7. Chapter 7
Chapter 7
“ E leven o’ the morning and all’s well,” bellowed the knocker-upper from the passageway, alongside a clanging like two saucepans being banged together. Cemre scowled to herself and rolled over in bed. Why couldn’t he tap on the window like a regular knocker-upper? She promptly recalled that where she was, in the bowels of the theatre, there were no windows. She supposed she had to applaud his resourcefulness, then.
Wait, eleven o’clock? She jolted upright. How had she slept so late? She supposed they had spent rather a long time in the practice kitchen the previous night, and she had no idea what time they’d actually gone to bed.
She checked that her bed curtains were still tightly shut. Assured that she was safe from the eyes of her roommates, she carefully put on her disguise in the dim light of her pocket lantern. She could hear their movements as they readied themselves, the dull thud of footsteps and the shuffling of clothes being donned, but there wasn’t a peep from the bunk above her. Had Massimo already risen? He’d seemed to struggle to go to sleep after everyone had turned in. Cemre had woken once or twice to the creak of his weight on the ladder or the scrape of some personal possession being shifted in his bunk’s cubbyhole.
After first peeking out the tiny slit in the drapes she made with two fingers, she gathered her courage and slipped out of the bunk. Her roommates exchanged drowsy greetings with her, but when she looked up, she found Massimo’s curtains still closed. Had he simply left them like that after getting up? Surely he couldn’t have missed the racket of the knocker-upper?
If he was still in there, though, and she let him oversleep and miss the first day of the competition, she’d feel awful.
She tapped on the edge of his bunk with her knuckle. “Massimo?” Was that a muffled grunt she heard? She tapped a little louder. “Massimo? Are you awake?”
The padded swishing of blankets shifting preceded the twitching open of the bed curtains. A bleary-eyed Massimo with adorably ruffled hair blinked at her. “Que?” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Pardon?”
“Sorry,” she hurried to say – he looked so dreadfully tired, “but it’s past time to get up, you see, and we have to be backstage in a few minutes.”
Massimo’s eyelids sprang wide. “Porca miseria!” He scrambled out and over his tangled bedding and skidded down the ladder. Hands clutching his hair, he darted his eyes around the room as though he didn’t know where to go.
Cemre tried not to look at his bare chest. She pointed to his bag in the corner of the room. “Perhaps you should dress?”
Rhydian held his stomach as he laughed too hard to make a sound, while Qhari gaped at the poor Cantuccinian scrabbling in his bag like a dog after a mole.
Cemre took the opportunity to duck out to the lavatory and complete her toilet. When she returned to the room, everyone but Massimo was loitering at the entrance.
“We go together,” said Tsytryn with the finality of a boulder in the road.
As the minutes ticked by with no sign of Massimo and tension gradually quieted the pleasant chatter of the group, Cemre’s stomach tied itself in tighter and tighter knots.
“Perhaps we should remind him of the time?” she suggested, wondering what excuse to use to convince one of the others to enter the bathing chamber instead of her, the person who’d suggested the endeavour.
After nods of acquiescence, the group moved as one to the bathing chambers and lavatories. A knot loosened in Cemre’s middle at the sound of loud, watery singing in Cantuccinian. There was no doubt which room he was in. She glanced at her friends, but they all seemed to be occupied with looking at invisible objects in quite different directions to her face, so she sucked in a breath and pounded on the door.
The singing halted, and Cemre quickly yelled in as gruff a voice as she could manage, “Massimo! It’s time to go!”
She couldn’t make out the string of harshly uttered syllables that followed, but she likely wouldn’t have understood them anyway, and a moment later, Massimo was ploughing out the door and directly into her.
“Scuzi!” he yelped, catching her by the shoulders so as not to knock her over. His hair was wet, and a droplet of water slid down his cheek. “We go there direct, si?”
Cemre felt the loss of warmth as his hands left her shoulders to comb back his hair and shove on his cap.
“Your bag?” asked Tsytryn.
“I leave it here and fetch it later. Come, we go!” Massimo rushed ahead of them, pausing to wave his arm at them as though they were the ones who were lingering. “Sbrigati!”
Rhydian was laughing again, but Qhari just shook his head slowly in disbelief. “He has a different clock inside, that one.”
Backstage buzzed like a beehive. Pixies scampered every which way, shoving equipment and contestants in various directions, calling unintelligible instructions to one another. Cemre found herself and her friends shuffled to a set of benches in a corner. And then they waited.
For hours.
At least there was a table of refreshments available, but Cemre wondered aloud why they had to be there so early.
“Today’s just to get you in the habit,” explained a pixie who was queuing for the tea urn with her. “Tomorrow you’ll see why.” He filled his cup and scuttled away without elaborating.
About an hour before the performance was due to begin, Cemre was caught by a pixie claw and tugged toward a dressing table against a wall, then pushed into a chair facing the mirror. A different pixie with multi-coloured hair and paint on its face climbed a step stool and began dusting Cemre with white powder. She sneezed.
“Sorry, love,” squeaked the pixie. “Got to make sure you don’t shine up there on the screen. Makes for a frightful close-up.”
Powdered to the pixie’s satisfaction, Cemre was again dragged through the backstage chaos and positioned beside the other waiting contestants behind the left-hand-side wings.
A “what ho!” drew her attention to the approaching centauress. “Ready for your grand performance?” Hyounhie asked jovially. “Quite the crowd out there, all excited to see you, old fruit.”
“Oh?” was all Cemre managed, wings trembling and perspiration collecting beneath her figure-flattening bandage.
“Oh yes,” said the centauress. “Should’ve seen the queues outside. The Pittites have been there since crack of dawn. They had to have the Constabulary out to keep people in line. The buskers filled their caps with coppers, entertaining the waiting throng.”
“Pittites?” Cemre’s eyes struggled to focus on Hyounhie, bangs and shouts and squeaking wheels tearing her attention this way and that.
“The ones who sit in the pit, there at the back, behind the stalls. Seats aren’t reserved there – have to be front of the queue to get the best. It’s absolutely packed. Come have a look.” Hyounhie led her to just in front of one of the wings. “Through there.” She pointed to what seemed to be a solid, slatted-wood wall, but when Cemre followed Hyounhie’s finger, she noticed a narrow gap between two slats that allowed her to see out into the audience.
Unlike the previous night when only the stage had been lit and the rest shrouded in darkness, the auditorium was now flooded with light from a carriage-sized, five-tiered, golden chandelier dangling from the domed roof. The top tier of sparkling gas lights lit up the intricately illustrated ceiling, painted with frolicking characters dressed mostly in wisps of loose fabric. Gold gilded the mouldings that segmented the dome.
“That’s the godes,” said Hyounhie from above Cemre. “Up there where you’re looking. On account of being so close to the paintings. Some call it ‘paradise.’ Funny how that’s the cheapest seating – half the price of the pit. But I suppose five storeys is a lot of stairs. The oofy of society sit in the bottom gallery – they call it the dress circle on account of how evening dress is required for entry.”
