3. Chapter 3
Chapter 3
R ubella was, indeed, uncontainable. Cemre almost couldn’t get her to leave the house for school. Three days seemed an eternity for the poor teenager to wait until she could wear the gorgeous, lemon-yellow dress Mel had conjured into her room. Cemre pitied the teachers who would get nothing from Rubella in class today.
Xanthan was mostly dumbstruck by the entire episode, but it distracted her from her aches and pains, for which Cemre was more grateful than the dresses. Taurine was not unaffected, as Cemre had dreaded, but rather seemed to perk up considerably at the prospect of a night out dancing in a gown the colour of ripe peaches. Perhaps she was finally overcoming the doldrums that had gripped her for so long.
While Cemre spent not a little time admiring her own shimmering blue gown, which complemented the light brown skin she’d inherited from her dark elf father and fairy mother, her foremost concern was the dish she needed to present to Chef Santini.
She wandered the kitchen in a daze, picking up utensils and setting them back down, her head buzzing with a hundred ideas she discarded one after the other. What could possibly be good enough to impress such a prestigious cook?
She was staring blindly at a copper saucepan when the familiar tap-tap of her stepmother’s cane drew her attention.
“You’re usually in the garden at this time of day,” said Xanthan with a wan smile. “What are you doing still cooped up inside?”
It crossed Cemre’s mind that Xanthan herself spent most of her day cooped up inside, in too much pain to walk more than a few steps at a time, and she wondered if her stepmother ever felt jealous of her daughters’ mobility. It was a feat for her to get all the way down the many flights of stairs to the kitchen, but she insisted on hobbling her way down for meals rather than being brought a tray. Cemre had suggested turning one of the ground-floor rooms into a bedroom for her, but Xanthan didn’t want to give up the room she’d shared with a husband she’d loved, even if they hadn’t had that much time together.
“I was just thinking about what dish to cook for Chef Santini,” said Cemre. “Are you all right?” She’d noted the pronounced swelling on her stepmother’s knuckles.
Xanthan tap-tapped her way towards the panty. “I only wanted to fetch some Holy Anne’s Bunion 1 leaves.”
“Oh, is your tin empty?” Cemre scuttled forward, but Xanthan stopped her with a raised hand. “I should have checked this morning. I let myself be distracted by—”
“Don’t fret, dear,” tutted Xanthan gently. “I’m not so incapacitated I can’t fetch my own medicine once in a while.” She reached the pantry, and Cemre heard the scrape of boxes against shelves as Xanthan rummaged through the various herbs Cemre had dried and stored.
“Do you still have borage seed oil?” Cemre’s feet itched to carry her forward, but she didn’t want to make her stepmother feel useless, so she held her ground. “I was planning to make a fresh batch next week.”
“I have enough for a few more days.” That meant her stepmother was running through it faster than usual. Her joints must really be hurting her.
“I’ll make some now, then. I just—”
“Dear child, calm yourself.” Xanthan shuffled out of the pantry, holding a box to her chest. “You have more important things to worry about today. And tomorrow. My pains will still be here after the ball.”
“Yes, but—”
“Cemre.” Xanthan almost never looked stern, but she did now, and it stopped Cemre in her tracks. “When was the last time you sat down and thought only of yourself for a bit?”
Cemre’s neck heated. She felt as if she’d only been thinking of herself lately, rather than focusing on caring for her family as she should. But she obediently took a seat at the kitchen table and folded her hands on its top.
Xanthan settled into a chair across from her and plopped her box onto the table. “So, what are you going to cook for your chef?”
A momentary vision of Massimo’s face flashed through Cemre’s mind, but she instantly replaced it with a line drawing she’d seen of Chef Santini. She imagined his expression when she presented him with her dish – the marvelous concoction she hadn’t thought of yet. He frowned at it, and Cemre’s own eyebrows crept towards each other, which only made her think of Massimo again.
“I see,” said Xanthan. “You’re battling to come up with something.”
“Not exactly.” Cemre rubbed her cheek with the heel of her hand, a habit born of always having food-covered fingers. “I have so many ideas. But none of them seem quite right. I need to make something truly impressive, not any old thing I’ve cooked before.”
“What’s wrong with what you’ve cooked before? Your food is lovely, dear. Such flavours and textures and colours!” Xanthan leaned forward conspiratorially. “I’ve eaten in fancy restaurants in the past, my sweet, and I’ve never had anything quite like your dishes, not even from renowned chefs.”
Cemre allowed herself a half-smile, but she couldn’t help thinking her stepmother was being more kind than honest.
Xanthan leaned back in her chair, and a yelp escaped her, face contorting with pain. Cemre half-rose from her own chair, but Xanthan waved her back down. “It’s only the usual annoyance,” she explained briskly, but Cemre heard the hollow note in her voice. “You don’t have to worry so. In truth, it troubles me that you dedicate your life to caring for the rest of us. You’re young. You should be out making friends and learning new things and having experiences .” She said this last with an impish glint in her eye. Cemre could well believe the beautiful woman had been something of a hellion in her younger days. “I don’t want you trapped in this dusty old house, getting cobwebs in your head, when you ought to be out enjoying yourself.”
Cemre reached across the table to cover one of Xanthan’s hands with her own. “It pleases me to care for you. You’re my family.”
Xanthan smiled, but it was a thin one weighed down by decades of grief and agony. “You do your poor mother and father credit, dear, and I love you as my own daughter. But . . .” She sighed. “You must not live your life for others. You’re allowed to do what makes you happy. You must allow yourself to be happy.”
Allow herself to be happy? As if there was some fountain of joy inside her that she’d stopped up intentionally? She knew her stepmother’s words were said with love, but anger flared inside her for a moment before she resolutely doused it.
“I am happy,” said Cemre in as light a voice as she could manage. “I have a lovely family I adore, a gorgeous ballgown waiting for me upstairs, and I’m going to meet the chef I’ve worshipped for years. What else could a girl like me wish for?”
Xanthan’s lips pressed together, and her eyes narrowed. “Plenty,” she answered firmly. “A few good things in your life do not guarantee happiness. You need love up here” – she touched her head – “and in here” – her hand went to her heart – “and that love needs to come from both outside and within.”
Cemre watched as Xanthan’s pink hand fell to the table. She didn’t understand what her stepmother meant, but it jolted her all the same and she had a desperate urge to cry.
She forced the impulse aside. Time was running out, and she still had to decide on a dish.
Xanthan seemed to discern the source of Cemre’s anxiety. “You know, love can be a useful ingredient in cooking, too. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how much you pour into your dishes for the sake of our poor Taurine, just so she can have a little enjoyment. Your best cooking comes from the heart.”
Massimo’s words echoed back to her: Food is love . He’d said it with such passion.
“Why don’t you think of things you love, people you love, and let that guide you?” Xanthan patted Cemre’s hand and hauled herself to her feet. She picked up her box of herbs. “I’m going to have some tea with Taurine and let you be.”
