8. Chapter 8
Chapter 8
“ C ’mon, lads, I’ve been here three times already,” came the voice of the knocker upper through the door, accompanied by an exasperated hammering. “If you’re not backstage in thirty for your pre-show interviews, you’ll be disqualified.”
Cemre sprang upright. They’d slept through three rounds of banging from the knocker upper? What time was it? Cemre battled away her grogginess and quickly dressed and applied her moustache and hat before opening the bunk curtains. They’d stayed up far past a reasonable hour stuffing themselves with the wonderful comforting stew and hunks of perfect bread: soft on the inside with a crunchy crust. Her stomach hurt from all the laughing, and she still had bits of sugar stuck in her teeth from the peanut brittle.
“Why did we stay up so late?” groaned Rhydian.
“I ate too much,” complained Qhari. “It was too delicious.”
Cemre had also eaten too much. It had felt like a luxury not to have to restrain herself to a tiny bowl, knowing there was more than enough to go round. They’d barely eaten half of what Massimo cooked, but Tsytryn happily took care of the leftovers.
Massimo was still in his bunk fast asleep when Cemre returned from a quick trip to the lavatory. She poked him. He groaned and rolled over.
“Massimo, come on.” Through the bedclothes, she tugged on his arm, which had a pleasant firmness to it. “We have to be backstage in twenty minutes.”
“Twenty.” He rolled onto his back and groaned again.
Rhydian chuckled softly. He sat on the edge of a bunk, tying his shoelaces. “Just imagine if you were me – I’m sleeping when I should be awake and awake when I should be sleeping.”
“Oh, because of the sunlight, yes?” said Qhari, adjusting his neckerchief.
“Yes, not fond of being a puddle.” Rhydian snickered. “Rather a fuss reconstituting, you know.”
Cemre tapped Massimo again. “You don’t want to miss it!”
The floorboards squeaked as Tsytryn came up behind her. Without a word, he grabbed Massimo’s covers and whipped them right off. Then he dropped them on the floor and clomped out of the room.
Massimo sat up in bed and slammed his fists into the mattress, eyes scrunched shut. “I need to have my espresso.”
Cemre wrung her hands. “I don’t think there’s time.” She noted the scruff on his cheeks. “You still need to shave and dress.” Although, she thought he looked rather adorable unshaved with his hair sticking out at all angles as if he’d had a run-in with an eggbeater.
Massimo clambered down the ladder, grumbling to himself in Cantuccinian, and headed out of the room with his washbag and clothes.
He still hadn’t returned by the time his roommates were lined up in the passage outside their room with only two minutes left to get backstage.
“He’s not in the washroom,” reported Tsytryn. “He left before me.”
“You think he went straight to the backstage?” asked Rhydian.
“You better go ahead,” said Cemre. “I think I know where he might be.”
“All right, but don’t miss the competition yourself because you’re looking for him,” warned Rhydian. “He might be there already, after all.”
“I won’t be late.” She sped towards the practice kitchen. He’d really wanted that espresso.
Her instincts were not wrong.
Massimo stood in front of one of the stoves, staring bleary-eyed at a metal contraption that squealed and steamed. He’d shaved, at least, but his uniform was only half-buttoned, his neckerchief untied, and his hat perched so precariously atop his wild hair that it looked in great danger of sliding off.
Cemre rushed over to him and tugged on his neckerchief until he faced her. She tied it quickly, then started on his buttons. “We’ve got to get backstage right now, or we’ll be disqualified.”
“The espresso is nearly ready.” He reached for his contraption, making Cemre have to duck out of the way of his long arms to finish up his buttons. He poured the dark liquid into a tiny cup, and Cemre quickly straightened his toque. He took one sip, and an expression of utter bliss spread across his face.
“Bring it with you.” Cemre grabbed his jacket sleeve and pulled him after her.
They arrived in the wings just as Qhari stepped out of the interview box and Tsytryn stepped inside. Mrs. Dudley squinched her eyes at them but didn’t say anything, so presumably they would not be ejected for lateness. Make-up pixies cornered them and powdered furiously.