And those filing into the area had certainly gone all out. Cemre’s breath caught at all the shimmering gems and iridescent gauze and gleaming satin swishing into the plush scarlet seating, accompanied by starched white shirts and sleek black evening suits. The section behind stood in stark contrast – backless wooden benches filling up with patrons dressed in smart but cheaply made outfits. They jostled one another good-humouredly, shouting and waving to their friends in other rows. Every now and then, a dress circle guest shot a dirty look in their direction.
“The oofiest of oofs have their own balconies, of course,” continued Hyounhie. “That one on the left, practically on the stage, is the royal box.”
The box Hyounhie indicated was draped with crimson curtains, which were currently closed. Purple velvet swathed the front of the box, parting to reveal the initials V.B. in raised gold lettering. Valeria Berenice, thought Cemre, the full name of the queen. Would she be attending tonight? Surely she wouldn’t be interested in a lowly cooking competition.
“What are you doing?” a voice whispered in Cemre’s ear.
She jumped away from the crack like a child caught with their fingers in the ice box.
Massimo grinned at her, hands behind his back and butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth innocence spread over his face. Rhydian, Qhari, and Tsytryn loitered behind him.
“See for yourself,” said Cemre, and Massimo bent to peer through the gap.
“Ah, so many people!” he exclaimed joyfully. “It is filled to the ceiling, yes?”
Qhari gulped as he took a gander. “They will all be watching us.”
“It’s exciting, yes?” Massimo bounced on his toes. “I cannot wait to start cooking.”
When Hyounhie repeated her tour for the others and pointed out the queen’s box, Qhari’s nut-brown skin turned grey. “The queen? The queen will be here tonight?”
“Who, Queen Valeria?” asked Rhydian.
“Of course, old thing,” said Hyounhie. “What other queen would it be?”
“Actually, there is another queen in Wenn right now,” pointed out Cemre. “The queen of Cantuccini.”
Massimo, who had been bobbing circles around the group, froze. He began to speak, choked, coughed into his hand, then tried again. “You believe she will attend?”
“I really couldn’t say,” said Cemre, wondering why that of all things had brought on the nerves for him. Although, as a native Cantuccinian, she supposed it made sense that he would be somewhat anxious about performing before his own royal family.
“Likely won’t know for sure until you’re on stage,” said Hyounhie. “They’ll only open the curtains of the queen’s balcony then. So she doesn’t have to be gawked at while they wait.”
“One minute to curtain,” boomed the stage manager, a large pixie with a pocket watch the size of a tomato in his palm.
“Right-ho, you lot better toddle off to your positions, if you don’t want to be in the soup,” said Hyounhie, tossing her head as she shooed them away. “Break a leg!”
“That seems very unkind,” mumbled Qhari, looking stricken as they lined up behind the other contestants waiting to go on.
“Stage term,” explained Rhydian. “Means good luck.”
“How is it that breaking a leg can be good lu—”
“Ten seconds!” yelled the stage manager.
Cemre’s heart performed complicated circus tricks in her chest, swinging from rib to rib like a trapeze artist and tumbling through the air.
Something must have signalled to the theatregoers that the show was about to start, for the hubbub of conversation and creaking chairs suddenly died down.
Then the curtain lifted, and the audience burst into applause as the first of the contestants marched onto the stage.
“If you break your leg, how can you—”
“You’re up, butt.” Rhydian shoved the little man forward, following close after.
“You will be fine,” Massimo whispered into Cemre’s ear from behind her, and with a shiver, she walked onstage.
The glaring footlights pierced her eyes and made it near impossible to see where she was going, but somehow she managed to follow the white of Rhydian’s back to line up in front of the cooking benches, facing the auditorium. The chandelier had been dimmed, so she could see nothing of the audience, but the clamour of their clapping and whistling filled her ears until her head wanted to explode. Too much light, too much sound – and they hadn’t even started cooking yet!
At least the ice dragon was blasting at full power; the bracing airflow chilled the sweat on the back of her neck, and she wished she could take off her chef’s jacket and cool off the rest of her. She clasped her hands behind her back to keep them from fanning herself or flapping her collar. Everyone was watching now.
The applause swelled as the three judges and Chef Santini entered and strode in front of the line of contestants to the centre of the stage. Cemre caught a glimpse of a waving stick in the orchestra pit, and suddenly music filled the theatre, silencing the applause and bringing the entire audience to their feet. With a start, Cemre realized the song was All Hail the Queen . She shot a glance at the royal box and saw that it was lit by a spotlight and the curtains were parting.
Queen Valeria sat at the front of the box, bedecked in emerald-green silk and . . . well, probably real emeralds. Cemre tried not to stare, but she couldn’t help being drawn in by the mischievous tilt of the queen’s smile as the entire theatre sang about her, though she lacked nothing in dignity and poise. Her presence filled the entire box, despite the fact that a number of figures stood behind her, including Prince Albrecht. How nice to be so entirely sure of one’s place in the world, with not a doubt that one was doing exactly what one was meant to be doing. Cemre’s shoulders sagged a tiny bit.
“Well?” murmured Massimo through the chorus, trying to surreptitiously peek around Mr. Ogleby, who partially blocked his view of the box. “Is it Queen Valeria alone? Or did the other royals come as well?”
“I don’t see anyone else,” Cemre whispered back out of the side of her mouth. “Besides her husband, of course. And her attendants. Six of them, I think.”
Massimo blew out a puff of air, and the song came to an end.
There was a blinding flash from just in front of the orchestra pit, and once again, Cemre’s vision went white. As her eyes adjusted, she caught the last wisps of smoke from the flash powder explosion of the photographer who’d just captured their image for posterity. Would that picture be in the newspaper tomorrow? Would her family get to see it? She wished they were in the audience now, though she’d likely not be able to see them even if they were.
Sir Beckwith-Parsons stepped forward. “Welcome to the very first performance of Prime Chef!”
The crowd roared with cheers and applause.
Encouraged, Sir Beckwith-Parsons began a long and pompous welcome speech, likely even more pompous due to the presence of the queen.
“He doesn’t half ramble on, does he?” muttered Rhydian on Cemre’s other side.
A glint of metal drew Cemre’s gaze back to the royal box. The queen had raised a pair of silver opera glasses to her eyes and appeared to be looking directly at Cemre.
Cemre’s wings went berserk beneath the restricting bandage. She worried that she hadn’t tied it tight enough and they’d escape and give her away. She forced her eyes forward to the indefinable gloom of the galleries. Calm thoughts. Chamomile. Toast with butter. Butternut soup.
Massimo was bouncing again beside her, and his excitement chased away some of her nerves and replaced them with a similar enthusiasm to get started.
Finally, Mr. Ogleby stepped forward as a pixie stagehand rolled up a pedestal on wheels with a single brass cloche atop it.
“For this first round,” explained Mr. Ogleby, “the contestants must make a dish featuring this ingredient.” He lifted the brass dome with a flourish. Beneath it perched a perfect orange pumpkin the size of a side plate.
