2. Chapter 2
Chapter 2
A t the corner of Upping and Milud Street, Cemre waited on the pavement, her fingers knotting together and unknotting. The unassuming warehouse before her was the site of her most petrifying challenge yet: the auditions.
She’d seen a troll woman 1 enter and then exit after some time – she couldn’t possibly guess how long it had been. A young human man had gone in since then but hadn’t come out yet.
Cemre’s feet appeared to be glued to the paving stones. They simply wouldn’t obey her orders to carry her inside the warehouse.
The blond man came out again, and Cemre braced herself, then forced her feet to cross the cobblestone road.
Nothing to lose, nothing to lose , she chanted under her breath.
On the other side of the door, she found a small antechamber containing only a mahogany desk, behind which sat a human woman who appeared to be the Tawdrey Dictionary 2 definition of Neat. Not a trace of lint marred her perfectly tailored black day dress, nor did a hair dare escape her grey chignon.
Her stern face broke into a tidy smile when she caught sight of Cemre. “Good day, are you here to audition?”
“Y-yes.” Cemre gulped. “I-I’d like to audition. Please.”
The lady retrieved a page from a perfect stack on her desk, attached it to a clipboard, and held it out to Cemre along with a pencil. “Please fill in this form.” She pointed to a chair hidden in the corner.
“Th-thank you.” Cemre tried to breathe as she perched on the very edge of the chair and scratched her name and other information into the simple form. She had to control her stammering if she wished to impress whoever was on the other side of the antechamber.
Once she’d returned the page and the receptionist had glanced over it and given a nod that could only be described as efficient, she was instructed to wait. The lady marched into the next room, closing the door behind her, then marched back out a moment later and invited Cemre to “Go right in.”
The main room was much larger than she’d guessed from the dimensions of the front chamber, rafters high above her and windowed walls farther apart than even the ballroom at Hazelgrove House. A small kitchen was set up in the middle of the room, with a long worktop, a coal-burning stove, a sink and water pump, and a collection of knives, pots, pans, and other basic equipment. On one end of the counter sat a wooden crate spilling over with carrot tops, spinach leaves, and other produce.
But by far the most frightening thing in the room was the table a few feet behind the counter, on which rested the elbows of an exquisitely suited light elf.
The gaslights gleamed on his pearl-white skin as he greeted Cemre with a raised eyebrow and a glance that took in her appearance from head to toe and found it wanting. His long, stick-straight white hair was bound in a queue, which Cemre only noticed because he turned his head and called over his shoulder, “We have another one.”
Two more male figures – just as well-dressed as the first – appeared from behind a black curtain, one dark elf and one human. They graced Cemre with precisely the same sort of visual assessment as the light elf and seated themselves at the table, in the middle of which stood a large clock that appeared to not be working.
The judges had been named in the leaflet Rubella had brought home, all well-renowned in the food industry, but Cemre had no way of knowing who was who and they were in no hurry to introduce themselves.
“Go on,” said the dark elf with a dismissive flick of his slender, pitch-black fingers.
“Uh.” Cemre’s eyes darted frantically about the kitchen. “What am I expected to do?”
“Make something,” said the pasty-faced human in a thoroughly bored tone, not even looking at her, instead examining a notebook he’d retrieved from his pocket. “You have sixty minutes. Ingredients in the box.”
The light elf nudged forward the clock and flipped a lever, which started it ticking.
Cemre rushed over to the crate and pulled out its contents. A whole chicken, a variety of vegetables, herbs, spices . . . She hadn’t cooked with such bounty for years, but she could definitely make something delicious with this. Already, she could picture the final plate in her mind: a charred parsnip puree, glazed baby carrots, stuffed chicken roulade, roasted pine nuts.
She deftly chopped up an onion and began deboning the chicken. She hadn’t even cut off the oyster when the dark elf announced, “That’s enough. You may go.”
The knife froze in her hand. “I beg your pardon?”