As Xanthan shuffled away and up the stairs, Cemre stared at the dents and chips in the wooden table, the remnants of hundreds of recipes being prepared, ingredients sliced and diced and chopped and smashed, doughs kneaded and rolled out and cut, mixtures whipped and beaten and creamed and folded. Food for daily living, food for celebrations, food for comfort. She’d worked here with Cook on good days and bad, sometimes for fun, sometimes for solace, and finally out of necessity. Now every day had become the same. Could she even recall how it had felt in the beginning, when she’d been excited to learn each technique and process, when she’d relished tasting new flavours and experimenting with all sorts of combinations?
On a whim, she stood and wandered out to the garden. As she walked, she trailed her hand over the herb bushes lining the path, releasing the scents of basil and rosemary and lavender. She passed into the orchard and found herself beneath one of her mother’s orange trees. It was late in the season, but there was still plenty of succulent fruit on the branches. She’d made her own orange-flower water months before during Bittertide, when the white blooms were most prolific.
Her mouth watered at the thought of the orange-blossom ice cream she’d had with Massimo. Oranges always cheered her with their vibrant colour and zesty scent, and they reminded her of her mother, though that carried a sadness with it. But the sadness came from love, didn’t it? She had dearly loved her mother, even though she could hardly remember her face anymore and the few memories she had were fading with time.
She pressed her nose against the waxy, dimpled peel of an orange and inhaled. Mixed emotions flooded her: elation and sorrow and merriment and longing.
Her eyes flew open. What if . . .
What if she could put all of those feelings into a dish?
She picked three beautiful fruit and hurried inside to get to work.
***
The gilded coach jolted over the cobblestones in syncopated rhythm with the clip-clop of the four white horses drawing the vehicle. Cemre, Rubella, Taurine, and Xanthan rocked only a little in the well-sprung cabin, but what else would one expect from a carriage conjured by a goddesse herself? Not a hair of the ladies’ perfect coifs was dislodged, their glittering jewels resting in place against décolletage and wrist. The rich fabric of each gorgeous dress skirt bulged into the next, cushioning them in a cloud of lemon, peach, silvery blue, and rose gold – the colour Mel had chosen for Xanthan. It suited her paling pink hair.
Cemre’s hands gripped a silver platter covered with a cloche of the same metal. Mel had provided it, of course, as the ones that used to reside in Cemre’s kitchen had long ago been sold off.
The plan – which Mel had concocted – was to have the carriage drop Cemre off around the back so she could take her dish in before entering the actual ball. Her fingers tightened on the carved handles of the tray. Inside sat twelve perfect choux pastries. She’d often made the light and airy buns with a delectable chew when Cook was still around, but she’d had to practice a few batches over the last few days to get her hand back in.
The glass slippers Mel had made her, currently residing on Cemre’s feet, had inspired the smooth and shiny mirror glaze that coated the pastries. The vibrant orange of the glaze reflected the colour of her mother’s oranges, which she’d also used to flavour it. Her supply of orange blossom water, prepared earlier in the season, had flavoured the gel centre of the buns, which were surrounded by a silken hazelnut and almond cream laced with cardamom (also brought to Wenn by her mother) and fennel. They were flavours loved by Taurine because she could sense them. She described cardamom as warm but fennel as cool, a similar sensation to the one she got from mint.
Cemre had coated the top of the choux bun with a roasted almond and hazelnut craquelin for a crispy layer beneath the smooth and sticky mirror glaze. The hazelnuts on their own trees weren’t ripe yet, so she’d had to rely on Mel’s magick for those.
The final touch was a clear sugar shard, another reference to her transparent but sparkling shoes. Inside the shard, she’d trapped a tiny wispy frond of fennel. The glass fragment would give the plate drama and an extra crunch, a particular kind that Taurine said sounded different from the crunch of nuts or deep-fried potatoes.
And of course, she had to add a grating of orange zest over the lot for a zing of freshness only citrus could provide.
When she’d put down the scraped orange, she’d seen a small glass bottle with sparkling contents on the kitchen table, beside one of Mel’s calling cards.
You’ve got to add a little glitz, it read. This is edible glitter. I insist you use it.
And so her dessert shimmered like a crystal chandelier – the perfect plate for the palace.
She only hoped it was the perfect plate for Chef Santini.
As they approached the palace gates – open for the party – Rubella pressed her nose against the window and gasped. “It’s like the heavens dropped all their stars!”
The gardens had been lit with thousands of lanterns and torches, as well as the usual tall gas lamps that lined the path to the forecourt. The path itself was jammed with carriages waiting to dispense their passengers at the entrance to the grand building.
“Suppose one of the princes likes me and asks me to marry him,” sighed Rubella.
“You’re too young to be married, my love,” chided Xanthan.
Rubella wrinkled her nose, then smiled. “Well, then Taurine or Cemre can marry him.”
“I don’t think a prince is going to ask any of us to marry him after one night,” said Taurine gently.
“But he could,” insisted Rubella. “And then we could move into his palace and wear dresses like this all the time.” She patted her poufy skirt affectionately.
Cemre’s legs ached at the unbridled joy on her stepsister’s face. Rubella never complained about not having new dresses or living in an old house, and Cemre had thought her unbothered by it, comfortable with her Ragged School friends, perhaps not remembering the luxury she’d had as a much younger girl. But this unguarded comment revealed that she wasn’t as unaffected as she seemed.
Cemre’s fingers tightened around her tray. If she could only get Chef Santini to advise her, she’d work herself to the bone to pass a second audition.
The carriage inched forward with barely a full rotation of the wheels at a time, causing the horses to fidget and toss their heads. With dismay, Cemre realized there would be no opportunity for the vehicle to leave the queue and drive her to the side entrance. She’d have to find another way.
She put her head out the window and craned her neck to see the state of affairs. Up ahead, the wide-open doors of the palace were lit to appear gilded in gold. Guests streamed up the front steps, the ladies clutching bubbles of their voluminous skirts to make way for their pretty feet.
To the right of the entrance, the forecourt grew gradually darker, perhaps to direct all eyes to the gleaming entryway. If she got out just when the carriage turned to follow the curve of approaching and retreating vehicles, she could slip into the shadows and make her own way to the back entrance.
She handed her platter to Rubella, who sat diagonally across from her, nearest the door on the side of Cemre’s escape route.
“What—?” squeaked the teenager, eyes big and round. Then, as Cemre stood and began navigating the sea of skirts, Rubella squealed. “Where are you going? The carriage—”
“The carriage won’t be allowed to turn aside.” Cemre reached the door, and Taurine had the presence of mind to scoot along the seat to make way for her. “I have to get out here.”
Xanthan wrapped gnarled fingers around Cemre’s hand and tugged so that she looked at her. “Go with all our love and the knowledge that we will always adore you, no matter what any pompous chef says.”
Cemre swallowed away the sob that clawed up her throat and blinked hard when Taurine also reached over and squeezed her hand. Then she pushed open the door and carefully lowered herself to the ground. Her glass slippers scraped against the gravel with a sickening grating sound, and she hoped to all the godes and goddesses she wasn’t about to ruin them.
As Rubella handed down the plate, she said, “Bring back any leftovers, will you?”
Cemre giggled, half in amusement and half from nerves, then draped her cloak over the cloche and crunched across the drive, trying to get to the safety of the dark shrubbery as quickly as possible.
No one hindered her or even seemed to notice her, servants and guests alike fully occupied with the ingress into the ball. Mel’s bracelet must have been doing its job.