“Ugh, how pedestrian,” grumbled one of the human chefs beside Qhari. “You’d think they’d choose something more elegant for a competition like this.”
A thrill of pleasant anticipation zipped through Cemre’s wings. Pumpkin. She’d cooked it plenty of times. Her mind spun with ideas – a roasted slice of pumpkin, some toasted pine nuts, some kind of sticky salty sauce to counteract the sweetness.
“You have sixty minutes. Your time starts . . . now!” Mr. Bronson smashed a small gong, and the orchestra struck up a jaunty high-speed tune as the crowd cheered. The clock above the stage began ticking loud enough to be heard above all the other noise.
All the contestants rushed to the pantry and grabbed the wicker shopping baskets stacked at the entrance. They bumped into each other as they scrambled for the ingredients they wanted – not that there seemed to be a shortage of anything. Cemre nearly got knocked over by a very tall and gangly elf. She cowered in a corner of the pantry, scared to attempt battle with any of the more aggressive shoppers.
Then Massimo sprinted over to her. “With me,” he said, indicating his side. She moved next to him, their baskets on their outer arms, and together they moved from shelf to shelf. When a rude chef tried to elbow his way between them, Tsytryn took up the rear guard, and the three friends continued to select their ingredients in peace.
Once they had what they needed, they rushed to their benches – except Tsytryn, who strolled in the most sedate of manners and still got there before them.
Cemre unpacked her basket: pumpkin, honey, pine nuts, yoghurt, garlic, lemons. She immediately got to peeling and cutting the pumpkin so it could go into the oven. They had an hour. She just needed to plan her time carefully and she could pull off something really tasty.
More photographic light flashed at the front of the stage, and spotlights began dancing from one contestant or judge to the next. The sheer number of lights blazing from every side of the stage and hanging at every angle from the ceiling made Cemre feel she was out at noon on a blistering hot midsummer’s day, in the full glare of the sun.
“What you are making?” asked Massimo from the bench beside her.
“Roasted pumpkin with a honey glaze and a yoghurt and lemon sauce. You?”
“Pasta, of course!” His bench was already covered in ingredients. “I make the pumpkin ravioli with a tomato sauce, chilli sauce on the side, some garlic bruschetta, and maybe the salad.”
Cemre gaped. “All of that in sixty minutes?”
Massimo’s grin was full of laughter, and he shrugged with his hands in the air. “Well, we see, yes?”
His cheer was infectious, and she smiled to herself as she slid her glazed pumpkin into the oven and began working on her sauce.
She couldn’t help looking around at what the other chefs were doing, and if her wings had been free, they would have drooped. Some were expertly breaking down fowl or rabbit while others chopped vegetables so fast, their hands and knives were a blur. She saw jars and jars of spices, many she’d never even heard of, elaborate combinations of seafood she’d certainly never tasted.
She wiped her arm across her forehead. Having all the stoves on at once was quickly heating up the place. She couldn’t imagine how stifling it would be without the ice dragon perched in the rafters.
The vast array of scents was beginning to confuse her too. Sugar, fried meat, coriander, vanilla, roasting onions, raw fish, citrus, rosewater permeated the atmosphere, and Cemre struggled to block them out and isolate the taste and smell of her sauce.
The orchestra music took a sudden turn into a gloomy, melancholic phrase, and the crowd aahed ominously.
Cemre looked up and around, puzzled, and Massimo jutted a thumb over his shoulder.
“Burnt pumpkin in the back row,” he explained.
The music shifted back to its fast-paced, lively theme, and Cemre tried to return her attention to her sauce.
“Well, Mr. Ashburn.” Sir Beckwith-Parsons’ booming voice made Cemre jolt and nearly fling her mixing bowl into the air. “What do we have here?” He and Mr. Ogleby stood on the other side of her bench, eyeing her elements and clasping spoons in their hands.
Cemre licked her lips. “It’s um . . . I’m—”
A pixie holding a mirror taller than himself stood beside the judges, dazzling Cemre with reflected light and heat.
“Speak up, sir!” barked Mr. Ogleby, and he pointed above her head, where there appeared to be a dead fox pegged to the end of a broomstick.
When she continued to gawk at the thing open-mouthed, Mr. Ogleby stage-whispered, “It’s a broom megalophone – so the audience can hear you.”
The broomstick lowered slightly, and Cemre got a closer look. It wasn’t actually a dead fox, she realized, only a bundle of fur. She’d no idea how that could possibly make her voice louder, but there were a lot of things about this production she didn’t understand, so she leaned forward and spoke into the pelt.
“I’m . . . er . . . roasting, um” – the echo of the megalophone brought her words back with a second’s delay, confusing her – “uh . . . roasting a pumpkin slice with a honey glaze and making a yoghurt sauce to go with it.”
Sir Beckwith-Parsons wrinkled his nose. “Bit simple, don’t yer think?” The orchestra struck a dire chord.
Cemre tried to look at the judges and was once again blinded by the mirrors, which had multiplied and now stood at careful angles around the first one. A limelight heated her from above.
“Mm, this isn’t a cozy family dinner,” added Mr. Ogleby with a sniff. “This is Prime Chef!”
Cemre’s eyes darted to the image of herself projected on the giant screen, and her jaw dangled, then she hauled her eyes back to the judges. “Well, I was going to toast some pine nuts—”
“You’ll have to do a good deal more than toasted pine nuts to impress us,” snorted Sir Beckwith-Parsons and began walking away. Mr. Ogleby and the mirror-laden pixies trailed after him. Chef Santini and Mr. Bronson must have been occupied at another bench.
Cemre’s lungs tightened until she could barely get a breath in. Too simple, too simple . . . What else could she do to make it fancy enough for the judges? The clock’s ticking thudded inside her skull, louder than the raucous crowd or whoever was speaking over the megalophone.
It took a moment for the sound of someone calling her name – her male name – to pierce through the fog.
It was Massimo. “You are all right? You stopped cooking.”
Cemre looked down at her hands, which, though holding a spoon and bowl, had ceased all movement. “They said my dish is too simple. I don’t know what to do.”
“Wait, I taste.” Massimo grabbed a teaspoon from her bench and sampled her glaze and her yoghurt sauce. He closed his eyes and sucked in his cheeks. “Ah! I have it. You have sumac?”
“Soo-mak?” What language was he speaking? Cemre had never heard the word.
“Yes. Wait.” Massimo rifled through the stack of spice sachets on his bench. “Here. A little of that in the yoghurt – it will add the depth. And then use the fresh coriander leaves when you serve.”
“That’s all?”
“The flavour is . . .” He kissed the tips of his fingers. “You only need to add complexity. But” – an admonitory finger was raised – “no more elements.”
“Thank you,” she said wholeheartedly, and she added the sumac one tiny pinch at a time, tasting in between. The citrus in the sauce exploded and took on multiple layers in her mouth.
Her sauce completed and her nuts toasted, she basted the pumpkin slice again, then looked around to see what else needed doing.