The light elf wasn’t at the table anymore. He must have left while she was focused on cooking. The human was still engrossed in his pocketbook.
“We’ve seen enough.” The dark elf waved his hand in a shoo-ing motion.
“But . . . but I haven’t even cooked anything yet.”
The human tore his eyes away from his book and pierced her with the most condescending expression she’d ever seen. “It is clear you are not suitable for this project.”
Cemre let the knife clatter onto the counter and whirled around so they couldn’t see the utter devastation on her face, not that they were looking at her anyway. She took a breath, washed her hands in the basin, and left the room.
Pressing her trembling lips together, she rushed past the receptionist in the antechamber without a word and hurtled out the door, unable to hold her emotions in a moment longer.
She slumped against the warehouse wall, utterly deflated and blinded by tears. She’d barely slept worrying about the audition, then pulled together every ounce of strength in order to get herself into that audition room.
But she wasn’t good enough.
“Signorina?”
The gentle tenor voice startled Cemre, but she swiped the back of her hand across her eyes and blinked up at the tall, slender man before her.
His hickory face was twisted with concern, and his chestnut eyes welled with kindness. “Madam, you are well?” He clutched something white in his hands, but it was too voluminous to be a handkerchief.
She knew her voice would wobble, so she simply nodded her head, throat burning and chin wobbling.
His moustache tilted in disbelief. “Why you are crying?” he asked in a heavy Cantuccinian 3 accent. He did not shout, but his voice rang clear and smooth above the clattering of carts and carriages over the cobblestones.
She felt an unprecedented urge to spill her heart to him, but then she noticed his clothing. He wore blue and white chequered trousers, a white, double-breasted jacket, and a white neckerchief. Chef’s whites.
“Are you here to audition?” she asked, her stomach twisting.
He nodded, and a half-smile passed over his lips, dimpling one cheek. “You also?”
Tears flooded her vision once more, and she covered her face with her hands.
“Oh, cuoricina, no.” His fingers wrapped around her wrist and gently pulled her hands away. “I have only my hat, but . . .” He proffered the chef’s cap he’d been wringing. “Prego.”
She wanted to refuse, but she’d become a mess of tears and other less pleasant fluids, so she took the hat and buried her face in it. It smelled of laundry soap and coffee and garlic, unexpectedly comforting her.
“The audition did not go well?”
She shook her head, face still squashed into his hat, which would probably not recover.
“Maybe you try again?”
Her sobs intensified.
“Wait, wait.” His words held a note of urgency. After a moment, he said, “I know what can help. Come, dolcezza.” He patted her wrist.
Sniffing loudly, she slowly lowered the hat.
“Oh cuoricina.” He caught her face in warm hands and brushed the moisture from her cheeks with tender thumbs. “This face is not for tears.”
His hands shocked and soothed her all at the same time, but too soon he dropped them, leaving her skin cold. He took her hand and pulled her away from the warehouse. “Come, come.”
Too exhausted to resist, Cemre allowed the handsome stranger to lead her off to what might be her death, but at that point, she didn’t care. At least it would end the awful ache in her heart.
As he led her down a zigzag of streets, she studied the black curls on the back of his head. They were pressed flat in a line that ran from pointed ear to pointed ear, most likely from wearing his chef’s hat. The shape of his ears combined with his skin tone hinted at dark elf ancestry, most likely mixed with something else. The something else must have been a lesser species, as dark elves were almost exclusively royals and aristocrats, but an aristocrat would never need to acquire work as a chef.
At the edge of the industrial district, near the River Loo, they came to a small park, and she realized they were moving toward the clang of a handbell.
“Is not so good as gelato from my home,” the Cantuccinian told her over his shoulder, “but it make you feel better.” He pointed to the source of the ringing: an ice cream cart.
Cemre stiffened. She didn’t have coin for such a delicacy.
Her escort tugged her forward to the cart. “Come, I get for you.” He shoved a hand into his trouser pocket and drew out the appropriate amount of brass. “What flavours you have?” he asked the vendor, a sciapod 4 .
