5. Chapter 5
Chapter 5
C emre gazed up at the Druerie Lane Theatre, a tattered carpet bag in hand. This would be her home for the next two weeks.
If she didn’t get eliminated.
She scanned the block-shaped building but couldn’t see an entrance anywhere. She was in Druerie Lane, though, and this was the Druerie Lane Theatre. How were you supposed to get inside?
A clip-clopping drew her gaze to the corner of the building, from around which appeared a centauress with a magnificent mane of chestnut hair piled on top of her head. She smiled broadly at Cemre, baring a healthy mouthful of teeth. “Hello,” she said in a strong, jolly voice. “Are you lost?”
Cemre returned a shy smile, then remembered that she was A Man and pasted on a more confident expression. “I’m here for the cooking competition.” She extended a hand to the centauress, doubted whether that was the correct move for a working-class man toward a lady, then sighed inwardly when the lady in question grasped the limb firmly and shook it with slightly painful enthusiasm.
The centauress snorted and stomped a back hoof. “Don’t need to tell me that, old chum. Your togs speak for themselves. Anyhoo, I’m Hyounhie.” She pronounced it like an excessively breathy version of ‘Winnie’.
“Ce— Algernon. I’m Algernon.”
“How’d you do.” Hyounhie tossed her head in the direction of the theatre. “You won’t find a way in over here. Place is a misnomer. The entrance is actually on Brydge Street. But you’ll want the side entrance. C’mon. I’ll show you.”
“Thank you.”
Hyounhie trotted past Cemre and rounded the opposite corner of the building, leading her down a wide alley to a side door that was marked Personall Onlye . She pulled it open and ducked her head to enter. “Follow me.”
“Oh.” Cemre hurried after her, two legs battling to keep up with four, although Hyounhie seemed to merely be sauntering along. “You work here?”
“I do, and let me tell you, it wasn’t half a battle getting in.” She flared her nostrils. “I wanted to join the corps 1 de ballet, but they took one look at these hooves and weren’t having it. I convinced them to let me come on as a general performer, though, mostly bit parts as a carriage horse and such, and I run errands for the stagehands. But I’ll work my way up, you wait and see.”
Cemre had no doubt that the centauress would get what she wanted. Her personality was larger than her, erm, derrière.
Hyounhie clopped down the dim passageway, and Cemre followed, scanning the peeling posters on the wooden walls of past performances and visiting acts. She resisted the urge to adjust her socks, which were bouncing uncomfortably in time with their swift footsteps. She’d need to fasten them a little tighter in future.
They wound through a maze of narrow corridors packed to the ceiling with props and sets. Hyounhie greeted various theatre workers they passed, but Cemre had no way of knowing whether they were performers or support staff or even management.
Once Cemre had thoroughly lost her sense of direction, Hyounhie stopped and pointed into a tiny storage room. “Leave your bags here. They’ll show you to your quarters downstairs later.”
“I didn’t know there were living quarters at the theatre.”
“For touring companies so they’ve got somewhere to stay for the duration of their visit. Rest of us mostly stay in places around the theatre, wherever we can find a cheap hole to lay the old lemon.” Hyounhie tossed her head in a direction that meant nothing to Cemre. “I’ve got a stable at the back. Convenient. But I do have to share with a couple of cart horses. Not particularly chatty.”
They continued their journey, ending in the wings of one of the smaller auditoriums. Faint sunlight slanted in from narrow skylights in the distant roof, casting the cluttered area in a dim glow. Gaslights graced the walls, but they had not been turned on. A number of characters dressed in chef’s whites milled about, some chatting in groups of twos and threes while others stood alone with arms folded, casting appraising looks at the other competitors. Their hats varied in height and number of pleats, and a cold sense of inadequacy settled over her.
One chef in particular caught her eye. Massimo.
She’d known he’d been accepted into the competition, but she hadn’t put that together with the fact that he’d be here and that he already knew her and—
As if he sensed her watching him, he looked up and met her gaze.
Her wings fluttered ineffectually against their bindings. What if he recognized her? What if he told everyone and—
“The orientation person should turn up soon,” said Hyounhie. “All right if I leave you here? It’s just that they’re rehearsing a production of La fille mal garni 2 in the ballet studio and I want to practice my port de bras 3 . ”
“Yes.” Cemre swallowed against the lump in her throat making her voice all high and squeaky and recovered her masculine rasp. “Yes, please go. Thank you for your help.” She offered her hand in what she hoped was a manly gesture.