She slipped around the side of the building and found it much quieter than the front, which elicited a relieved sigh. Now she had to walk.
And walk.
Not even Mel’s elaborate descriptions had prepared Cemre for the sheer size of the palace. She passed servants’ entrances and outbuildings and a hundred walkways leading off into the gardens. She didn’t dare waste a minute peering in through the tall windows that lined the building, focused on following Mel’s directions to the kitchens.
She knew she was nearly there when she reached the herb garden. The kitchen entrance would be directly across from it, and there it was, swung wide open, presumably to ease access for the busy cooks and their assistants.
Cemre’s chest tightened, freezing the breath in her lungs. Her heart ratcheted up to the speed of a Slippernir 2 on Crank 3 , and she was certain everyone would be able to hear its frantic thudding from miles away.
She tiptoed down the passage until she saw a flurry of activity ahead. She ducked behind a large pillar, took a deep breath, then peeked out from her hiding place.
The hinged kitchen door swung back and forth with the ingress and egress of infinite footmen carrying trays of spectacular-looking treats. Cemre pitied the poor servants’ tired feet. Heat billowed past her, then she shivered as cooler air wafted in from the open exterior door.
“Go inside,” she whispered to herself, barely able to get enough air for that amount of speech. “You must go inside. No point loafing about out here like a lost shoe. Not after everything it’s taken to get here.”
Quite of their own accord, her glass slippers propelled her forward. In that magickal moment, the traffic halted, and the kitchen door swung open. She floated through it and into a wall of heat.
Inside, chefs with short white toques bustled up and down, whisking, stirring, sautéing, shouting.
But one hat stood out. The taller a chef’s toque, the more prestigious the chef, and the more pleats in the crown, the more techniques the chef had mastered. And this was the tallest, most liberally pleated toque she’d ever seen.
It could only be Chef Santini.
Willing herself to trust Mel’s magick, which had not yet failed her, she pressed on through the mass of cooks, keeping her eyes fixed on the large hat that bobbed about in the centre of the room.
When she finally laid eyes on the Chef’s face, she was surprised at how small he was. Short and rotund. Not at all how the woodcuts in the papers had presented him.
And never leaving his side was a familiar tall chef in a medium-sized hat, though the combined height still fell short of Chef Santini’s toque. Massimo.
Cemre’s stomach performed a tiny joyous cartwheel, but then a new realization sent the blood rushing from her head, leaving it light and tremulous as a child’s balloon on a stick.
Massimo knew Chef Santini? That was the friend, the ‘professional’ who trained him in their spare time?
How could Cemre possibly compete?
Massimo was the first to notice Cemre. His speedily chopping knife halted, and for a moment, he seemed dumbfounded. His fine-cut features quickly cracked into a broad smile, and he nudged Chef Santini, who looked up at him, then at Cemre, then back at him. “Chi è quello?” the senior chef asked with a blank expression. His voice was gruff and low.
The young chef’s eyes didn’t leave Cemre’s face, and she felt her neck warm. “He asks who you are. What should I tell her—uh, him?” His smile went crooked. “Forgive my Anglish.”
Cemre held out her precious platter. “I’m a cook. And I brought this for him.” She placed it on the counter that separated her from the two chefs, then slid it forward.
Chef Santini pointed at the tray. “Cos’è quello?”
Massimo babbled something in Cantuccinian and lifted the cloche. Time froze, along with the breath in Cemre’s lungs.
Chef Santini stared at the carefully arranged choux buns, not a twitch of his voluptuous moustache indicating what he thought. Cemre almost snatched the plate back and ran. Her undersized wings fluttered as if they could carry her away.
After what seemed like an hour, the chef reached for one of the pastries and held it up to the light between two short, blunt fingers. He turned it this way and that, sniffed it, then took a bite.
A look of utter delight descended over Chef Santini’s face. “Bellisima.”
“He likes it.” Massimo’s dimples deepened as the chef continued in Cantuccinian, gesticulating broadly. “She— He says the . . . como se dice . . . the glaze is like puro . . . pure. Like the glass.”
Chef Santini picked a glass shard off another bun and waved it around, speaking rapidly.
“The finocchio . . . uh, fennel? It complement the brightness of the orange, like a cool breeze in the summer,” Massimo translated. “He feel as if he walk through the orange orchard in spring and the herbs are growing all around, then he smell the zest and it’s summer.” Chef Santini sniffed a bun as if to confirm Massimo’s words. Then he pulled it apart and pointed to the hazelnut and almond cream. “The hazelnut take him to autumn. The warm cardamom is like a comfort for the winter.”
Chef Santini inhaled with his eyes closed and let out a long sigh. “Perfecto.”
“Perfect.” Massimo beamed at Cemre.
She realized her jaw was hanging open, and she slammed it shut.
Perfect.
Chef Santini had called her dish perfect.
She tried to form words, but they melted on her tongue and she couldn’t even remember what she’d wanted to say.
Chef Santini filled the silence.
“He ask where you learn this,” said Massimo.
“I-I . . .” She swallowed. “Our old cook. My mother. Trial and error.”
Massimo watched her with his dimples on full display as he relayed her words to the chef.
Chef Santini nodded, and his moustache lifted as he pursed his lips. When he next opened them, he spoke for some time, not giving Massimo a moment to translate until he was finished.
Massimo frowned. “He want you to . . . get the training. Professional training. But there are not so many places in this city who will teach the women. He say he want to arrange something, but he have to speak to some . . .” Massimo’s mouth moved soundlessly as he sought the right word, his moustache bobbing comically. “Friend? Is like friend but not . . . uh . . .”
“It’s all right, I understand,” said Cemre, not understanding at all but wanting to put Massimo out of his misery. “I am grateful, but I was actually hoping Chef could give me some advice on how to do better. I want to audition again, you see, and . . .” Her words faded away as the expression on Chef Santini’s face soured. “What? What is the matter?”
Massimo seemed at a loss. He spoke to Chef Santini in Cantuccinian, and they went back and forth for several minutes, both gesticulating wildly, before Massimo sighed and turned to Cemre with a grim face. “The competition . . . Chef has met with the judges to prepare for his appearance. But they . . . they are not accepting the female applicants.”
Some months before, Cemre had scavenged yoghurt that was past its best. She thought to disguise the sour taste by cooking it up with some herbs. It had been a disaster, with the yoghurt splitting and curdling into an awful rancid mess.
She felt as if she’d just drunk a full pitcher of it.
Chef Santini grumbled something else.
“He try to convince them,” Massimo explained, “but they only see the outside. They are full of the . . . of the . . . I can’t think the word.”
Judging by the storm clouds crossing Chef Santini’s face, Cemre had a good idea what word Massimo wanted, but she was not going to be the one to tell him what it was.
Chef Santini glanced at his pocket watch and smacked Massimo on the arm, muttering urgently.
Massimo blanched. “Scusi,” he babbled, hands flying behind his back to the ties of his apron. “I have to leave now. But . . . I will see you again?”
Cemre didn’t know how that would be possible, as she was unlikely to ever visit the palace again. But she was surprised how much she wished that wasn’t true.
He leaned over the counter with a desperate expression, his apron crumpled in one hand. “The competition for the food, at the theatre – you will come?”