The short man, who had been shading himself with his single large foot, unfurled himself so that he was standing on the appendage. “Lemon, strawberry, and orange blossom.”
The chef gave Cemre a warm smile. “Which one you want?” He really did have a very nice voice.
She dithered for what felt like an hour but could only have been seconds, then decided, “Orange blossom.”
The sciapod lifted one of the three domes on his cart and dished the ice cream into a tin cup, which quickly developed a sheen of condensation on the outside. After adding a spoon, the sciapod hopped towards Cemre and offered the cup. Cemre’s hands tingled from the cold when she touched it, and a shiver ran down her spine. The pale peach scoop, satiny smooth and already melting at the base, made her mouth water. When last had she eaten ice cream? She couldn’t remember . . . no, wait, she could. It was at the wedding of her father to her stepmother. They’d had lemon ices, cool and refreshing on that hot summer’s day. The cook had nearly had an apoplexy keeping the dessert frozen until it was time to serve it.
“I’ll have strawberry,” said Cemre’s companion, and she guiltily dropped the spoon she’d been about to bring to her mouth. After his kindness in procuring the ice cream for her, it was only polite to wait for him before eating. He winked at her. “Is my favourite.”
Once he had his own dish, he gestured to a bench a few feet away which overlooked one of the lush green lawns. An ent the size of a full-grown oak tree lumbered past, causing the ground to rumble and the spoons to rattle against the cups with each of his glacial steps. Ents were the most benign of all the park-dwellers, but it was best to keep out of their way when they were on the move, as they tended to be extremely slow to notice a person crossing their path.
Seated, Cemre allowed herself to take her first bite. The delicate floral of the orange blossom blended beautifully with the creamy custard base. She felt as if she was sitting beneath the orange trees in her garden when the blossoms first opened and released their delectable scent. Her mother had brought the trees with her from Currigalore 5 when she’d come to Wenn to be married. Cemre’s throat tightened as more tears threatened to well up.
“I’m Massimo,” said the young man beside her.
How odd to have allowed herself to be consoled, dragged in an unknown direction, and fed ice cream by someone without even knowing his name. A bubble of laughter wanted to burst out of her, a silly impulse when she’d just had her heart wrenched from her chest. She was clearly on the verge of hysteria.
“Cemre,” she said in a respectably steady voice.
“Chehm-re,” he said with a smile and a powerfully rolled ‘R’. His eyes put her in mind of a puppy dog when one said the word ‘walk’. “It means something?”
“Um, I think it means ‘ember’ or ‘cinder’ in my mother’s language, Currigalorian.”
Massimo’s dimples deepened. “His language is beautiful.”
Cemre cocked her head at him. “You mean ‘her’. Her language.”
“Ah, yes.” He smacked his forehead and laughed. “Pardon my Anglish.” After a spoonful of strawberry ice cream, he asked, “You were born there? Currigalore?”
“No, here in Wenn. My mother came here when she married my father.” Her throat caught and she looked away. “They’re both gone now.”
“Ah, dolcezza.” His gaze felt heavy on her skin. “You are alone?”
“I have my stepmother and two stepsisters.” Her spoon stilled. She hadn’t foraged today, so supper would be a meagre offering. How could she enjoy a luxurious treat like ice cream when they would not even have a decent meal today? She hadn’t gotten into the competition either, so she’d lost her only opportunity to provide a better life for them. They deserved so much better than—
“You worry for them.”
Surprised, she looked up into Massimo’s soft brown eyes. “How did you know that’s what I was thinking?”
“You have the thick eyebrows and they press together like this” – he pinched the skin between his own eyebrows so that they almost touched each other – “and then I know you are worried.”
She gaped at him, then a giggle burbled up her throat and escaped. She slapped a hand over her mouth, but the giggle turned into a chortle and she was forced to clutch her stomach instead.
He chuckled beside her. “Your smile is very beautiful.”