Hyounhie shook it. “All the best with that lot,” she said with a wink, then clomped off humming a jolly tune.
Cemre watched her go, scared to turn around and risk Massimo seeing her face again. Not that she could avoid him forever – there were only fifteen contestants, and sooner or later, she’d have to—
“Hello,” said the very person she wanted to avoid.
Cemre went numb from head to toe. Don’t be silly , she chided herself. I own the world.
She took a breath, puffed out her chest, and turned around.
His gorgeous grin momentarily made her knees weaken, but she braced herself and stuck out her hand. “Algernon,” she said as gruffly as she could manage.
“Massimo.” His warm handshake set her wings quivering again. He gestured to the other contestants. “Almost everyone is here, I think. Come, you have to meet them.”
He led her round the crowd as if she was an old friend of his whom he was introducing to other old friends of his. Not all of them were affable, and on no account would she remember all the names, but at least Massimo had given no sign of realising who she really was, and for now that was her only concern.
They ended their procession with three chefs who seemed a lot younger than the rest and stood to one side. Cemre instantly felt an affinity with their more reserved yet amiable demeanours. They lacked the visible conceit of many of the older competitors, some of whom spoke loudly of their culinary accomplishments while others glared suspiciously at each other.
“Tsytryn,” grunted the troll in the group. His rocky physique was sprinkled with patches of lichen, and even his moustache was moss. For a moment, Cemre felt she’d seen him before, but she knew the local restaurant staff and grocers too well to mistake him for one of them. Perhaps she was imagining things because of her own fear of discovery.
“He’s from Pyrizhky 4 ,” said Massimo excitedly. “Never have I cooked with someone from there. You will teach us the beetroot soup, no?”
Tsytryn grunted ambiguously, but Cemre did not sense animosity from him. Brevity was a common enough characteristic of people from the east of the continent.
“And this is Rhydian.” Massimo indicated a pale, delicately featured young man.
“Hi-ya, forgive me for not shaking hands,” explained Rhydian in a melodic Pwdin 5 6 accent. “I’m an asrai.”
“Not at all,” responded Cemre. Asrai hands, though cold and damp, burned the skin of humans like fire and left a mark, including those with some human blood. It had become a custom among them to simply avoid shaking hands with any vaguely humanoid creatures, lest there be a hint of human blood in their ancestry which would result in a nasty scalding.
Asrai also had an aversion to sunlight, turning to water if they came in contact with it. Cemre wondered how he’d gotten all the way here from Pwdin. She noted that he was careful to stand well away from the weak rays of sun cutting through the gloom, though they did not so much cut as gently nudge.
Massimo gestured to the last of the group, a short, more generously proportioned human with a round face and an aquiline nose. “Qhari,” he said. “From Ch’uya Chokolati 7 . I say the right way, no?”
Qhari nodded and made up for Rhydian’s lack of handshake with a vigorous pumping of Cemre’s hand that went on throughout his ensuing speech. “I’m so emotional to be here,” he gushed in a surprisingly soft voice.
“He means excited,” translated Rhydian matter-of-factly.
“I want to try everything,” Qhari gushed on, still pumping Cemre’s hand furiously. “I’m going to meet all your fruits and vegetables.”
“He means become acquainted with,” interjected Rhydian.
“We are all going to be so good friends. I know we can realize many wonderful things together.”
“Accomplish many wonderful things.”
Qhari finally released her hand and pressed his own to his hips, a broad smile on his burnt umber face. Tsytryn grunted, and Cemre caught his lip twitching beneath the moss moustache. Was he trying not to laugh?
Before she could investigate, a familiar voice called out, “Chefs! May I have your attention please.”
It was the lady from the auditions reception: Mrs. Dudley. The crowd of contestants formed a semi-circle around her. She held a clipboard and peered over her spectacles at each contestant from left to right, ticking off points on a page until she’d completed the semi-circle. Then she flipped the page over and smiled a neat smile that left her face as devoid of wrinkles as her black dress.
“Congratulations on being selected as one of the fifteen contestants in the debut production of Prime Chef. I’m Mrs. Dudley and I’ll provide all the information you need regarding the practical aspects of the competition.” She adjusted her glasses. “As you no doubt already know, you will be completing two challenges per day. Whomever places last in the final challenge will be eliminated. If you place first, you’ll get a fifteen-minute time advantage on the next day’s challenge. Second place gets ten minutes, and third place gets five. The contest begins on Fireday – tomorrow – at seven o’clock in the evening, but you must be backstage at twelve sharp for makeup and pre-production.”