Massimo swore. He’d knocked over a canister of olive oil. Cemre rushed over with kitchen cloths and began damming up the spill, then dabbing it off the counter. There were items everywhere: spoons, knives, chopping boards, trays and bowls and plates, and coating everything, a fine layer of flour. Massimo chewed his lip as he darted from one end of the bench to the other, picking up items and setting them back down, not seeming to know what he needed to do next.
“Massimo,” Cemre said in the same firm but kind tone she used when Rubella was building towers with her schoolbooks instead of studying, “is your sauce ready?”
“Uh, yes, but I need to balance it, and I have to roll out the pasta, and there are the condiments . . .” He began whisking something in a small steel bowl.
Cemre stopped his movement with a gentle hand. “The pasta is your speciality. Let’s make sure that is ready first.”
“And the filling—”
“Is it ready?”
“First I have to taste it.”
“All right, you taste the filling and make sure it’s ready, and I’ll clear a space to roll out the pasta.” She made sure he looked her in the eye. “All right?”
His gaze darted round but finally met hers, and he breathed out a sigh. “All right.” He moved to his filling and tasted it, then began adjusting the seasoning.
Cemre quickly stacked superfluous items into a shopping basket and shoved it under the bench. Then she wiped down the counter and sprinkled it with flour, as Massimo had taught her before. Her moustache was so dreadfully itchy and she was dying to scratch it, but she couldn’t risk knocking it off. Behind an unexplained pineapple, she found Massimo’s dough under a dish cloth and began rolling it out. By that time, Massimo had brought over the filling.
“You are more skilled with the pasta machine,” she said, moving out of his way, “so you make your ravioli while I check the sauce.”
Massimo caught her arm, leaving a handprint of flour on it. “Wait! What of your dish?”
“It’s almost ready.” She glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes. If Massimo didn’t get his ravioli made in the next five minutes, they wouldn’t cook in time to be served. Her pumpkin was probably all right.
She tasted Massimo’s sauce – delicious, so she took it off the heat and got a pot of boiling water going, using the heated tank on the side of the stove to give it a head start. Then she cleared everything from the counter but the salt, pepper, olive oil, cooking spoons, and a serving plate and stashed them under the bench.
The orchestra was speeding up the background melody. Cemre didn’t want to, but she looked up. Five minutes. Massimo was dropping his ravioli into the boiling water. He would make it.
She dashed over to her bench, wiping away sweat as she did so, and checked on her pumpkin slice. A hint of smoke hit her as she opened the oven door, but her heart leapt when she saw the slight char along the top rim of the slice. The honey would be caramelized, with a slight bitterness to counteract all the sweetness.
She plated it up as prettily as she could, trying not to notice the extravagant creations on the benches in front of her. Her pumpkin was drizzled with the lovely, fresh, citrusy yoghurt sauce and scattered with pine nuts and fresh coriander leaves. As the audience joined in the ten-second countdown, she glanced over at Massimo’s bench. He’d plated his ravioli, but instead of ladling over the sauce, he was fumbling with the bowl of relish she’d unsuccessfully hidden from him.
“Massimo!” she yelled. “Sauce!”
He looked up and then rushed to grab his sauce, just dolloping a second generous helping onto the pasta as the countdown ended.
“Tools down!” shouted Mr. Bronson.
The orchestra struck a triumphant chord, then silenced.
Massimo bounded over and hugged her, then kissed her on both cheeks, which caused them to flood with heat. “We did it!” He peered at her dish and gasped. “It looks amazing!” Then he glanced over her shoulder and beamed. “Qhari, my friend!” And he was hugging the shorter cook and then a surprised human cook at the bench beside his.
Cemre folded her hands behind her to stop them from flying to the location of Massimo’s kiss and tried to restrain her quivering wings.
“Contestants, you will bring your dish to the front when you are called,” announced Sir Beckwith-Parsons. “The first dish we would like to taste belongs to . . . Mr. Kemp!”
One of the human chefs – with a nose held so high in the air Cemre didn’t know how he could see where he was walking – strode forward with an elaborately decorated plate in one hand and a sauce jug in the other.
The judges cooed over his complex creation, and Cemre’s heart sunk a few storeys.
Not all the elf and human contestants did well, with some getting high praise and others scathing criticisms, as well as the odd rotten tomato hurled from the Pit. The dispatchers of the latter were sternly warned off by the judges, and the few Constabulary present for crowd control attempted to identify the culprits for removal, but short of patting down the entire Pit audience, it was an impossible task.
With the stoves all switched off and the ice dragon working hard, Cemre started to feel some relief from the oppressive heat, though the dried sweat under her bindings would begin to itch soon, she knew.
The chefs seemed perplexed by Qhari’s dish, Locro de Zapallo, a traditional pumpkin stew from his homeland. He explained that they didn’t have the local herbs he would usually put in it, so he’d substituted with an inventive combination of mint, anise, chilli, and bay leaf, but this did not impress them, and eventually they decided that they didn’t like it, even though Chef Santini praised Qhari for cooking a dish close to his heart. Cemre wanted to cry at the poor dejected chef’s slumped shoulders and funereal walk back to his bench.
Massimo got rave reviews. Cemre smiled, feeling proud of him for finishing in time. She wasn’t surprised they loved his food – she’d tasted it, and his flavours were wonderfully complex but comforting, like eating one of his warm hugs. And he’d trained under Chef Santini himself, so how could he possibly fail?
“Mr. Ashburn,” called Mr. Bronson.
Heart pounding and wings feeling covered in a thousand fire ants, she walked her plate up to the judges. She placed it on the wooden table before them, then carefully stood on the X marked on the floor. The limelight focused on her, making her feel hotter than even the ovens had.
The judges eyed her dish with pursed lips and furrowed brows.
“What have you cooked us?” asked Mr. Bronson.
Hadn’t she told them that already? It had been broadcast to the big screen too.
The broom megalophone nearly smacked Cemre in the face as she turned to speak into it. “It’s a honey-roasted pumpkin slice with a coriander and sumac yoghurt sauce.”
The judges each took a fork-ful of the dish.
Sir Beckwith-Parsons was the first to drop his fork to the plate with a jarring clatter. The orchestra switched to a minor key, and Cemre braced herself.
“It has no cachet,” he said brusquely, “nothing to distinguish it from any other Thunderday night supper.”
“Mmm,” said Mr. Ogleby, and the orchestra began a descending progression of minor arpeggios. “I expect more from our contestants. There is nothing fundamentally wrong with the dish, but it does not inspire me.”
Mr. Bronson did not respond when the other two judges looked at him for his input. His mouth was full. “Erm . . .” He quickly swallowed. “What’s that you say? Uh yes, nothing to write home about.” He laid down his spoon and gazed longingly at the final bite of pumpkin left on the plate.
“Chef Santini?” asked Sir Beckwith-Parsons.
The stone-faced chef was silent for some moments, and the orchestra enthusiastically filled the gap with quivering strings that started soft and slowly grew in volume, making Cemre feel the urge to look behind her to see what monster might be creeping up on her.
The chef cleared his throat, and the strings silenced.