A tingle ran up her neck, but perhaps it was just a chill from the ice cream. She scooped up the last mouthful and let herself savour the sight of it. “How long did you study to be a chef?”
“I’m not yet really the chef. I have a friend, a professional, who teach me when I have time. But my family . . . they don’t want this for me.” He let his spoon lie still in the cup and chewed on his lip.
“What do they want you to do?”
“The family business.”
“And you don’t want that?”
“I have no interest. Is very . . . come si dice . . . politica?”
“Political?”
“Yes. I don’t want this. I want to create. Food is love. The political is not in me.”
She could believe that. Passion shook his voice and sparked in his eyes as he spoke of food. “Do you live here?” she asked. “Your Anglish is very good.”
“No. I come from Cantuccini to be in the competition. My family make me learn Anglish for the business.”
All the way from Cantuccini just to be in this competition. Against his family’s wishes. And he’d actually worked with a professional chef. He even had the uniform. The way he spoke about food . . . she just knew those three judges would look at him with entirely different eyes. He was sure to win a place in the competition.
She wanted to be happy for him. He’d been so kind, and he’d worked so hard for this opportunity to make something of himself. But that darkness in her belly clawed its way up to her lungs and strangled them, constricting her heart until all she could feel was despair.
The bells of Squat Henry boomed, rumbling beneath their feet. Twelve chimes.
Cemre sat up straight. She shouldn’t have lingered with Massimo when she had other responsibilities, allowed him to spoil her so. “I must go. And you should go back for your audition. You’ve come such a long way. I’d feel terrible if you missed it because of me.”
“No, is good. I go tomorrow.” He glanced at her brow, and his own forehead furrowed. The way he bit into his lip, she expected to see blood.
She stood and shook her head. “Go now.” She gave him her empty cup. “Thank you for the ice cream.” With brisk steps, she fled into the park.
“Cemre!” He must have tried to follow, but the ice cream vendor shouted at him to return the cups and spoons.
Cemre took the opportunity to dart around a copse of trees so that she’d be hidden from his sight, then quickly exited the park and made for home. It was better that she let him go to his audition instead of frittering the day away with her. He had every chance of winning a place in the competition. How could he not when cooking clearly meant so much to him? And on top of all that, he’d been taught by a professional chef. He even wore a chef’s uniform.
Fresh tears blinded her as she stumbled towards Hazelgrove House. She’d failed. Her one chance to make things right for them and she’d failed before she’d even started.
In her unseeing haste, she collided with a knee-high object.
She stumbled back and scraped an arm across her eyes. Before her stood the pixie urchin she’d met before, the one with the lizard. His expression was far less mutinous today, positively apologetic, in fact.
He scratched his cheek, redistributing some of the dirt, then muttered a barely audible, “Sorry.”
Cemre rubbed her smarting calf and sniffed loudly in an attempt to halt her streaming nose. Her throat throttled any words trying to escape, so she merely nodded.
“I was just wonderin’ . . .” He toed the edge of a flagstone, following his own movements with his eyes. “You got any more of that bread from yesterday?”
A tiny purple head poked out from behind his arm, and an indigo tongue tasted the air.
Cemre hadn’t believed her heart could hurt any more than it already did, but it panged for the little boy. She swallowed hard. Here she was, wanting to die because she couldn’t get into some silly competition, and this poor child had nothing but the filthy clothing on his back. She had so much to be grateful for: a healthy body, a home, sisters and a mother who loved her. She had no reason at all to feel so sorry for herself.
“I don’t,” she replied in a watery voice, “but I might have something for you at home. Come with me.”
The boy squinted at her suspiciously, but his stomach must have overruled his doubts because he didn’t take long to say, “All right.”
Cemre wiped her face with both hands, had a good sniff, and strode forward. The pixie scampered after her.
“Why was you crying just now?” he asked.