“Pre-production?” Cemre whispered to Massimo, but he spread his hands in ignorance.
“There will be one round a day – made up of two challenges – until only three contestants are left,” continued Mrs. Dudley. “They will compete in the final for the grand prize. Now, if you’ll follow me.” Her skirt swished over the wooden floorboards as she spun around and clipped tidily down a passage leading off the wing.
The group of chefs fell in behind her, with Cemre and her new acquaintances bringing up the rear. Cemre struggled to maintain her sense of direction in the dingy back passages of the theatre, which seemed far too numerous to fit inside the building she’d seen from the outside.
“This is the practice kitchen,” said Mrs. Dudley, pushing open a door into a large room with a high ceiling.
Cemre guessed it must have been some kind of storage area for exceptionally large props or scenery. It had been set up with rows of cooking areas: fifteen porcelain stoves with counters beside them. At the back of the room were multiple ceramic sinks with taps for running water, not the usual pumps. Cemre had seen taps in the kitchens of newly built restaurants but never two per sink as these ones had. She wondered what the second tap was for.
Mrs. Dudley strode smartly over to one of the stoves. “This is the Magick Cook 1000. It runs entirely on gas.” She paused as a collective murmur went through the contestants. “It has four burners for which you can adjust the individual flames here.” She pushed down and turned one of the black switches, and with a clicking sound, one of the burners lit. As she moved the switch farther along its arc, the flame rose. She pointed to the switches farther down. “These control the grill element, the oven, and the warming compartment. On the left side is a tank for keeping water hot.”
Cemre’s mouth fell open as the chefs around her oohed and aahed. She’d never seen such advanced tecknology. To actually be able to control the flame instead of moving the pot around the heated surface or having to remove it completely to cool it? Unheard of.
Mrs. Dudley pointed at the ceiling, where Cemre noted a number of square grates in a grid pattern. “After the competition each day, an ice dragon will be manning the vents above this room until midnight. This ensures that heat and smoke is extracted from the room and safely filtered outside, while cold air is pumped into the room. Please do not cook in here after midnight. We do not want any fires or overheating equipment, and ice dragon overtime fees are extortionate.”
Mrs. Dudley moved to the back of the room. “Now the sinks.” She turned on the left tap. “Cold water.” She turned it off and turned on the right tap. “Hot water.” Another murmur went through the crowd. Not even the kitchens in the most expensive restaurants had this level of advanced tecknology.
Mrs. Dudley pointed to an array of large ice boxes, all porcelain rather than the traditional wood. “These are kept empty so that you have a place to put any dishes that need to be chilled or set. There is a freezer compartment, but only the main theatre has a blast chiller.”
Qhari nudged Tsytryn, who didn’t notice. Then he tugged on Tsytryn’s arm, which was more successful at gaining the rock creature’s attention. “What’s a blast chiller?” he asked.
Tsytryn shrugged, and Rydian and Massimo were similarly ignorant. Cemre was still gobsmacked by the freezer compartment. Was it possible to actually freeze items in an icebox? Without buckets and buckets of ice? When she’d helped Cook make ice cream for the wedding, they’d had to put the custard in a pewter pot, place that inside a bucket of ice and salt, and stir and stir until the ice cream was set. It had been a hot summer’s day, so the ice had to be refilled often until the dessert was served.
“We employ Yuki-Onnas to maintain the temperature of the ice boxes.” When some of the contestants gasped, she put up a placating hand. “Now, it’s a stereotype that a Yuki-Onna kills travellers with her icy breath.” She cleared her throat. “However, should a Yuki-Onna be present in the kitchen at the same time as you, we encourage you to give her plenty of space to do her work. And, ahem, avoid making eye contact.”
As if eager to change the subject, Mrs. Dudley hurried to a set of doors on one side of the room and swung them open. “This is the pantry. We keep a stock of basic ingredients inside.” She beckoned the chefs over to have a look.
Cemre struggled to keep her chin from hitting her chest. Fresh fruit and vegetables, including quite a few she didn’t recognize. Spices from all the continents, fresh herbs growing in planters, iceboxes of dairy and meat and fish and poultry – were those quail or pigeon? Eggs, grains, condiments. She didn’t know there were so many different types of potatoes.