Cemre’s heart beat wildly in time with her wings. So the judges had chosen him. It was no surprise, really. She wanted to be happy for him, but it was hard to salvage any enthusiasm from the splinters of her dashed hopes. Despite all that, she wanted to see him again. But she hadn’t the coin to visit the theatre.
She said, “Yes.”
Massimo’s triumphant grin was worth the falsehood.
“Sbrigati!” said Chef Santini, shooing his sous chef out the kitchen.
“I’ll look for you,” shouted Massimo as he backed toward the door.
“Wait!” Cemre called. “You didn’t try one.” She didn’t know why it was important, but she wanted him to taste her creation. It may not be the salvation of her family as she’d hoped, but Chef Santini had loved it, and she clung to that fact like an ant to an air bubble on an endless expanse of water 4 .
Massimo barked a laugh. “Leave some for me.” The door clacked as it swung closed behind him.
The chef looked at the clock on the wall and made a scooting motion at Cemre. “Andare,” he said. “Per ballare.”
When Cemre did not respond beyond squeezing her eyebrows together, the chef summoned one of the cooks buzzing around him and prattled away in his gruff voice.
The cook looked back at Cemre. “He says you have to go for the dancing.”
Dancing. The last thing on Cemre’s mind. How could she think of such a thing when she stood before her idol of so many years? Who’d just called her dish perfect ?
When she’d just discovered that she’d been rejected by the judges for being female ?
But Chef Santini was determined, and moments later, Cemre found herself back in the hallway, feeling as if she’d just missed the last step of a staircase and kept going, falling endlessly.
It wasn’t her cooking skill that was at fault; it was her skirt.
Chef Santini had been transported to another time and place by her pastry.
The judges hadn’t even let her finish cooking.
She was still falling, turning end over end while her stomach bounced from top to bottom with each contradicting emotion. Her wings flailed about helplessly in their efforts to steady her.
“Miss?”
The question snapped her out of her stupor. A footman in a neat red uniform waited in front of her, his hands clasped behind his back.
He bowed slightly and gestured to a passage leading deeper into the palace. “I believe you need some assistance finding your way to the ballroom?”
Still speechless, breathless, and witless, Cemre nodded and allowed the footman to lead her away from the kitchen.
Anglemead Palace was bigger than she could have dreamed, seeming even larger than the outside had indicated. Most of it was covered in plush red carpet that silenced her glass slippers, and great gold candelabras and chandeliers lighted their path, as well as the massive oil paintings in gilded frames lining the walls.
If Cemre hadn’t already been overwhelmed by her encounter with Chef Santini, she would surely have been dumbfounded by the opulence in every inch of the palace, the sheer volume of velvet and gilt and embellishment. As it was, she wandered after the footman as if in a dream, simply incapable of taking it all in.
There was certainly no shortage of coin here. She bet the queen never had to eat mushy cucumbers.
The ballroom emptied her already breathless lungs. Her first sight of it was from the top of a grand flight of stairs, allowing her an uninterrupted view of the swirling dancers, the crowds of lavishly dressed guests engaged in conversation beneath the blinding, elephant-sized chandeliers.
The footman took her cloak, and in a cloud of shimmering blue, she glided down the steps as though her useless fairy wings carried her, for her legs surely didn’t. She felt dizzy and disoriented, her stomach whirling in time with the dancers. She laid her hands over it, trying to still its churning and get ahold of her spinning mind.
Her family. She needed to look for them. Then she’d feel better.
Skirting the edge of the dance floor, she tiptoed her way through the clusters of chattering nobles, scanning the throng, but her short stature didn’t ease her task.
An arched opening led her into a room simply packed with people, all of them facing the front of the space. Even Cemre could see the figure perched on a throne on the dais: an utterly beautiful ebony-skinned woman with a youthful demeanour that belied her age. She was bedecked in emerald-green satin and white magnolias and laughed uproariously at the blond man beside her, whose blue eyes in a serious face sparkled with admiration.
Queen Valeria Berenice.
Cemre had seen drawings of the queen, and once she’d seen her carriage in the distance at a parade, but this was the first time she’d actually been in her presence. And what a presence it was! She may as well have been the only person in the room, for all eyes were on her alone, and though she appeared to be having a jolly time, grace and poise exuded from her. It was no wonder the Anglish public adored her.
Not spotting her family in the crush, Cemre slipped into the next room, one lined with lush velvet couches and chairs and, in the centre, a table filled with edible delights. And there was Xanthan, conversing politely with a lady in a shockingly bright magenta gown.
Cemre stumbled over to her, had the presence of mind to curtsey to the unknown lady, then sank onto the couch beside Xanthan.
Her stepmother excused herself and turned on the couch to face Cemre. She caught her hands. “So? Did you meet him?”
Still unable to string a sentence together, Cemre nodded and sunk back into the velvet cushions. She felt as if she’d been run over by a coach and six.
“It went well?” Her stepmother pressed, pale pink wings flitting excitedly.
“Y-yes,” Cemre managed. “I-I . . . It was . . .” Perfect echoed again and again inside her skull, but she couldn’t say the word out loud.
Her stepmother beamed, the first true smile Cemre had seen on her in a long time. “I’m so glad. You’ve worked so hard. You deserve every good thing.” She inclined her head in the direction of the ballroom. “Taurine and Rubella haven’t left the dance floor all night.” Moisture glistened at her eyes. “Taurine looks so happy.”
Cemre’s heart swelled. Even if she’d lost all hope of the competition solving their problems, she was thrilled that her sister had found even a moment of joy after so many years of sadness. It was all worth it for that.
“You ought to drink something and then join the dancing,” said Xanthan.
“I don’t know if I can.” Cemre rubbed an eye with the heel of her hand. “I’m already so tired.”
“Who knows when this chance will come again? You can sleep all day tomorrow.” Xanthan sniggered softly. “We’ve enough choux pastry and hazelnut cream to feed us for a week.”
Cemre forced a flat chuckle. The kitchen at home was littered with her discarded practice concoctions. She’d experimented over and over before settling on the mixture that was just right.
But Xanthan made a good point. When would she have another opportunity to dance in the palace ballroom? She’d certainly never again own a dress as beautiful as the one she wore. Why not take her full skirts for a spin?
Not that she thought anyone would ask her to dance. But she could watch and sway on the sidelines and maybe catch sight of her happy sisters.
With a final squeeze of her stepmother’s hand, she rose and drifted toward the dancing, stopping for a drink of refreshing lemonade on the way.
She found a spot against the wall from which to watch the dancers and briefly glimpsed Rubella spinning past in her sunlight dress, laughing gaily at whatever her handsome elf partner was saying to her.
All at once, the music halted and the dancers stopped, then parted.
Four figures stood on the stairs, all dressed like royalty: a middle-aged man and woman wearing crowns, and two young men with sashes. Cemre guessed them to be the royal family of Cantuccini.
The Queen and Prince Albrecht arrived from the room where they’d been sitting on their thrones and walked toward the stairs. When they reached them, Queen Valeria welcomed the visiting royal family, then faced the crowd gathered at the foot of the stairs.