“Perfecto.”
“Perfect,” translated his assistant.
The orchestra burst into a triumphant melody.
Chef Santini continued to talk at a rapid pace while the translator battled to keep up. “He says it takes him to his home on a summer afternoon, his family at the table on the terrace. He tastes the honey glaze e voila! The bees are buzzing in the herb bushes.” Chef Santini waved his hands. “Then the slight bitterness of the char and he smells the smoke from the beekeepers. And just when he think he will be consumed by the smoke and the sweetness” – Chef Santini paused, then flicked open his hand as though miming an explosion – "the sumac yoghurt cuts through, like someone at the table has sliced open a lemon.”
The orchestra faded away, and even the audience was silent as the three judges gaped at Chef Santini.
Finally, Sir Beckwith-Parsons coughed, and with a jolt, the orchestra started up the neutral background theme. “Yes, well, I’m sure we can all agree on the areas for improvement. Next up, Mr. Boyle.”
Dumbstruck, Cemre gave an odd head bow, began retreating backwards, then awkwardly turned and scrambled for her bench, miraculously avoiding colliding with Mr. Boyle, who toted a tower of pumpkin-shaped petit fours 1 .
Massimo hugged her as she passed him. “Bellisima!” He beamed at her, clutching her shoulders, and she noticed with a pang that his lower lip had been chewed raw in one spot.
“But the judges—”
“Pah!” He dismissed them with a wave. “Imbecilli.”
“You did so well,” she said, wanting to direct the attention away from herself.
“Yes,” he replied beaming. “I am pleased.”
They watched the rest of the contestants be tasted. Tsytryn had a similar experience to Qhari, his refined and exquisitely plated interpretation of a Pyrizhky traditional dish confusing the judges and impressing Chef Santini. Cemre wondered what would sway the judges’ decision in the end – their personal preferences or their awe of Chef Santini?
In the end, the three contestants selected to go into the elimination round were ones who had slipped up in ways neither the judges nor Santini could deny – a burned element, bland flavours, and one raw pork chop.
“We will have a thirty-minute interval before round two,” announced Mr. Bronson, and the red velvet curtains slid closed to uproarious applause and then the unmistakable shuffling of 3,000 pairs of feet eager to make it to the theatre bar first and squeeze in a drink before the next act.
“Well, that went swimmingly,” Mr. Ogleby told Sir Beckwith-Parsons as they ambled off the stage. Cemre could see the crune symbols in his eyes.
Pixies herded the contestants into the wings and began removing benches and stoves and rearranging the stage for round two.
Mrs. Dudley was waiting for them. “Contestants, please line up outside the black box for your interviews. Round two contestants first.”
“Interviews?” Cemre asked Massimo, who shrugged.
“What’s a black box?” asked Qhari.
Rhydian pointed to the black-sided cubicle outside which the three unfortunate round two contestants were waiting. “I suppose that must be it.”
“Nobody mention interviews,” grumbled Tsytryn. “Not here to talk.”
“Ah, is that so, butt?” said Rhydian with a chuckle. “Never would have guessed it, myself.”
Massimo chortled. “You, my friend . . .” He wagged a finger at Rhydian, shaking his head and chuckling.
“They saw everything on the stage and the big screen, though,” said Cemre, knotting her hands together. “Why do they need to ask us about it?”
“Is all right,” said Massimo gently. “You will charm him – uh – them.”
Cemre hoped her fake stubble hid some of her blush as she and her friends joined the queue. It moved quickly, each contestant in and out within two minutes.
When Massimo, the first of their group to go in, came out, he tried to explain quickly what had happened, but all Cemre heard was “the box is recording the picture” before she was called in. She wanted to smack herself for not thinking to send Rhydian ahead of her, but it had just seemed so natural to stand next to Massimo. She hadn’t considered that it would prevent her from getting a preview of what was to come.
Inside the box were three pixies: one right up against the back wall with a giant ring of a thousand tiny gaslights, one with a megalophone – this one on a much shorter broomstick – in front of and to the left of the light pixie, and dead centre beside him, a pixie looking down into a box that reminded Cemre of a magick lantern she’d seen used to project pictures in a shadow and light show. Were they going to do a shadow show for her?
“Close the door and sit there, please,” instructed the one with the camera, pointing to a stool against the wall opposite him. Unlike the rest of the box, which was plain black, this side was painted with pictures of kitchen utensils in jolly colours.
She sat on the stool, and the pixie with the ring of lights adjusted it until the cameraman nodded.
The sound pixie pointed at the fox pelt end of the megalophone. “Look at me and talk into this.”
Cemre had barely nodded in response before the cameraman was giving her more instructions.
“So, tell us what you cooked,” he said, looking down into his box.
Again? She’d explained it at least twice over the broom megalophone.
“Quick, please,” said the cameraman. “Have to get through all of yez before round two.”
Just as anxious as he to be done with it, Cemre described her dish as briefly as she could.
“Why’d you pick that?”
“Uh, it just came to me.” She resisted the urge to fan herself. It was stuffy in the tiny space.
“Can’t use that,” said the pixie with the ring light. “Could you say something more interestin’? Like it reminds you of your traumatic past. Or you was inspired by a childhood memory or summin’.”
“You can cry if you like,” said the cameraman. “Audience’ll like that.”
“Traumatic . . . ? I don’t have a traumatic past,” she stuttered, feeling sweat trickle down her back, tickling her wings.
“He’s not givin’ us anything,” the cameraman muttered to the light man. “How’s about you tell us how it felt to cook on stage.”
Oh, that she could do. “Cooking in front of all those people was terrifying, but also” – her wings pulsed against the bindings – “ exhilarating.”
“See that?” the cameraman said to the light man. “Good stuff, that.”
“Next,” said the light man.
“I can go?” asked Cemre.
“Quick, please. Time’s almost up.”
Cemre scrambled out of the box and pulled at her collar, trying to fan air into her shirt. Rhydian went in after her, Qhari and Tsytryn up next. Massimo stood beside them, waving his hands about and talking rapidly. He stopped as soon as he saw her. “So?” he asked.
Her brow must have furrowed because Massimo tapped it gently with a playful smile. She relaxed despite herself. “They asked me some things I didn’t know how to answer, but I think they were happy with what I said last.”
“Which was?” asked Qhari, twisting his fingers nervously.
“That cooking on stage in front of the audience was scary but also exciting.”
“It was so much exciting,” agreed Massimo, nodding vigorously. “The music, the applause—”
“The bit where we stop,” rumbled Tsytryn.
Massimo punched him playfully on the arm, then shook out his fist and sucked on his knuckles, his chest still shaking with laughter.
“What do you think the interviews are for?” asked Cemre, handing Massimo a handkerchief from her pocket, unfortunately a tad damp from all the perspiration. He winked at her and dabbed his grazed knuckles. She didn’t know why that made her shiver. Maybe it was the sweat drying after being in that oven of a black box.
“That box was recording them,” said Massimo. “They tell me it keep everything I say and do so they can watch again.”