Qhari was less impressed. “Where are all the potatoes? Solely three kinds? At home we have 3,000 kinds!”
“Where would they put them?” rumbled Tsytryn.
“Ah, there you have a point, my friend,” agreed Qhari. He sighed. “I will conform with what we have.”
“Make do,” translated Rhydian.
“How do you always know what he’s saying?” asked Cemre.
“Ah well, grew up with someone who spoke Espadrillian, y’see, which is what they speak over there in Ch’uya Chokolati. Speak a little myself, so I recognize the usual mistakes.”
On the wall opposite the pantry were racks stacked high with culinary equipment. The utensils were familiar, but Cemre didn’t recognize the more complicated contraptions. Fortunately, they were all labelled. As she perused the shelves, she was disappointed to find that nothing like Savvas’s gadgets were present. She knew he was unlikely to ever attempt to market his inventions, but she was certain he could make a fortune if he did.
“Ah yes,” said one of the human chefs, picking up an alien contraption with many cogs and handles. “We use this all the time in my kitchen.”
An elf chef waved at the other shelves. “We have all of these in my kitchen.”
Cemre gulped. She had a lot of catching up to do.
“We will visit the stage next,” announced Mrs. Dudley, and the contestants filed out after her.
“You have worked with those things before?” Massimo asked Cemre.
She shook her head. “Have you?”
“Some of them, but many are very strange to me.” He looked over his shoulder to Qhari and Rhydian. “What of you?”
“Oh no, butt, not me,” replied Rhydian.
Qhari’s cheeks squished up against his eyes. “Butt?”
“Ah, just a Pwdinsh thing, ye know,” said the asrai. “Means ‘my friend’.”
Qhari looked doubtful. “To the north of my country, where they are speaking Anglish also, it means something different. Something not polite.”
“Ah well, there’s Anglish and there’s Anglish,” said Rhydian lightly. “Don’t worry, butt, we’ll keep you on the right path.”
Mrs. Dudley led them onto the platform of the large main auditorium, which was set up in an almost identical layout to the practice kitchen, though there were only a few lights on. Cemre glanced into the gloom of the deserted seating area and shivered.
“As you can see, the stage has already been prepared for tomorrow. The pantry is over there.” Mrs. Dudley pointed to a small room at the back left of the stage. The walls were glass from the middle to the top so that the audience could see the shelves of produce inside. “It will not be re-filled during a challenge, so once an ingredient is used up, that’s it. Your benches are the same as the ones in the practice kitchen, with gas stoves and counterspace. Over there are the iceboxes and sinks. Because the sinks need to be portable, the water in the taps is limited, so bear that in mind during the show. You can find the equipment shelves over there. And finally, the blast chiller.”
The mysterious object looked exactly like a small icebox.
“It is not on currently because it is powered by the same ice dragon who will manage the ventilation during the show, and he’s only arriving later this afternoon,” explained Mrs. Dudley.
Qhari put up his hand. “What does it do?”
“If you have an item that needs to be chilled, set, or frozen in a short time, you can put it inside the blast chiller. Be careful, though – an ice cream can go from soft to rock-hard in a matter of minutes. Faster if the ice dragon has had any vodka.”
“Amazing.” Massimo laughed. “I would like one of these for my kitchen.”
“Me too,” agreed Cemre.
Mrs. Dudley pointed above the equipment at the back of the stage, and Cemre realised there was a large white curtain hanging there. It lay completely flat, though, with no creases or undulations.
“That is a screen. This production will utilize a new tecknology known as” – she pinched her thumb and forefinger together, punctuating each syllable with a flourish – ‘ci-ne-ma-tog-ra-phie.’”
“That’s a mouthful, and I’m from Pwdin 8 ,” joked Rhydian.
“Cameras shall be moved about the stage, capturing images of your actions, which will immediately be projected onto that screen in an enlarged form so that the audience may see you and your cooking more clearly.”
“How?” Tsytryn’s features did not give away much, but Cemre thought she saw an extra crevice in his forehead.
“I’ve no idea, sir,” replied Mrs. Dudley. “You’ll have to ask the tecknicians.” She indicated a giant railway clock hanging above them from a long arm connected to some kind of grid in the shadowy roof area. Instead of numbers one to twelve on the face, however, it began at zero and was marked in five-minute increments, up to fifty-five. “That is the master timer. Whatever amount of time you are given for a challenge, that clock will count it down. You also have smaller timers on your benches for timing your tasks. The judges will circulate during each challenge and observe your work. When the time is up, you will be called to present your dish at the tasting table over there.” She clomped across the stage and pointed to something on the floor. “Be sure to stand on this X so that the camera can get a clear view of your reactions to the judges’ comments.”