“As you know, I’m a frightful romantic,” she said in a voice just as suited to commanding armies as buttering up a ballroom of gentry, “and I’m determined to marry off these two delightful princes. Nothing would please me more than a love match to cement the friendship between our countries. To assist my matchmaking, I’ve arranged for the boys to dance with all eligible ladies present.” She cast a smirk at the two stone-faced Cantuccinian princes. “Oh, don’t look so glum. You’ll have a lovely time if only you allow yourselves.” She clapped her hands together. “Now, we have a list, in alphabetical order, so that no lady should be left out. Simply wait for your name to be called.” She lifted her gaze to the orchestra in the balcony at the back of the ballroom and winked. “Keep each dance short, won’t you? Can’t have our young men passing out from exhaustion.”
At the queen’s indication, a herald in a spangled uniform held up an official-looking scroll and read out two names beginning with A. Two squeals preceded the shuffling forward of a pair of ecstatic young ladies. The less ecstatic princes descended the last of the steps and bowed politely to their partners, though their expressions did not loosen much.
The orchestra struck up a galop, albeit a sedate one, and the princes spun their assigned ladies around the room. For the next dance – a mazurka – they switched partners, and other couples joined them on the floor.
Cemre watched the whirl of dancers, but her eyes kept being drawn back to the younger prince, Vittorio. He wasn’t as tall as his older brother, though both of them were above average in height, and his face seemed softer, less stately. His black hair was scraped back and held in place with pomade, though one curl had escaped and plastered itself to his forehead. He had nut brown skin and pointed ears like Massimo, which wasn’t surprising considering they were countrymen, but unlike Massimo, he was cleanshaven, giving him an altogether more youthful appearance.
His older brother shared his colouring and wore the same dark green uniform with silver-fringed epaulettes and a red sash, though Crown Prince Umberto sported a lot more braiding and medals across his chest. He chatted serenely with his partner, while Vittorio’s lips remained glued shut.
She hoped they wouldn’t be forced to marry anyone. It would be sad to be chained to someone you didn’t love, although she knew plenty of people married for other reasons: titles, connections, money—
Her wings flared straight out.
Money.
People married for money.
And here she was, in the presence of not one but two princes who’d been instructed to find themselves brides.
No, the idea was too ridiculous.
In her head, she heard Xanthan yelping in pain, hobbling down the stairs one at a time with rests in between. She saw Taurine staring blankly out the window, like a lifeless rag doll.
What if she could marry a prince?
Cemre jumped when an arm slipped round her waist.
“It’s only me,” squeaked Rubella. Her cheeks were flushed even pinker than usual, and she positively glowed with glee. “Have you danced yet? I haven’t stopped since the first boy asked me. Just look at my dance card.” She held up her wrist, and the card dangling from it was indeed scrawled full of pencil, not an empty line in sight. “There’s even a waiting list in case someone doesn’t turn up for their appointment.” She showed the back of the card, scribbled with at least ten more names.
A breathless giggle bubbled up from Cemre’s chest – it was such a pleasant change to see her sister free to have as much fun as she wanted without worrying about costs or meals or anything else. Could she guarantee this life for Rubella?
Cemre shook off the chill that ran between her wings. “Who are all these men?” she asked, pointing to the list.
“No idea,” said Rubella with a careless shrug. “I don’t care so long as they dance with me. I had to guess at some of the steps because I can hardly remember those dancing lessons we had so long ago. But nobody seemed to mind.”
“If your card is full, shouldn’t you be on the floor right now?”
“I was until the queen made her announcement, then I got hungry and was just about to find some scran when I saw you.” She didn’t let Cemre’s frown at her street cant dam the flow of her excitement. “Can you believe we’re all going to dance with the princes? Maybe I’ll marry one of them and be a Cantuccinian princess.” She tilted her head and pursed her lips. “Or maybe not. They look a bit stiff.”
Cemre licked her dry lips. “Your mother told you you’re too young to marry anyway.”
“We can write to each other until I’m old enough.” She sniffed. “Although, that sounds dull. He can write to me. Have you tried the jellied eels? I thought they’d be awful, but they’re actually delicious.”
“I haven’t.” Cemre fiddled with the bracelet Mel had given her and darted nervous eyes around the room. “Where did Taurine go? I haven’t seen her dancing since the announcement.”
“Probably snuck off with one of her new beaus.” Before Cemre could scold her, Rubella gaped and clutched Cemre’s arm. “There’s that boy who wouldn’t stop talking about horses and danced like a snail – slow and sticky. I think he’s on my card next. Must dash.” She fled into the crowd.
Cemre couldn’t help laughing behind her hand, especially when a gangly teenager with a long face and a forlorn expression maundered past.
Someone called her name, and she looked around for the source. The voice boomed again, and her heart turned to ice.
The herald was summoning her.
Her wings pulsed so hard in time with her racing heart, she thought she might actually lift off the ground.
Yes, the idea of marrying a prince had crossed her mind, but she hadn’t really believed they’d have her name on that list. She might have a title, but she was poor, had been for a long time. Besides which, both her parents were dead, so did her title even apply anymore?
On the other hand, she’d been invited to the ball. They wouldn’t invite someone without any title.
But if she danced with a prince, she’d have to make some effort to charm him into marrying her – she owed her family that.
Oh, what did she know of charming princes? She’d not danced with a single gentleman since her father’s death. It was a mistake to think she had any chance with a prince, let alone one who looked as uncomfortable as someone who’d swallowed a cactus.
If she disappeared into the crowd, they’d think she wasn’t here and call the next lady. Cemre took a step backward . . .
. . . and bumped into someone who caught her arms and turned her around.
“Didn’t you hear your name being called?” asked Taurine, clasping her elbows. Her face seemed softer than usual, a faint smile tweaking her lips up, her eyes alive and tinged with mirth.
“Oh, I thought I’d—”
Taurine’s eyes narrowed. “I know exactly what you thought. But you’re responsible for us having this wonderful night, and I’ll not let you go home without dancing with the prince.” She got her hands on Cemre’s elbows and shoved her forward. “Go on.”
Cemre was propelled to the front of the ballroom where the blank-faced Prince Vittorio waited for her. His eyes widened slightly when he saw her, then returned to their composed state as he bowed and offered his hand.
Cemre curtseyed and allowed herself to be led onto the dance floor, wings low and trembling. His fingertips were warm and faintly calloused, most likely from horse-riding and fencing and other princely pursuits. The orchestra struck up a slow polka. Wordlessly, the prince turned her to face him and slipped a light hand round to her upper back, just beneath her left wing, holding their already linked hands out in the appropriate frame.
They began to move.
Cemre thanked her feet for remembering the steps, though the prince made it easy with the slightest pressure of his fingers at her back directing her where to go. He twirled her through the figures as though they’d danced together their whole lives.
At first, she stared at his chin, thinking only of her movements. As she became confident that she wouldn’t step on his toes, she dragged her eyes cautiously upwards.
The prince was biting his lip. In fact, the redness and ripped skin told her he’d been chewing it for a while.
The realization made her knees ache: the prince wasn’t aloof – he was petrified.
Her own shyness melted into determination to set him at ease.
She swallowed and, in a slightly wobbly voice, asked, “Have you seen any of the sights in Wenn?”
The prince looked down at her with an alarmed expression. His lips parted and then fumbled for a suitable shape. “A little,” he rasped, and she almost couldn’t hear him over the music and chatter.