Cemre’s heart wobbled. “It doesn’t matter.” She cleared her throat and tried to visualize the meagre contents of the pantry. “I think we have a little milk left over from yesterday. Do you like milk?”
“I do, but Sparky likes flies. He catches ‘em himself, though. I tried, but I can’t catch ‘em.”
“What’s your name?”
The boy puffed out his chest. “Thumper,” he said in a gruff voice.
Cemre regarded him with wrinkled brow. “Is that really your name?”
“I chose it myself,” he said, chin raised imperiously.
As they turned onto Cemre’s street, a pair of ladies out walking inclined their heads in greeting but threw disgusted looks at the pixie as they passed. Cemre could hardly blame them – he was more grime than boy. She’d have to see if she could coax him into a bath. She anticipated a great battle.
When they reached Cemre’s gate, the boy halted dramatically and stared up at the house with his mouth open. “Cor, you really is a toff!”
Cemre’s lips twisted. “Not exactly.” She swung the gate open and ushered him inside.
“Only toffs live in big houses like these,” he insisted, skipping up the path.
“Round the back,” said Cemre when he ran up the steps to the front door. “If you don’t want to get squashed.”
Thumper frowned at her but obeyed. On the way to the back door, she paused at the chicken coop to see if she’d missed any eggs that morning, but the nests were all empty. She hoped she’d been right about the leftover milk and that Rubella hadn’t pilfered it in the night. The girl seemed to be going through a growth spurt and eating more than usual.
Inside, Cemre pointed at the kitchen table. “Sit there,” she told Thumper. “I’ll see what I can find for you.”
After much digging through the larder, she was able to present him with a bowl of oats and bran – there not being enough of either to serve alone – the last of the milk, and a sprinkling of cinnamon. The boy consumed it with frightening speed, then asked if there was any more.
Cemre sighed and wished she had something more substantial to give him. She sat across the table from him, having watched while he ate, and observed the hollowness of cheeks that should have been round, the large, pointed ears that jutted out like signposts because of not having much to cling to.
“A bath first,” she said. It would give her time to think of something else.
The boy looked horrified and jumped up from his stool. “You tricked me!” he yelled.
“No, wait!” she cried as he fled out the kitchen door. “I didn’t mean to frighten you!”
But he was gone by the time she rounded the corner of the house. She sighed once more. At least she’d put something in his belly. Maybe tomorrow she could find him and make amends for her awful threat of cleanliness.
The distraction had dulled the pain from her disappointment somewhat, or at least enabled her to bury it for the time being. Now she only felt wrung out as an old dish towel and had a mighty desire to throw herself onto her bed and sleep forever.
But there was supper to prepare. It was late to go out and scrounge, but she had to find something to feed her family. She drank a glass of water and collected her basket, then braved the streets once more.
***
Her family were most conciliatory at supper. Cemre only shed a few rogue tears, and Rubella even made her laugh with threats of ghastly ends for each of the unpleasant judges.
But once she was alone in her room, tucked up in bed, the dam burst.
“I wanted it,” she sobbed to herself, admitting what she’d tried to ignore. “I wanted it so badly.”
A faint tinkling preceded tiny particles pelting her face.
Cemre opened her eyes and brushed her cheek. She examined her fingers in the dim light from the streetlamps outside. Was that . . . glitter?
“I wish I could say I’d never seen such a dismal puddle of wretchedness,” said a sultry feminine voice, “but I’d be lying. All you artistic types are frightfully dramatic.”
Cemre bolted upright in bed, eyes frantically searching for the source of the voice.
“Then again, so am I.” A figure stepped in front of the window, casting her voluptuous silhouette in stark relief while keeping her face in darkness. Even so, her dress sparkled and the air around her glimmered with an unearthly glow. “What a dreary room. Have you thought of adding a little glitz?”
“Urgh,” was all Cemre managed to squeeze out. Her body had turned to a block of ice, frozen, unmoveable. She had no doubt the being in front of her was not from this realm.