She consulted her clipboard. “Very good. Let’s move on to your accommodations.”
Back they traipsed down the maze passages, this time descending below the ground floor.
“The water closets are along there” – she indicated a hallway – “and you’ll find two bathing rooms with hot running water at the end, one for gentlemen and one for ladies. But of course, you won’t be needing the latter.” Mrs. Dudley met Cemre’s eye for a moment, giving her a terrible dread of having been found out, then marched onwards.
Even if the woman hadn’t guessed, how was Cemre supposed to bathe in a shared bathing room?
Mrs. Dudley halted at the end of the passage. “These are your rooms. There are three allotted to you, so you’ll be sharing five to a room.”
Five to a room? Cemre gulped. How would she get dressed – put on her disguise, that is – if she had to share a room with four other people?
Mrs. Dudley opened a door across the way. “Uniforms are in here. You should be able to find an appropriate fit from the selection on the gantry.” She flicked an almost imperceptible glance at Tsytryn. “But if you need alterations, please see the wardrobe mistress on level three.” She indicated some shelves lined with identical pairs of shoes in various sizes. “You are required to wear the steel-toed boots provided for safety reasons.”
She walked over to another set of shelves containing simple, entry-level cook’s hats. “You may not wear your personal toques during the competition. All contestants must wear these.”
“But these hats have no pleats!” complained an elf chef. “How will the judges know who has the most skill amongst us?”
“By the dishes you cook.” Mrs. Dudley said it as though he’d asked her how to tell if the sky was blue.
Grumbles about unfairness rolled through the ranks, though Cemre noted that none of her new friends joined the dissent.
“They only say unfair if removes their advantage,” said Tsytryn quietly, in the way that a mild earth tremor is quiet.
“You are right, my friend,” said Qhari, shaking his head sadly. “They say nothing of the unfairness that does not affect them.”
“You speak of how the judges did not accept female contestants?” said Massimo with a thread of anger in his voice. Qhari and Rhydian’s eyes grew big.
This was a dangerous conversation, and Cemre scraped the inside of her skull for a way to change the subject.
Mrs. Dudley came to her rescue. “Here are the rules of the competition.” She handed out sheets of paper. “Be sure to study them carefully. Breaking the rules will get you disqualified.” Once everyone had a copy, she pulled a sack from a hidden pocket in the folds of her skirt and held it open. “Please deposit all automatons here. They will be returned to you when you leave the competition.”
“Our automatons?” cried a human contestant. “You cannot take them from us. That’s outrageous.”
“Can’t have you looking up recipes or calling friends for advice,” countered Mrs. Dudley. “Nor may you inform anyone of what occurs here until after the grand final.”
“But there’ll be an audience every night, won’t there?” said a confused contestant. “Surely they’ll tell everyone outside the theatre what they’ve seen?”
“I do not make the rules,” replied Mrs. Dudley. “I simply enforce them. Now, if you please . . .” She jiggled the bag encouragingly.
All the contestants but Qhari and Cemre dropped their devices into the bag. Cemre didn’t own an automaton. They’d already been poor by the time the small brass gadgets became available, and she didn’t have anyone to call via the sylph network in any case – most of their so-called friends had cut them when they’d lost their fortune, while others had simply drifted away due to no longer moving in the same social circles. Cemre had heard people also used them to acquire information from some kind of invisible library that could only be seen with the automaton, but she had no idea how that could possibly be true.
“All of you must be present on the stage at 5 o’clock sharp tonight, dressed in your uniforms,” said Mrs. Dudley. “The judges will address you there. You may use the intervening hours to unpack and to familiarize yourselves with the rules. You may also make use of the practice kitchen, but make sure you are on that stage by 5 o’clock on the dot.” She gave them a serious stare over her spectacles, then slipped away down the wooden passage, the clack of her heels echoing behind her.
Qhari immediately pushed into one of the rooms and from inside said, “Shall we room together, my friends?”
Tsytryn nodded grimly, and Rhydian and Massimo chorused ‘yes’ and stepped inside.
“Algernon?” asked Qhari, holding the door open.
