Doxlothia University.
“I can’t do the multitasking,” she sputters.
“I’ll remake them. It’s okay.”
This is her third and final warning—she knows. I don’t need to say the obvious out loud. I already finished my work this morning, and I can work faster than Kitty. “Take my spot over at the far counter.”
“What if Verity sees?”
“It’s fine. Go.”
She flutters off, and I go straight into measuring.
My muscle memory comes in clutch. I have it done in minutes, and I’m shaping the dough when Verity comes through the door.
She’s in the culinary club but has even higher prestige.
She’s one of the “Top Three” in the culinary club and oversees the volunteers working the breakfast rush.
We all volunteer here for an opportunity to be seen and critiqued every morning, noon, and night, if there is an event.
There’s camaraderie that comes with all of us striving for the same goal, and that’s how I choose to see it when people let their competitive drive take over.
I’m competitive too, just not the way most people here are.
“Osborne, I thought I put you on the far counter today.”
I say nothing. My eyes catch on the burnt biscuits still on the counter. Damn. Emma, throwing away the evidence is the first thing we do. You know this.
Her nose twitches when she sees it, and I stand with my hands behind my back. She might be the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, with wide lips, baby pink irises, and high cheekbones.
“Your work?”
I nod. I don’t want a strike on my record, but one isn’t the end of the world. If Kitty gets another one, she’s out.
“I’ve never seen you burn anything.”
“Busy morning,” I offer.
She smirks. “Your first strike, then.”
“Yes, Chef.”
“Now you can return to your station. Tell Ms. Starling she can return to hers as well.”
“Yes, right away, Chef.”
When I reach my station, Kitty is pacing.
“Emma, you didn’t have to do that.”
“It’s fine. One strike won’t hurt me.”
“I’ll make it up to you. I swear.”
I grab hold of the knife she’s supposed to be using to cut open the avocados, but is waving around instead.
“Make me that corn chowder with the sourdough again, and we’re even. I might even owe you a little bit after,” I say.
It’s a family recipe she made after the lunch rush one day and let me try. One of the best things I’ve ever tasted.
“Fine. Thank you. Seriously.”
We’ve been friends since my first day volunteering.
After a long day, she opened up to me over a few drinks about her family and her dream of working as a chef in Vviveren City.
Kitty doesn’t have sisters. There was no one to take the blame for her if she made missteps as a child.
She has no idea what it’s like to have someone else absorb the pain of something meant for you. Well, now she does, I guess.
“You had an off morning. It happens to the best of us,” I say.
“Not to you.” She smiles when she says it.
We all need buffers. People who can see our flaws and believe in the best version of us.
“Oh, Osborne, I have a message for you.” Verity’s voice cuts the air.
“Yes, Chef?” I press my shoulders back.
Chin down. Good impression, Emma.
“Dacre Everhart asked me to extend an invitation to see him this evening.”
“Dacre . . . asked to see me?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure he said my name? He doesn’t mean another Emma?”
It has to be. There’s no way.
“Yes. He asked specifically for you. He said it’s important culinary club business. Here.”
She hands me a red envelope.
“Important,” “Dacre,” and the words “culinary club” all in the same conversation have my head buzzing.
A spark of excitement jolts me, and I let my hand fall for a millisecond. It’s enough for the knife to fall a few inches from my hand, and I catch it with my other palm.
“Ow.”
Gasps fill the air around me.
I grab a paper towel and hold it over my palm. “Oops.”
Verity points to the bathroom door, holding her hand over her nose as I scramble away. Sometimes, I forget there are vampires everywhere.
“Sorry!” I call as I disappear through the door.
Running the water over my hand, I wince at the ache of it and the wash of red in the porcelain sink. I should go to the nurse, but it’s the breakfast rush.
Blood drips over the tile as I head to my locker in the corner to snag an old shirt to stop the bleeding. I do have the first aid kit in my bag, which Dad assured me I’d need, and, well, damn him for being right.
I almost never cut myself. This is . . . definitely Dacre’s fault, for being the distraction I did not need today.
I wrap my hand tightly and haphazardly till my bandage is snug on my skin. It’s not like he taught me how to use the kit.
Why would Dacre want to see me? I’ve never met a person who wants to see me less, especially after our encounter last weekend.
He’s planning something. After all, he was recently on a trip, where he probably spent all his time twisting those brown eyebrows and filling his parchment from top to bottom with ways to make my life miserable—or maybe just a new list of nicknames, subtle jabs, and insults.
He’s so effortless with his delivery; he must write them down somewhere before we interact, which luckily isn’t often.
Unfortunately for me, he’s the head of the culinary club, an exclusive club.
You have to earn your spot or know someone to get in, and they get access to the best classes, trips, and opportunities.
All the famous chefs in Vviveren come from that club.
Doxlothia does have a culinary program, but the culinary club is what gets you noticed.
They have their own magazine. Many of them are taking over their parents’ restaurants in the city after graduation in their various specialties.
There still haven’t been any announcements about letting new students join this semester.
I only applied for the volunteer rounds because my entire reason for coming to Doxlothia was crushed by the decision Doxlothia’s board of directors and Dacre Everhart, when they refused to admit any new students last semester.
That’s what you do if you’re not in the culinary club: you volunteer.
That part I love. Making the dough for pastries, or assisting with the biscuits and gravy for the dining hall breakfast. I love the hurry.
The heat. The smells. I even enjoy the yelling and barking of orders.
After the craziness of the first semester following my sisters and me coming to Doxlothia, maybe it was for the best that they barred new students from joining. I trained harder than I ever have, focusing on the culinary curriculum and learning anything new I could.
I don’t know what this letter is about. Maybe things have changed and he’s ready for a truce, but I won’t hold my breath.