“Oh, you poor lamb, you’re frightened half to death. Here, let me introduce myself.” The figure placed her hands on her generous hips and turned her face so that Cemre could see her perfect profile. “I am Melamene, gorgeous goddesse of poetry, art, comedy, dramatic writing, and small furry creatures trapped under closets 6 .” The goddesse snapped her fingers, and a golden light lit her up in another explosion of glitter. “But you can call me Mel.”
Momentarily blinded, Cemre shaded her eyes and blinked. Gradually, she was able to make out the gold-skinned features of the goddesse, the flowing reddish-gold mane, the shimmering fabric that clung to her curves.
“Now, why did you summon me?” Her voice was deep and put Cemre in mind of melted dark chocolate.
Cemre swallowed, coughed, and then managed to croak out, “I-I didn’t summon you.”
Melamene – Mel – splayed a hand over her ample bosom. “I’m a muse. I can’t help but turn up when an artist calls out in desperation.”
“But . . . I’m not an artist.”
Mel pressed her fingers to her temples, eyes closed in concentration. Then they flew open and she snapped her fingers. “Ah! You’re a chef.”
“Well, just a cook, really.” It wasn’t as though she’d ever been to culinary school or even cooked anywhere but her own kitchen. And to be a chef, one needed the requisite tall, cylindrical hat that looked like a pilfered Hellahotian 7 column.
“Chefs are artists, so they fall under my purview,” said Mel. Her eyes took on a mischievous twinkle. “So, Chef, what seems to be the problem?”
Cemre gaped. Having a divine being appear in one’s bedroom and request an explanation of one’s predicament did rather discombobulate a girl.
“Oh, don’t be shy.” Mel sauntered over and perched on the edge of Cemre’s bed, reclining on one arm. Cemre wasn’t sure how the goddesse managed to make a threadbare coverlet look luxurious, but she did. “I love a good secret.”
Did Cemre have any secrets? She supposed she did. Her family knew she wanted to meet Chef Santini, but they didn’t know how much she wanted it, how desperately she wished for it. They didn’t know, she thought guiltily, that she clung to the idea like her last chance at happiness, that she wasn’t all kindness and goodness as they believed, finding pleasure and joy in taking care of them, but that she felt almost no joy in anything anymore. Maybe . . . maybe if she could meet Chef Santini, she’d feel something that wasn’t emptiness again. But there was no chance of that now she’d failed the audition. Even if they did have an invitation to the ball, they had no hope of actually going.
“You know,” said Mel, “if you’d just say all those intriguing things you’re thinking which are giving you such frightful expressions, this would be a lot more fun for me.”
Cemre’s hand cramped, and she realized how tightly she’d been clutching her blankets. She relaxed it, but her shame only squeezed her ribs more painfully. Here she was, a goddesse before her offering help, and all she could think of was herself.
She folded her hands in her lap. “We’re poor,” she said, clearly and calmly. “My father left us only a tiny amount of coin. I’ve stretched it as far as I can and sold everything anyone will buy, and I scavenge all our food and fuel, but there’s almost nothing left.”
She took a shuddery breath, the kind that can’t quite seem to find the edges of the lungs until three or four inhales have piled on top of each other. “There’s a cooking competition which, if I won it, would set us up nicely. But when I auditioned, they wouldn’t even let me complete the test. They could probably tell straight away that I have no training. So . . . when the heir of this estate comes into his inheritance, we shall be on the street. And my stepmother is in such pain. I’ve tried home remedies, but she needs to see a doctor and we have no coin for it. Taurine too – my stepsister. She is so ill. If I could afford to take her to a specialist . . . And then there’s Rubella, who would be capable of great things if she had a tutor who could give her the proper attention.” Cemre sucked in another stuttered breath and then let it flood out of her, leaving her shoulders hunched and her arms weak. “I don’t know how to help them.”
“Well, what a miserable tale of woe.” Mel tilted her head suspiciously. “But that isn’t all, is it?”