“How is that possible?” asked Cemre.
Once again, no one could answer her.
She suddenly realized how thirsty she was. “I need some cold water.”
“There is the ice over there.” Massimo pointed to the refreshment table at the back of the backstage, reduced to beverages now. “They don’t have the espresso, though,” he added forlornly. “I had not the time to make for myself this morning.”
“What’s espresso?” asked Cemre.
“Is like the coffee, but you don’t make it the right way here,” he explained. “I will show you. Never have you tasted such coffee, I promise. Come, we can—”
“First water,” interrupted Cemre. “I’m parched.”
At the refreshments table, she drank her fill as the final contestants filed in and out of the black box. The three unfortunates stood alone in one corner, pointedly ignoring each other.
The backstage manager called out, “One minute to curtain,” and anyone who’d been standing around or moseying about began sprinting up and down like a Bandersnatch was after them.
“Do we stay here?” asked Qhari. “We are not on stage for the second round.”
“I want to see what happen,” said Massimo excitedly. “The very first show! We can’t miss it.”
Rhydian pointed to one of the wings. “How about we stand there? Should be able to see everything without the audience seeing us.”
They bunched together at Rhydian’s suggested viewing point just in time to see the round two contestants lining up to go on.
Hyounhie trotted in from one of the passages. “Swell show you put on there,” she whispered, though Cemre worried even the audience could have heard it. “The tympany said they had a bally rough time keeping up with all the highs and lows.”
“You spoke to the tympany?” asked Rhydian. “Were you in the orchestra pit just now?”
“No,” guffawed Hyounhie with a flick of her mane. “We were all down the pub.”
Cemre gawked. “And you’re already back? In only thirty minutes?”
“Plenty of time for two beers,” said Hyounhie matter-of-factly. “The strings say it’s the only way to get through act two, never mind sixteen acts of Siegried und das Fremdsch?men von der Verschlimmbesserung 2 . ”
“Ssh, the curtain’s going up,” said Qhari.
They gathered on the edge of the wings, out of the way of the production staff but with a clear view of the stage. But no one, not the judges nor production pixies nor contestants, walked out. Instead, the large screen above the stage came to life, and the audience watched in awe as the interviews that had just been recorded played back in black and white moving pictures with sound. Not in full, of course – they’d been cut and spliced together out of order, with some contestants appearing more than once. And the sound was just the slightest bit out of sync with the mouth movements of the person on the screen.
Once Cemre had overcome her initial awe at the sheer impossibility of the thing, she was able to feel gratitude that they’d chosen not to show her mumbling and confusion. She just had the one line about how the competition made her feel. And the look on her own black and white face surprised her.
She looked . . . happy .
“Incredible,” breathed Massimo, interrupting Cemre’s trance.
“You not warn me sauce on my face,” grumbled Tsytryn.
“Ah but it’s not so noticeable in the black and white,” soothed Rhydian. “Just looks like a shadow.”
Tsytryn’s dipped brow and hard mouth didn’t soften. Although, Cemre wasn’t sure softening was even possible – he was made of rock, after all.
The interviews concluded and the screen flickered off. The orchestra played sombre music as the judges and contestants took the stage, growing ever more funereal as Mr. Ogleby emphasised that whoever cooked the least impressive dish in this round would be sent home. Then there was a drumroll as Sir Beckwith-Parsons hovered his hand above the cloche that would reveal the ingredient they had to feature. It turned out to be . . .
Turnips.
The timer started, and the three contestants began rushing around collecting their equipment and ingredients.
“I don’t know how they have the energy to cook a second time,” commented Cemre, feeling herself wilt. “Round one was exhausting.”
“They fight for their lives,” said Qhari. “It’s their last chance to stay.”
Cemre shivered, thinking of herself having to fight through another round like that. It would happen soon, she knew. She hadn’t been as impressive as she’d hoped with her first dish, and there were others who were so much better than her.
They watched the rest of the round in silence, as though each of them was seeing themselves in the same position.
In the end, one of the humans was eliminated for undercooking his meat. He looked like he wanted to curse out the judges, but in the end, he marched off the stage with his nose in the air. Two rotten tomatoes made contact before the Constabulary had the Pittites calmed down.
Mr. Bronson announced the end of the performance and gave the audience some hints at the next day’s lineup – accompanied by upbeat and excited background music – without actually telling them anything concrete. It seemed to have the desired effect, though, because the audience burst into jubilant applause.
Once that quieted down, the orchestra struck up with ‘All Hail the Queen’, and everyone stood and sang, after which Queen Valeria and her entourage made their exit to reverent silence.
Then, after a rousing chorus of ‘Rule Anglaterre’, the curtain fell and the stage became a buzzing hive of pixies clearing the set and cleaning up the mess.
“Honestly, how they got egg white on the ice dragon, I’ll never know,” grumbled one as he rushed past Cemre.
After they each completed another interview in the little black box, Mrs. Dudley rounded up the contestants near the refreshment table for what she termed a post-production review meeting . “Well done, contestants. You put on a good show. There are some points the stage crew wish for me to share with you.” She directed a severe look at one of the elf chefs. “Please do not place your mouth upon the megalophone. Allow at least a hand’s breadth between it and your face.” She tapped a pencil against her clipboard as she rattled off each successive point. “Do not eat other contestants’ food while they are cooking it. Do not deliberately trip any production staff on the stage. Do not argue with the crew performing the interviews – answer their questions as clearly and comprehensively as you can. Do not throw anything at the ice dragon. Lastly, be sure to arrive promptly at twelve tomorrow. You will be recording interviews before the show this time. Dismissed.”
Ugh, not more interviews, thought Cemre wearily as she and her friends began the long trudge back to their room. She’d had a hard enough time thinking what to say for the mid- and post-show ones.
They crossed paths with the eliminated contestant in the passage, gloomily lugging his bags in the direction of the exit with two security trolls escorting him.
“Why d’you think they need them?” asked Rhydian, eyeing the stone-faced guards.
“Perhaps in case he want to do some damage because, you know” – Massimo waved his hands as if he could grab the words from the air – “because he lose.”
“Think you might be onto something there,” agreed Rhydian. “He looked like to do some damage to the judges right there on the stage.”
“Surely not?” stammered Cemre.
“Chefs are passionate creatures, butt.” Rhydian chuckled. “I’ve heard tales of flying saucepans and crashing plates. Cherufes hath no fury like a chef scorned, don’t you know.”
“You think cherufe bad?” grunted Tsytryn. “Wait for angry troll.”
* * *
Tsytryn was the first inside their room, collapsing face-down on his mattress collection. A rumbling snore rather like a small earthquake vibrated through the floor. It was a good thing there were so many pillows and so much padding beneath him to absorb it, or they might have had to stand in the doorway for safety.
“How could that have been so tiring?” asked Rhydian, falling backwards onto his own bunk. “We were only on stage for a few hours.”
“And seven hours backstage before that, getting the makeup, waiting to go on . . .” said Qhari, untying his neckerchief and using it to mop his brow. “And it was very hot. I need a bath.”