Cemre was slow to respond, but after a brief glance at the other ten contestants, who seemed a lot more confident and snootier than her small group, she decided it was for the best to stick with these friendlier cooks.
Massimo poked his head out the door and smiled broadly at her. Suddenly Cemre was filled with flutters, and her wings tried desperately to act them out. “Wh-where are our bags?” she stammered, eyes searching the passage but not actually seeing anything.
A large stone hand pointed to a spot in the passage where there was a slight alcove, in which all their luggage had been piled up. Everyone but Rhydian moved to grab their things; he stood inside the doorway with his arms crossed.
“I’ll hold the room,” he murmured with a thread of unexpected fierceness, and the two contestants peering hopefully inside scuttled away.
When Cemre finally found her bag and entered the room, she felt a wave of relief. There were bunks built into three of the walls, each with a curtain that could be pulled all the way across, a bit like the new steam engines had in the smarter compartments. Not that Cemre had ever been on one, but she’d seen illustrations in discarded newspapers. At least she’d be able to sleep without worrying about anyone seeing her. And maybe she could get dressed in there too?
Massimo, Qhari, and Rhydian picked bunks, but Tsytryn stood in the middle of the room forlornly regarding an empty one.
“What is the matter?” Cemre asked him.
He simply pointed to the bunk and then to himself, and Cemre saw the problem. He was far too tall and wide to fit.
“Oh dear,” said Cemre.
Massimo bounced over. “There is a problem?” He looked at the bunk. “Oh.” Then his brow bounced up and he smiled. “Is all right, we can fix this.” He pulled his things from the bunk he’d selected on the farthest wall from the door and dropped them next to the set of bunks on the adjoining wall. Then he pulled the mattresses from two empty bunks, the blankets and pillows spilling off with them, and laid them next to each other on the floor. “Like that,” he said with a broad grin, dusting his hands against each other. Then he gathered the blankets and pillows together on top of the mattresses.
With the speed of a boulder being worn down to a pebble, Tsytryn’s mouth turned up at the corners. “Thank you,” he rumbled and began the long journey down to the floor level. “Very comfortable,” he said, patting the mattress.
Satisfied that Tsytryn was taken care of, Cemre turned to see which bunk she could move into.
She blenched. Qhari and Rhydian had chosen the top and bottom of one set of bunks. Which meant the only remaining bunk was the one below Massimo.
“You are my neighbour!” grinned Massimo. “I hope you do not snore.”
Cemre’s brow crinkled. “I don’t know if—”
“I joke!” he laughed. Then he leaned his head in toward her conspiratorially. “My brother say I snore very loud. I apologize in advance. But you can put the pillow over my head if it wakes you.” He winked, then sprinted up the ladder to his bunk and began rummaging around.
Both a giggle and a confused cough popped out of Cemre.
Massimo stopped his rummaging and swung round to look back at her from the top of the ladder, hanging from it with one arm like an orangutan. “You are happy with the bottom bunk? You don’t want the top? We can switch.” Before she could answer, he already had a bundle of his things under one arm.
“No, no!” She put up her hands. “The bottom bunk is fine.”
“But you have to have your preference. You are the la—” He coughed and seemed momentarily muddled. “You are the last to choose because you help everyone. So I want for you to be comfortable.”
“Truly,” she said, “I prefer the lower bunk. Please stay where you are.”
His mischievous grin returned, and he straightened the arm hanging on to the ladder, letting himself swing. “Of course. I stay right here.”
Cemre laughed, far too high-pitched for a man, and she quickly toned it down to a gruff chuckle. When Massimo continued to dangle from the ladder, his body becoming looser and swinging more wildly, she sputtered between gurgles of laughter, “Oh, up with you! Or I’ll have to report a monkey loose in our room.”
Massimo vaulted into his bunk with a very ape-like hoot. His face peeked over the side. “You have some bananas?”
Cemre threw her pillow at him, and he disappeared back into his bunk, chortling away.
With Massimo occupied, she supposed that was her opportunity to get her things ready. She climbed into her bunk and carefully turned her back on the others, though they all seemed occupied with unpacking their own things and placing them in the cabinets under and above each set of bunks.
There was a small cubbyhole in the back wall of the bunk, and Cemre quickly put her box of glue and spare moustaches in there, along with a mirror, a clean chest bandage, and a clean cap.