Cemre resisted the urge to look away, meeting Mel’s probing gaze with what she hoped was innocent transparency.
Mel’s eyes widened. “There is something else. Tell me at once!”
This time, Cemre couldn’t help but avoid Mel’s piercing stare. “It’s not important.”
“Which must mean it’s tremendously interesting.” The goddesse rested her chin on one hand, arms still folded. “Do go on.”
Cemre twisted her fingers in the sheets as shame twisted round her heart. “There’s . . . there’s a ball.”
“Oh!” Mel clasped her hands together like a child who’s been promised cake and a trip to the zoo. “I do love a ball.”
“And . . .” Cemre’s insides fought a vicious battle between guilt and desperation. “And my favourite chef in the whole world has come all the way from Cantuccini and will be cooking for the ball at the palace and I won’t even be able to meet him because we’re poor as dirt and will never be able to afford suitable clothes to attend.”
Mel flicked a hand dismissively and blew a raspberry. “Child’s play. What colour do you like? Pink? Yellow? Oh, I know.” She snapped her fingers, and a luminous whirlwind appeared in the corner of Cemre’s room. It flashed as though lightning struck within the glimmering cloud, then spun away and disappeared, leaving behind a glistening blue dress draped over a chair.
Mel sauntered over to her creation and lifted a panel of the voluminous skirt. “It has pockets, of course. Every dress ought to have pockets.” She let the fluid fabric fall and tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Something’s missing, though.” Her finger flew into the air as inspiration struck. “Almost forgot the shoes!” She pointed to the floor at the foot of the dress, and a flash of gold zapped from her finger. A pair of twinkling dancing slippers appeared, refracting rainbows of light like cut crystal.
“You . . . I . . .” Cemre gulped. Had she squandered a goddesse’s help on something as frivolous as a dress? Even if it was the most exquisite creation she’d ever seen . . . She should have focused on helping her family.
“Hmm, not the most eloquent, are you?” said Mel. “Or perhaps I’m too used to poets and playwrights. Can’t shut that lot up for all the djinns in Dajaj 8 .” She rested her fists on her hips. “Now, what else? You want to impress the head chef, huh? You’ll need to take him your most delicious dish.”
Impress Chef Santini? She hadn’t even considered the possibility. But if she did cook something for him, perhaps he could advise her on what to improve in order to please the judges. Then she could audition again.
Cemre’s head spun with questions. What was her most delicious dish? How could she afford the ingredients anyway? Would she be able to walk in shoes made of glass?
What she said was, “How will I get into the kitchen?”
Mel rolled her eyes. “Must I think of everything?” She flicked her wrist, and a dazzling jewelled bracelet appeared on Cemre’s bedside table. “Wear that and you’ll be allowed to go wherever you want. Now, what dish are you going to take?”
Cemre blinked dazedly. A dish. A dish that would impress the best pastry chef in the world. She hadn’t cooked pastry in so long – it required butter – so much butter – and sugar and fine-ground flour and other expensive ingredients.
“Don’t fret about what it will cost,” said Mel as if she’d read her mind – and Cemre wasn’t at all sure she hadn’t. “Give me a list, and I’ll make sure you have everything you need.”
Well, if she could make anything she chose . . . Her usual meals wouldn’t impress Chef Santini. She’d need to present a dish with incredible texture that looked marvellous and tasted better. Recipes flooded her mind, things she’d made when Cook had still been there, delicacies she’d eaten before her father died, dishes she’d wanted to try but couldn’t afford ingredients for . . .
“I can see you need some time to think,” said Mel. She whipped out a calling card with gilt edges and handed it to Cemre. The front read simply Melamene, Muse Extraordinaire in gold calligraphy. “Write whatever you need on the back of that and it’ll appear in your kitchen. Now tell me, when exactly is this ball?”
“Three days’ time. Starday.” Cemre had only seen the invitation for a moment, but the information on it was embossed on her brain. “Seven o’clock.”