“You’re right, butt,” said Rhydian. “And then there were the interviews in between and watching round two and then more interviews. And the post-production meeting.” He shook his head. “Who do you suppose would be so rude as to hurl something at the ice dragon or trip up a crew member?”
Qhari folded his arms over his chest. “Some of those men think they are very special.”
“I think all the lights and noise were exhausting too.” Cemre rubbed her arms. “All those people watching.” She also wanted a bath, but she didn’t want to go when everyone else was there. She’d have to wait until the washrooms quietened down. She scratched her back; her wings ached from being strapped down, and everything felt hot and itchy, especially her moustache, which she longed to rip off.
“It was invigorating!” Massimo was bouncing off the walls. “I can’t wait for tomorrow. I’m going to go and practice in the practice kitchen. Do you want to come with me?”
She really did, but she was far too tired. “I’m sorry. All I can think of is a bath and bed.”
“And food,” said Rhydian. “All that cooking and we barely ate a thing all day. It must be near midnight.”
“I cook for you,” said Massimo. “You bath and change and whatever you want, and I bring back the surprise for you, va bene?”
“Many thanks, butt,” said Rhydian, still on his back. “I’ll take a dwt nap in the meantime.”
“I will wash,” said Qhari, packing some items into a bag and plodding off.
With Rhydian and Tsytryn fast asleep and the bathroom occupied, Cemre lay down and closed her eyes. Her mind was far too busy for her to fall asleep, though. The picture of her black and white moustached face glowing with joy – no, excitement – like she couldn’t wait to repeat the madness of the past round, kept flickering across the backs of her eyelids. Maybe the judges hadn’t outright loved her dish, but Chef Santini had complimented it, and nothing could beat the exhilaration of adding the finishing touches as the countdown resounded around the massive theatre, then standing back and knowing deep in your soul that you’d created something beautiful and delicious. That maybe, just maybe, you could win this thing.
That moment before the doubts and fears flooded in, the worries about whether it would be good enough, whether the judges would let her stay another day. Once they’d got a foot in the door, the feelings morphed into certainty that she wasn’t good enough, that she’d be sent home and—
Her eyes popped open. She hadn’t thought about her family once all day.
Were they managing without her? They wouldn’t have been able to afford tickets to see the show, but would they be able to find out some other way that she’d survived day one? She frowned to herself. Were they eating enough? Finding all the places she’d told them about for food scraps? What if—
Something flashed in the corner of her eye, and she whipped her head around to see what it was.
“You best have an excellent reason for lying there moping instead of being in the practice kitchen with that adorable boy.” Mel placed a hand on her outflung hip. “I simply have no patience with people missing such perfect opportunities for romance.”
Cemre frantically waved her hands to indicate the sleeping roommates and the need for silence.
Mel flicked a dismissive wrist in their direction. “They can’t hear us, and they won’t wake until I’m done. I do have magick, you know.” She gave Cemre a stern frown, the severity of which was somewhat diluted by a sudden hiccough. “Now explain why you aren’t licking melted chocolate off whisks with Mr. Handsome or feeding each other strawberries or something equally romantic.”
Cemre hugged herself to hide a shiver at the images the muse was putting in her head. “Mel, that’s not why I’m here.”
Mel looked taken aback. “Isn’t it?” She tossed her hands in the air. “Well, then, whatever for? Why put yourself through all this?” She flopped a limp wrist in front of Cemre, indicating her attire. “You look awful in a moustache. And your assets are all hidden by that dreadful uniform.”
“Mel, you know why. It’s for my family. I need to win the money for them.”
Mel’s lips pursed in clear suspicion. “No, I don’t think that’s it. I’m quite certain there was more to the story, but I was just at an art fair for one of my protégés and they were handing out sparkling wine samples and I can’t quite recall your details just at the moment.” She hiccoughed. “Anyway, you can’t look after your family forever. Sooner or later they’re going to have to take care of themselves. And you’re going to have to take care of you.”
“Xanthan take care of herself? With her arthritis? She’s near crippled by it. And Taurine—”
“—is a young woman with her own prospects.” Mel wagged a finger, her whole body swaying with the movement. “ Royal prospects, I might add.”
Cemre balked. “You can’t think she’s going to marry that prince and live happily ever after?”
“Well, why shouldn’t she?” Mel crossed her arms. “I don’t know what you girls have against those lovely Cantuccinian boys.”
Cemre had absolutely nothing against those lovely Cantuccinian boys, which was part of the problem. It was terribly distracting being around Massimo all the time, and she needed to focus if she wanted that cash prize. Of course, Taurine could afford the distraction. The trouble was, it was unlikely to be anything more than that. Her shoulders sagged. She hoped her sister wouldn’t be too heartbroken.
She stuck out her chin. “Taurine marrying a prince is a dream, a fairy tale! Not something that could actually happen. And there’s the matter of her health.”
“You took her to the medick I suggested, though, didn’t you?” Mel’s eyes narrowed. “And don’t think I didn’t notice that you sneakily avoided talking to the medick yourself, young lady.”
A spot on the ground beside Cemre’s feet suddenly became intensely interesting. “Taurine needed it more than me. And I’ll go later, after the competition.”
“Hmm.” Mel tapped her lips, once again pursed in suspicion. “No medicks, no boys. Really, what am I to do with you?”
“I promise I’ll go, Mel, truly.” Cemre pulled off her hat and wrung it between her hands. “I don’t know what the boy has to do with anything, though.”
“Everything, darling. Without romance, the world is a dull place. And then there’s inspiration and magick and keeping goddesses like me alive—”
“Mel, wait! Keeping you alive?”
Mel hiccoughed. “Oh, of course. I haven’t explained that bit yet.” She put a hand up in front of her face and looked at it unsteadily. “Muses use magick to inspire mortals” – she tapped her thumb, then moved to her index finger – “then mortals create art” – she tapped the next finger – “and the art inspires other mortals, which releases a huge burst of magick . . .” She hovered on the ring finger as she studied her little finger with a furrowed brow. “Now what was that last bit? I’m sure it’s important. Oh yes.” She smiled and pinched her pinky. “And the magick keeps the godes alive.”
Cemre gaped at her in horror. “You mean . . . if I don’t create something that inspires others, you’ll die?”
Mel tapped her lips and examined the ceiling. “Mmm, yes, eventually.”
Cemre pushed the heels of her hands into her temples. She didn’t just have the lives of her family on her shoulders – she had to keep Mel alive too! How in the world was she going to cook something so amazing that it inspired others?
“However” – Mel held up a finger – “you can’t create if you don’t look after yourself first. You need to have a little fun. Do something that’s entirely for you.”
Cemre nodded. “I should rest so I’m fresh for tomorrow.”
Mel slapped her forehead and sighed. “That is not at all what I meant.” She pointed out the door. “Stop moping about like you’re in a production of Romaes and Phrisbee 3 and go and play with that boy!”