“Squat Henry?” she suggested. The massive sunken clock was quite the tourist attraction.
“No,” said the prince. “But I hear it.” It was almost impossible not to.
“The tower 5 of Wenn?”
The prince cleared his throat. “The history is . . . no is nice.”
“It isn’t,” she agreed. “My little sister loves it.”
Vittorio’s eyebrows ticked up ever so slightly.
“Stepsister, actually,” Cemre explained, studying one of the silver buttons peeking out above his red sash. “She has an odd obsession with the macabre.” The button was carved with the head of a unicorn biting the blade of a sword. “I think she likes to laugh at gruesome things so her own troubles don’t seem so terrible.” She lifted her gaze to meet his intent one and smiled. “She makes the whole family laugh. I love her for that.”
The outer corners of his eyes crinkled a fraction. The lines there spoke of someone who laughed often, but Cemre found it hard to imagine this stiff character being so free as that. At least he wasn’t gnawing at his lip anymore. His mouth had relaxed, though he still avoided opening it.
Sensing the end of their song and feeling somewhat deflated regarding her efforts to charm the prince, Cemre let the music fill the space between them, pushing away the welling despair and instead revelling in the sensation of flying around the floor.
“You . . .”
Cemre snapped her attention back to the prince. He was clearly battling to form the words he wanted to say.
“You . . .” He licked his lips. “You should laugh,” he stammered in his gruff way. “Your heart . . . deserve . . . to laugh.”
At that moment, the dance ended. Vittorio bowed over her hand, pressing the lightest of kisses to it, and strode away.
Cemre gaped after him. Why did her legs feel numb and her head dizzy? As if one step too many would result in her on her back, watching the ceiling spin? The room moved as if she was still in his arms, swaying and skipping through the dance.
Perhaps she was just light-headed from the exertion. Had she eaten anything today? Or just tasted her dish a thousand times? She pressed a hand to her forehead. Sugar and flour weren’t the most sustaining of foods.
And beguiling a prince into marrying her? She wanted to laugh and cry at her absurd plan. He hadn’t even looked back at her as he’d retreated, simply approached his next partner. She didn’t stand a chance with him.
Apparently not of getting into the competition either.
All her plans lay in splinters at her feet, as if her glass slippers had shattered.
She tottered out of the way of the next set of dancers and towards the sunset orange of Taurine’s dress. Her stepsister shook her head and pointed. When Cemre glanced over her shoulder, she saw Crown Prince Umberto marching towards her.
No. She couldn’t face another prince, let alone another dance. Her pounding heart simply couldn’t take any more excitement and definitely not any more disappointment. She was exhausted in mind and body, incapable of putting on a smile for one more second and pretending she wasn’t shrivelling up like a discarded cabbage leaf inside.
She fled behind her stepsister and pushed Taurine toward Umberto. “You can have my turn,” she babbled. “I’m going home.” Without looking to see what the two impromptu partners did, she dashed for the nearest exit.
The parted doors opened onto a balcony where a few guests cooled themselves in the fresh air. But Cemre needed to get as far away from everyone as possible. Immediately. Her heart was fit to burst, and she knew that once her drive to flee wore off, she’d collapse.
She slipped down the stairs leading from the balcony into the gardens and ran as fast as her glass slippers could carry her.
Oh! She’d left her choux behind. And she’d meant to bring some back for Rubella. Massimo would have to eat them all. And maybe she could make something approximating them with the leftover elements for her sister.
She crunched down the gravel drive, clutching bunches of her skirts so as not to trip and drawing alarmed glances from the servants manning the gates as she ran through them.
She slowed to a trot, and a wave of exhaustion hit her. If she’d thought of it, she could have waited in the carriage until her family were ready to leave. No, that wouldn’t have done at all. She wanted her bed. Her failures had piled up on her shoulders until she hadn’t the strength to hold her head up anymore.
A pumpkin cart trundled past, and she recognized it as a regular in the market district near her home. She ran after it, waving madly, and the consternated driver pulled up, gawking. When Cemre begged for a ride, he simply tipped his cap at the back of the cart and shook his head disbelievingly. Cemre hopped up onto the wagon and settled between two large pumpkins. At least she’d only have to walk a short distance to get home now.
When at last she reached her garden gate, Squat Henry chimed the midnight hour. Cemre hoped her family wouldn’t rush home after her but would stay and enjoy the ball as long as possible. Normally her neighbours only returned from such events when the sun began to rise.
The gas lamps on the street lit the path to the front of the house, but round the corner she could barely see a thing. The moon was too low to shine past the building.
Just as she reached the back door, a scrabbling sound made her jump clear out of her shoes. She scooped one up and held it out menacingly, heel forwards. “Who’s there?”
A few feet away, a bush rustled. Then a short figure exited the shrubbery and hesitated on the paving stones. “You were out awful late,” he grumbled.
Thumper. Cemre’s shoulders sagged. “And you scared the living daylights out of me. What are you doing here?”
Thumper toed the ground, hands behind his back. “I thought maybe . . . You got any more of that porridge you give me before?”
Cemre’s legs ached. Poor thing. “Not that precisely, but I can find you something else.”
Thumper took an eager step forward, then froze. “You won’t make me bath, will you?”
It was hard not to laugh at the pure disgust on his filthy face, but Cemre made a concerted effort, knowing it would certainly chase him away. “I can’t make you do anything. But if you come inside and wash your hands, I’ll give you something to eat.”
Thumper pondered this, then seemed to decide that clean hands were worth suffering in exchange for food and followed her into the kitchen.
Cemre’s shoes clinked against the stone floor as she set them beside the door. She placed a stool in front of the sink so Thumper could reach, then helped him thoroughly scrub his hands. She was surprised to find pale lilac skin under the layers of grime. He protested the use of a nail brush, but she insisted it was part of the bargain, so he grumbled until she was satisfied with her work.
After rinsing off and drying her own hands, she set them on her hips, thinking about what she could feed the hungry pixie boy currently examining one of her bowls of discarded batter. Choux buns and cream weren’t a substantial dinner.
She surveyed the ingredients scattered around the kitchen. There were plenty of nuts left over, and she could whip up a quick pie crust. With herbs and vegetables from the garden, she could give Thumper a nice satisfying savoury meal that wasn’t brimming with sugar. And he could have orange juice and nuts to tide him over while she prepared it.
She tied on an apron – though it barely covered her substantial skirt – and as she brought together the dough, she probed Thumper about his background and living conditions. The child didn’t remember his parents or much at all about his early years. As far back as he could recall, he’d been alone on the streets of Wenn, although there’d been a nebulous period during which he’d slept in the home of an old lady, just a room in a slum tenement, but she’d kept him fed and given him a blanket for the floor.
"Then one day she . . . went away," Thumper said quietly.
Cemre choked back the sob burning her throat.
"Had to live on the street after that. But then I found Sparky. Rescued him from the drain, I did." The purple salamander poked his head out of a pocket as if summoned by his name. Thumper scratched the tiny, scaled head. “Never go anywhere wivout my Sparky.”