She wasn’t sure how she’d get the rest of the uniform on – there wasn’t any more space inside the bunk. She’d have to lay her clothes out on top of the blankets each night, or perhaps she could sneak out before anyone else was awake and change in the water closet? There’d be a handwash basin in there, and she was used to washing herself from a basin. The fuel required to heat a whole tub of water for a bath was expensive, so her family had to make do unless they were using the fuel for warmth anyway.
A crash jerked her head round to the centre of the room.
“Scusi.” Massimo wore a sheepish expression. “I thought jumping down is faster.”
Cemre giggled and shook her head. A sensation of weightlessness tickled her wings.
“At least Tsytryn didn’t try that,” said Rhydian with a snicker. “There’d be a hole in the floor.”
“We fill it with water,” deadpanned Tsytryn as he lay on his mattresses, hands clasped over his chest, and stared at the ceiling. “So you feel at home.”
Rhydian guffawed at that, and Qhari and Massimo added to the general sounds of mirth.
“What about you, Qhari?” asked Massimo. “What do you need to feel at home?”
Qhari considered this with a finger on his chin. Finally, he raised the finger in the air and said, “Volcanos.”
“Volcanos!” blurted Cemre in disbelief. “How? Why?”
“Where I come from, there are volcanos all around,” explained the little Ch’uyachokolatian. “My village is very high up in the mountains, and from the main square, you can see the peaks of three volcanos.”
“You have cherufe 9 , then?” asked Rhydian.
“Yes, but so long as we don’t throw any people into their homes, they leave us alone. Sometimes they smoke, though.”
“I smoke too,” rumbled Tsytryn. “Give me chilli peppers or peppercorns and I show you.”
“And you, Algernon? Do you want a volcano in the room? A pond?”
For a brief moment, Cemre didn’t realise Rhydian was talking to her. She really had to get used to responding to that name. “Um. Well, my mother was from—” She stopped just in time. Massimo knew her mother was from Currigalore. Saying that now would be as bad as ripping off her moustache and yelling “I’m a girl!” . “Erm . . . a place with a lot of orange trees. So perhaps an orange tree?”
“Orange you glad we don’t have to share beds?” joked Rhydian. “I apologize; that was frightful.”
Qhari and Tsytryn looked confused, but Massimo laughed as though it was the funniest joke he’d ever heard. Cemre wished she could hear the joyful ringing of his clear tenor on a daily basis. It sent shivers across her wings.
Rhydian grinned. “Well, if I knew I’d have you for an audience every night, I’d take the stage as a comedian, and that’s a fact.”
“Speaking of stages,” said Cemre, “we have two hours before we have to be on ours to meet the judges. I’d like to spend some time in the practice kitchen. It might help to familiarize ourselves with the stoves and other equipment.”
“This is a good idea,” agreed Massimo.
Rhydian nodded, hands on his hips. “Aye, I’ll give it a go.”
Tsytryn grumbled and began the long journey to his feet.
“My friend,” said Qhari, “I would offer to help you up, but I think this would end in both of us on the floor.”
“And one of you missing an arm,” added Rhydian.
1. “Corps” means “body” in Quellebaguettien – the language in which most ballet terms originated – and as a significant number of early ballets ended in everyone being dead, it seemed an appropriate name for the bulk of the cast.
2. Lit. The Poorly Garnished Girl OR The Poorly Equipped Girl, a comic ballet presented in two acts, centred around a young girl who prefers dancing with ribbons to listening to her mother.
3. Lit. carriage of the arms . Exercises for refining arm movements in ballet.
4. Pyrizhky, a country on the far east side of the continent, known for the world’s strongest distilled spirits, the world’s longest wind instrument, and the world’s highest number of alcohol-related injuries involving long wind instruments.
5. Pwdin, a country on the same island as Angleland, known for having more sheep than people, cheese on toast, and extraordinarily long place names 23 .
6. When the written word came to Pwdin, the monks transcribing Pwdinsh were baffled by its unusual sounds, which they had never encountered in any other language. They made up for this by substituting consonants that weren’t used much elsewhere, as well as doubling up on other consonants to create new sounds. Which is why the town name llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch exists.
7. A country to the far southwest of the Anglish Empire, known for high-quality coffee and chocolate, ancient cities built on extremely high mountains, high lakes, and even higher volcanos.
8. See earlier footnote re: Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch.
9. Magma monsters that dwell beneath volcanos and are often mistakenly thought to require living sacrifices in exchange for preventing eruptions. In reality, eruptions are caused by indigestion, and nothing gives a cherufe worse indigestion than unexpected guests.