Mel nodded once and tossed her auburn locks. “There’ll be a carriage waiting outside at seven sharp. It wouldn’t do for you to arrive exactly on time. You must be fashionably late.”
Cemre’s heart raced, but somehow, in all the excitement, she managed to remember a vital detail. “Mel, may I make one more request?”
“Anything for you, sweetheart.”
“Could you snap your fingers and provide dresses for my mother and sisters? I would feel awful going to the ball if they had to stay at home.”
Mel pouted as if she’d been presented with a basket of precious kittens. “Oh, you absolute sugarplum. Of course I can provide dresses. What kind of second-rate goddesse do you think I am?” She bent her head toward Cemre in a conspiratorial manner. “You know, I don’t actually have to snap my fingers, but I feel it adds a delicious touch of theatre, don’t you? Or I can do this.” She swirled a finger in the air, twinkles trailing after it. “There. A dress for each of them to wake up to.”
“Thank you.” Cemre swiped away an unexpected tear. “They’ll be so pleased. Well, Mother and Taurine will be pleased. Rubella will be positively uncontainable.”
Mel sauntered closer and booped Cemre on the nose. “You’re adorable and well on your way to becoming my favourite.” She straightened and dusted off her immaculate gown. “Anyhow, must dash. I’m needed elsewhere. Oh, I almost forgot.” She put her hands on her hips and assumed an air that reminded Cemre of a particularly stern governess she’d once had. “Magick takes a toll, and no illusion can last forever.”
“Oh.” Cemre considered the implications of this. “Does that mean we shouldn’t stay too late at the ball? Because the gowns won’t last?”
Mel snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. What’s the point of going if you can’t dance until dawn? No, what I mean is that magick must come from somewhere and that source must be replenished. I can’t spend it willy-nilly without replacing it somehow.” She pointed a gold-painted fingernail at Cemre. “That is where you come in.”
“M-me? But I don’t have any—”
“Oh, don’t you worry your pretty little noggin. What I need from you is the easiest thing in the world to provide. You probably won’t even notice when you do it. But I’ll have to explain later because there’s a painter up in Belcher about to set his best piece on fire and I simply must intervene.” And with an explosion of glitter, she vanished.
Cemre gawked at the empty spot where Mel had been. Had she really just had a conversation with a goddesse? Was there truly a ballgown and a jewelled bracelet and glass slippers waiting nonchalantly in a corner of her garret? And what did Mel expect from her in return?
She lay down and stared at the water-stained ceiling. A tiny smile curved her lips upward.
“I’m going to the ball,” she whispered.
1. At least, she guessed it was a troll woman based on the polished gemstones around her neck. Trolls didn’t bother with clothing, and the city of Wenn didn’t enforce a dress code on them because trolls didn’t possess any . . . erm . . . topography that might offend more sensitive onlookers.
2. Tawdrey’s Table Alphabetical, the first Anglish dictionary and a valiant attempt to catalogue the entirety of the Anglish Language. Mr. Tawdrey produced seven hefty volumes before reaching the letter U, at which point his mind succumbed to madness under the weight of the task and he had to be kept in a room with no sharp corners and fed soft foods that wouldn’t stain when he dribbled.
3. Cantuccini, a country known for pasta, nude statues, and broad and numerous hand gestures.
4. A knee-high humanoid with a single large leg and foot. They are known to shade themselves with their foot when not moving, resulting in a thriving broad-soled shoe industry with no need for differentiation between left and right.
5. A country on the East continent known for free-roaming cows, highly spiced food, and synchronized dancing.
6. While the pantheon of the Stratic Realms has the capacity for infinite deities, the mortal memory for names does not, resulting in the doubling up of assigned duties.
7. Hellahot, a continental country known for well-columned temples, nude athletics, and men loitering in amphitheatres philosophizing.
8. Dajaj, a country to the east of Angland, known for black gold, blue creatures called djinn who grant wishes (only three and you can’t wish for more wishes), and a surplus of camels.