Reluctantly, Cemre dragged herself off her bed and out the door. Why was Mel so obsessed with her spending time with Massimo? How would that help her be inspiring enough to keep a goddesse alive?
The practice kitchen was empty except for Massimo. Cemre wondered if the other chefs felt they didn’t need to practice or were simply too tired after today’s performance.
Massimo looked up from the saucepan he was stirring, and his face lit up. “You’re here!”
She smiled back despite her annoyance at Mel for pushing them together. It wasn’t his fault Cemre’s muse was particularly interfering. They could be friends without any of that romance nonsense. Besides, the competition was just as important to him. They both needed to focus on winning. And in Cemre’s case, cooking something that others considered art.
Massimo beckoned. “Come, come! I have something to show you.”
Cemre approached his bench and peered into the pot, expecting to see some kind of savoury sauce for dinner.
It was a caramel. Beside the stovetop lay a pile of peanuts.
“I’m making the peanut brittle,” he informed her proudly.
“For supper?”
Massimo dropped his wooden spoon and slapped both hands to his head. “I forget! I see the peanuts in the pantry and I remember I want to try this and then” – he flung his hands away from his head and puffed out a breath – “gone with the breeze. Stupido.” He battered his head with the heel of his hand.
Cemre pulled the violent appendage away, her legs aching for him. “No, not stupid,” she said earnestly. “You have so many good ideas, I can understand why some of them get lost sometimes.” She pointed to the caramel. “We can have it for dessert. I’ll make something for supper while you finish it.”
“No! I promise supper; I make supper.” He dumped the peanuts into the caramel, churned it together, and laid it out on a tray to set. “See? Finito.” He made for the equipment racks and selected a large pot. “I had thought I would make the cianfotta. Is my favourite when I were – was – a child.”
“What’s in it?”
He led her to the pantry. “All the best things. Beans, vegetables, potatoes, tomatoes, zucchini – any vegetables, but they have to be the best of summer.”
Cemre doubted the wisdom of feeding beans to five people sharing one room, but she didn’t want to discourage Massimo after his heartbreaking frustration at getting distracted. Together, they selected the vegetables, Massimo showing her how to thoroughly test each one to meet his high standards.
He rejected an aubergine that she felt was still in very good shape. “No, no. See the skin.” He poked it, and an indentation remained. “It need to bounce back, to be firm.” He rotated it. “It is too much dull, not glossy. Soon it will turn brown.”
Cemre had eaten completely brown eggplants many times. “I just hate to waste things.”
“Of course,” he said earnestly. “This is wise. But for you and my friends, I want to cook the best.” He turned the eggplant in one hand, studying it. “You know, maybe is not so bad. I will use it.”
They washed off the vegetables, and Massimo took great delight in “accidentally” splashing Cemre. She struggled to keep her giggles gruff and manly, though she emitted at least one shriek that she feared had given her away. Massimo only laughed and continued his horseplay.
Then they were chopping in companiable silence until Massimo spoke up. “You know, you make me think. When we are cooking, we throw much away. But in my country, in the small towns where there is not so much money, they use everything.”
“The restaurants and shops are the worst offenders,” Cemre said, feeling her ire rising at her favourite topic. “Anything that doesn’t look perfect goes into the bin. Customers don’t want to spend their precious coins on something that might not be the best. And the more expensive the restaurant, the fussier the clientele.”
“I am embarrass to say, but sometimes when I cook the very fancy meal, I throw away many things.” He gestured to the pantry with his knife. “Like the duck. Once I meet a very famous chef who cook for the imperial family of Zhu Yu 4 . For one glazed duck to serve, he used five ducks. He render the fat from one duck and three others he use to make broth. Then all of the broth and the fat was used to cook the one duck. The flavour was so concentrated, it was” – he kissed his fingers – “but the four ducks that we did not serve . . . this had to go to the dogs.”
Cemre felt sick to her stomach. One duck alone could have fed her family for a few days. She chopped her vegetables quietly, unable to think of a response to such blatant extravagance.
“I have upset you,” said Massimo.
“No . . .” Cemre shook her head, eyes on the not quite perfect aubergine she was slicing. The inside looked fine to her, and they’d nearly rejected it. She put her knife down with a clatter. “Yes. I am upset.” She made herself look him in the eye. “Have you walked around Wenn much? Have you seen how many street urchins and beggars we have?”
Massimo nodded sadly. “Even in Cantuccini, in the cities.”
“Can you imagine how many I could have fed with four ducks? And it’s not even rare dishes like that.” She pointed to the carrot peels that lay next to Massimo’s chopping board. “Every day we throw away peels, tops, and tails. But they can be used to make any number of dishes. And then there’s the not perfect items that get tossed . . .” Her stomach roiled with anger and disgust. “There is no reason for anyone to be hungry. Ever.”
Massimo regarded her quietly for a moment, chewing his lip. Then he said, “This is your passion, yes? To feed the hungry?”
She picked at a chip in her chopping board. “Only a dream. I can’t do anything about it.”
“Unless you win. Then you could use the money to start something. You could hire people to collect all the wasted food and cook it. Then you could have a place where all the poor people can come and eat for free.”
She laughed, but it contained no mirth. “You make it sound easy.”
“I believe you can do anything.”
Her wings fluttered. When he said that, with that earnest look of utter faith, she almost believed it herself.
Her throat tightened and her eyes prickled. She ducked her head and sliced furiously. “I’ll just have to win, then.” She forced a raspy chuckle.
She didn’t look at Massimo, but after a moment, she heard the thwack of his knife against his chopping board.
Quietly they worked, Massimo only giving the odd softspoken explanation of the next step in the recipe. When they were done, a hearty vegetable stew simmered on the stove.
“There is bread in the pantry?” Massimo asked, and Cemre went to investigate.
She found a rough-crusted farm loaf and a slab of butter. “Should I call the others?”
“No, no! We take it to them.” Massimo was rattling around the equipment racks. He appeared with a wooden serving trolley containing five soup bowls, spoons, and plates, as well as a butter knife.
“Didn’t that have all the baking trays on it before?” asked Cemre.
“I put them on another shelf.”
A crash sounded from the equipment area. Massimo looked sheepishly at Cemre. Cemre looked blankly back.
“I’m hungry,” she said, and they added the pot of stew to the trolley and made their rattling way back to their room.
1. So called due to the necessity of putting at least four of the miniscule cakes into your mouth at once to be able to taste them.
2. Loosely translated into Anglish, Frederick and the Vicarious Embarrassment of the Attempted Improvement That Only Makes Things Worse, a jaunty epic tale by the Bratlandian * composer Würste. * Bratland, a country known for sausages, beer, and festivals dedicated to sausages and beer.
3. A tragedy by the prolific Anglish playwright Frank Ham. Through a series of misunderstandings, most of which are addressed by the repeated faking of the respective title characters’ deaths, the lovers Romaes and Phrisbee reach their eighties believing the other to be dead, despite the fact that they live next door to one another.
4. A large empire east of Angland, known for eating with sticks, brightly coloured paper lanterns, and building a very, very long wall.