Cemre surreptitiously wiped her eyes on her sleeve as she kneaded the pastry, not wanting to embarrass the pixie child with anything resembling pity. When the dough was resting and she was ready to collect some ingredients from the garden for the pie filling, Thumper pulled out Sparky, held him up in the flat of his hand, and said “Light ‘em up,” and the creature began to glow. He was just bright enough for Cemre to see in the moon-starved darkness. The indigo tongue snapped out to catch the unfortunate insects attracted to the light.
“Where were you, anyway?” Thumper asked when they were back inside and Cemre was busy mixing the pie filling. “I waited ages.” He slurped down the last of his orange juice.
Cemre gave him a brief account of her evening at the palace and how she came to be there, but she found her mind wandering. Each event she recounted seemed more ludicrous than the last. And when Thumper exclaimed (using not very polite words) at the magickal elements of her tale, guilt crept over Cemre like a shroud.
She’d met Chef Santini. He’d loved her dish. She’d seen Massimo and had an enjoyable, if quiet, dance with the prince.
But a great gaping hole had opened in her chest.
Two opportunities to provide a better life for her family, and she’d lost out on both of them. Granted, the competition hadn’t been her fault, but she couldn’t help thinking that maybe if she’d been more impressive in those opening minutes of the audition, more assertive . . . And her attempt to win over the prince – that she could thoroughly flagellate herself over, for she hadn’t been in the least bit enchanting. Tower of Wenn indeed!
The assembled pie went into the oven, and Cemre sat at the table across from Thumper, hopelessness threatening to turn her into a sobbing heap.
“Why can men be chefs but girls can’t?” asked the boy suddenly.
Cemre shrugged weakly. “I don’t know. Perhaps men want the best jobs for themselves. To keep women in home kitchens looking after them.”
The stratum on Thumper’s brow cracked as he wrinkled it, and a flake of dirt fell to the table. “What’s the difference between men and women anyway, besides the trousers and the moustache?”
Despite her despondent mood, Cemre laughed, both amused and embarrassed. Maybe he’d never been educated on the anatomical differences, though surely he must have seen stray cats and dogs. She glanced at the salamander curled up on the tabletop. Was Sparky really a boy?
But if it had never been explained to him, all he would see is what was on the outside, the uniform and the hat and—
Cemre’s heart stopped.
They only saw the outside.
The scene in the castle kitchen flashed across her brain, the chefs in their moustaches, uniforms, hats, practically indistinguishable from each other.
What if she got hold of one of those uniforms, a toque, a fake moustache . . .
She had to tell—
Glitter exploded in front of the stove. “Hello, gorgeous,” said Mel with a smile as blinding as her sparkling gold dress. “How was the ball?” She took a step toward the kitchen table, then balked at Thumper. “What is that?”
“Sparky,” said the boy, assuming Mel was referring to the salamander perched beside his bowl of nuts. “He’s my best friend. Who are you?”
Mel puffed out her chest and flicked her hair, opening her mouth as if to begin her usual long introduction. Then she threw a side-glance at the filthy boy and seemed to reconsider. “Call me Aunty Mel,” she said. “Now, Cemre, tell me all about the ball.”
“The ball.” Cemre tried to blink the memory back into focus. “Yes, it was nice, and—”
“Nice?” Mel looked disgusted. “Listen, sugarplum, I didn’t outdo myself on the dress so you could have a ‘nice’ time. Did you dance? Were the princes bowled over by your beauty and sweetness? Did the chef adore your food?” She flapped a hand. “Of course he did – what a silly question.”
Cemre licked her lips. “I don’t know if he adored it. But he said he liked it. He said it was . . .” Like glass. He hadn’t been patronizing her, had he? He’d looked sincere. His eyes had glazed and he’d chewed slowly, like he was savouring each flavour and texture. Like a cool breeze in summer, he’d said. Like a comfort for the winter.
“That look tells me he loved it,” said Mel with a confident nod. “Now what about the princes? Aren’t they delectable?”
Thumper rolled his eyes and mumbled something about “girls” to Sparky.
“Delectable? Oh um . . . I suppose.” Her fingers curled into her palm at the memory of the prince’s kiss.
Mel narrowed her eyes. “You . . . suppose.”
“I only danced with the younger one. He seemed nice. He didn’t say much.”
Your heart deserve to laugh.
“I object to this constant use of ‘nice’.” The goddesse drummed her exquisite nails irritably on one of her crossed arms. “I require details, young lady. We have a bargain, remember?”
Cemre picked at the gauze of her skirt. “Yes, but you didn’t quite get around to explaining what that bargain is .”
“This is part of it.” She beckoned with her fingertips. “Now, details. Out with it.”
Details . If Cemre thought about it, Vittorio had a pleasant sort of face, but he’d been so stiff and unyielding, not like Massimo with his easy-going good humour and broad smiles. If only she’d been able to dance with him instead.
The room was spinning again.
“Now that look tells me far more than your words ever could.” Mel’s crooked smile was unabashedly smug. “He obviously made an impression.”
Cemre didn’t correct the goddesse regarding who exactly had made the impression which fluttered her heart and warmed her cheeks. And besides, she couldn’t wait any longer to tell her about her idea. “Mel, about the competition—”
“Oh, did Chef Santini advise you on how to convince those silly judges to let you in?”
“No, you see . . . he told me that they’re not letting any women in.”
Mel’s easy smile turned into a stormy scowl. “What?” Her voice was quiet as the moment before a thunderclap.
“They don’t tell anyone that, of course. They just make up an excuse for not admitting any female who auditions.”
Mel rose with the poise and menace of a lion spotting prey. “Bastards!” she spat. She paced the stone floor, golden skirt swishing wildly with each turn. “Foul, hornswoggling, jolterheaded varlets!” She halted and folded her arms. “I shan’t let a bunch of addlepated males get away with such flummery!” Lightning flashed inside the kitchen.
“Cor!” yelped Thumper. “D’ya see that, Sparky?”
The salamander cocked his head, tasted the air, and turned his back on Mel.
“I shall come up with a plan,” she vowed. “Probably involving a plague of gnats.”
“Mel,” began Cemre, “I thought of—”
“Although, jerboas usually go down well. And so many people are allergic to them.” The goddesse sighed dramatically and sunk into a wooden chair as though it were a chaise longue. “Don’t you fret. I’ll think of something – I always do. It’s only a matter of time.”
“Well, that’s just it,” said Cemre meekly. “I have thought of something.”
Mel sat up, glee curving her lips and lending a mischievous slant to her eyes. “Do tell.”
Cemre took a breath, heart suddenly racing and making her lungs tight. “It’s only . . . well, when I was at the kitchen at the palace, I noticed that it’s hard to tell the chefs apart because they all wear the same uniform and almost all of them have moustaches for some reason and then there’s the hats.” She paused to gasp for air.
Mel’s lids had lowered to half-mast, and she’d sucked in her cheeks in a calculating way. “Ye-e-es?” she purred.
“So if I had a chef’s uniform and a chef’s toque and a fake moustache—”
“—those snotty zounderkites running the competition would be blinded by their own prejudice,” finished Mel triumphantly. She clapped her hands together. “I love it. Use their own chauvinism against them.”
The scent of cooked pastry tickled Cemre’s nose, and she bounced up to remove her pie from the oven.
“You’d need to try to deepen your voice,” mused Mel, tapping her chin.
“Like this?” tried Cemre, laying the pie on the table and fanning it with a plate to cool it.
“You still sound like a girl,” said Thumper, leering at the pie. “Is that ready?”
“It needs to cool first, or you’ll burn your mouth. I’ll have to practice the voice.”
Mel waved a hand and the pie stopped steaming. “It’ll be just right now.”
Thumper cheered, and even Sparky jumped to his feet and tasted the air with his forked tongue.
Cemre served up a slice, and the pixie boy fell on it as if he hadn’t just consumed two bowls of nuts and three glasses of orange juice. “Where will I get a convincing moustache?” she wondered. “I don’t suppose drawing one on would work.”
“There’s a costume shop down the road from the theatre,” said Mel. “I could magick you a real one, naturally, but I don’t think you’d enjoy sleeping with it. And they are such a fuss to maintain.” She shook her head emphatically. “No, a fake one will be the most practical. Only mind you follow the instructions for the glue. The judges won’t like a moustache in their soup.”
“Would the costume shop have a chef’s outfit too?” Cemre asked.
“Oh, that I can take care of.” The goddesse snapped her fingers, and a set of chef’s whites appeared draped over an empty chair, complete with a beginner chef’s small toque. Mel flicked imaginary lint off her shoulder. “Clothes are my specialty.”
Cemre gulped. “I suppose that’s that, then. I’m going to audition again dressed as a man.”
She’d expected to feel apprehensive. Excited? Determined?
But all she felt was . . . numb.
Perhaps there was a limit to how many emotions one could experience in a single day and she’d hit it.
“I still wish there was a way to get in as a woman.” Mel huffed. “One step at a time, I suppose.” She canted her head. “Speaking of which, how’s your manly walk?”
“Um, something else I’ll have to practice?”
Thumper waved his fork at her. “You can’t walk like a man in that dress.”
“Good point.” Cemre took the chef’s whites and nipped into the pantry to change. When she came out again, she put on her best masculine swagger.
Mel frowned. “It’s not quite right when you don’t have the proper equipment.”
Cemre didn’t want to understand what Mel was referring to, but unfortunately for her flaming cheeks, she did. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to fix that.”
“Socks,” suggested Mel. “Two of them, each with a balled-up sock in the toe. You’ll have to strap them on so they dangle a bit. And then walk as though having your legs too close together will squash ‘em.”
Thumper scowled at her. “I don’t walk like that.”
Mel winked at him. “You will.”
Cemre sunk back into her chair. Walk like a man. Talk like a man. Convince the judges she was a man.
All of a sudden, it seemed like far more than she could handle. She was tired, bone tired. She felt as if a giant rolling pin was slowly pushing down on her shoulders, flattening her bit by bit like a gingerbread girl. Why couldn’t the numbness have stayed?
Mel’s chair scraped across the stone floor, and Cemre looked up to see she’d drawn closer to her. The goddesse propped her chin on an elegant hand. “You know, my Arachney senses 6 are tingling. You look much too lacklustre for someone who just met her idol and danced with a handsome prince. Are you feeling quite well, sweetheart?”
Cemre wrapped her arms around herself, scolding her miserable ingratitude. “I’m fine. Just tired. It’s been a long day.”
Mel pursed her lips and shook her head. “I don’t think that’s it. It’s not just today you feel like this, is it, darling?”
Tears sprang to Cemre’s eyes, and she turned them away from the goddesse’s penetrating stare.
“I think you haven’t felt happy in a long while, not properly,” continued Mel in a quiet, gentle voice. “I think you’ve been having more bad feelings than good ones and you can’t explain why.”
Cemre tucked her chin into her chest and squeezed her arms tighter around her waist, trying to keep the cracking pieces of herself from shattering and flying apart.
“Here.” A card appeared in Mel’s hand, a gold pen in the other, and she scribbled down a name and address. “Go and see this lady tomorrow, before you visit the costume shop. She’s a doctor – unofficially, of course, but a talented and experienced one, nonetheless. And she won’t tell you you’ve simply got ‘woman’s problems’ and send you away.” Mel squeezed Cemre’s arm until she looked at her. “Be sure to tell her everything you’ve been feeling. Don’t be shy and don’t pretend. She can help you if you’re honest with her.”
Cemre nodded, pressing her lips tightly together to stop them from wobbling.
“Now” – Mel stood up and put her hands on her hips – “both of you ought to be in bed, and I have a to-do list longer than a giant sea snake.” She pointed a finger at Cemre. “Be honest with her.” And then she vanished in her customary shower of glitter.
The grating sound of Thumper’s fork against his empty plate pulled Cemre out of her fog. He seemed to be avoiding her gaze, scraping up non-existent remnants from his dish and sucking them off his cutlery. Her legs panged at the thought of where he might go now, all alone in the dark.
“You can sleep here if you want,” she offered.
His little head jerked up in horror. “I’m not going to bath!”
“I promised I wouldn’t force you.” How could she make him feel safe? “You don’t even have to come upstairs. How about you sleep down here in the kitchen, next to the stove? It’ll stay warm for a while. And I can bring you some blankets.”
Thumper scrunched up his face and shared a look with Sparky. The salamander’s indigo tongue darted out and back in quick as a blink, but the movement appeared to mean something to Thumper. “We’ll stay,” he said with his chest out and his jaw jutting like an army general, like he gave the orders around here.
As Cemre fetched him some blankets, she wondered what she was thinking taking in another mouth to feed – a particularly hungry mouth – when she already had four she could barely keep satisfied. Her family would think she’d gone mad. Perhaps she had. But when she thought about sending him away . . .
She couldn’t do it.
She had no choice now. She simply had to pass that audition and win the competition.
1. Holy Anne’s Bunion, a plant used for millennia to treat everything from bruising to anxiety and depression. Because of its antique origins, no one is quite certain who Holy Anne was or why her Bunion held any importance, though some linguists theorize that the name is in truth a corruption of the ancient Hellahotian word hollion bonion , which means ‘useful plant’.
2. An eight-legged horse from the Northern countries widely believed to be the fastest creature in the world, though this has never been proven conclusively and critics contest that eight legs would increase the chances of tripping and therefore be ultimately slower than a four-legged creature. But critics are no fun.
3. A street drug that provides energy, usually consisting of large amounts of sugar, a plant extract with stimulating properties, and whatever white powder the dealer has lying around, usually flour.
4. Its nest was probably flooded, and it got separated from the other ants.
5. The Tower of Wenn has a long history as a royal home, prison, and execution site (mainly beheadings). It is guarded by the famous porkmunchers – wardens paid partly in all the pork they can eat – and is home to the beloved gryphons of the tower. The Gryphon Keeper is tasked with caring for the gryphons so they do not leave the tower, which is regarded as a bad omen for the Anglish Empire, though the Keeper doesn’t so much care for the gryphons as ensure that they’re too well-fed to eat the visitors.
6. Arachney sense, a sixth sense or intuition that something is not right in a given situation or that danger is near. Based on the legend of Arachney, a master weaver who insulted the godes and was condemned to live forever as a spider in a giant web connecting all corners of the world. A thread of the web would tingle whenever badness touched it, giving Arachney time to warn the godes before it could reach them.