Massimo swallowed his last sip of espresso and looked around blankly for somewhere to put his cup. Cemre grabbed it from his hand and set it atop what she thought was a table but turned out to be a pixie in a large top hat who swore at them before scurrying off.
“Algernon, quick!” hissed Qhari, beckoning them over to the black box. “We are the last to be recorded, and the crew is not happy they have so little time with us. They want to show everything on the screen before the round starts.”
“Bit of a cow’s tail, our lad,” chuckled Rhydian with a nod at Massimo.
Cemre rushed through her interview and scrambled into line just in time to march onto the stage and take her place at her bench – no lining up at the front of the stage for this second day of the production. Most had landed at new benches, but Cemre and Massimo were once again next to each other.
After All Hail the Queen – the namesake of which had apparently enjoyed the first day of the competition enough to attend again – Massimo leaned toward Cemre and whispered, “Thank you. You saved me!” The espresso seemed to have woken him, and he gave her his roguish smile, but it was tempered with gratitude.
“Today’s challenge involves something fishy,” announced Sir Beckwith-Parsons, eliciting a round of chuckles from the audience. “Our contestants must fillet and debone a fish in ten minutes. The three worst-trimmed fish go into the elimination round. Whoever loses the round goes home.”
Cemre balked. She’d never had the opportunity to fillet an entire fish before. She only ever saw the scraps, and even those were seldom fresh enough to safely eat.
Pixies scampered across the stage, delivering a cat-sized cod on a wooden board to each contestant, along with a very long, narrow knife.
“Your time starts now!” Mr. Ogleby smacked the gong.
The crowd cheered and hollered, and the orchestra played an exceptionally frenetic tune.
Cemre picked up the filleting knife and stared at the fish. She hadn’t the foggiest where to begin. How on earth was she going to do this? She risked a glance around at the other contestants. Some were scraping off scales while others already had their fish beheaded and de-finned. She looked back at the unfortunate cod on her bench. Beheading couldn’t be that hard, could it?
She began sawing off the head, but it didn’t come off nearly as smoothly as she’d hoped, leaving a jagged edge on the remaining body, which she noted Massimo and the chef on her other side had left smooth and neat.
Oh well. Perhaps she’d have an easier time scraping off the scales.
She did not have an easier time scraping off the scales. She gave up and sliced off the fins and tail, wincing at the frayed edges she left behind.
She was just sliding her knife inside the fish to slice it open when the crowd let out a sudden cheer and burst into applause. Her knife jumped and slid unevenly through the flesh. She looked up at the big screen to see what the fuss was about. Rhydian held his knife above his head, roaring with triumph as the judges announced that he’d been the first to finish. A glance at his wooden board told Cemre he’d done an exceptional job.
She returned her glum gaze to her battered fillet, and with palms sweating, carried on trying to slide her knife smoothly through the middle of the fish. The blade caught and bumped along, and she knew she’d be left with a jagged-edged mess.
Surely she wouldn’t go home on the second day? Or perhaps it would be a relief to be put out of her misery. If she couldn’t even demonstrate a skill as simple as filleting a fish, how could she get through another twenty-plus rounds against experienced chefs?
“Ahem.”
The knife bounced again, nicking a divot out of her fish’s tail end. She looked up in despair and was met with the solemn face of Chef Santini.
Hands behind his back, he studied her fish for a moment that went on for an eternity, then nodded and gave Cemre a wry smile. He said something in a kind and encouraging voice.
“Trial and error,” said the translator, and Chef Santini winked at Cemre.
He. Winked.
Trial and error – that’s what she’d told him in the palace kitchen when he’d asked about her training.
He’d recognized her; clearly, he’d recognized her.
Her heart pounded away in her chest, but the chef was already moving on to the next bench, not showing any sign of being about to proclaim her a fraud. Was her dread of being discovered colouring her every interaction?
Holding back the threatening panic, she opened up the fish. An awful bloody mess oozed out. She’d forgotten to remove the guts before slicing all the way through the fillet. She frantically wiped at the mess with a dishcloth, but the ten-second countdown had begun.
She could barely see through the haze of welling tears, but she refused to let them fall. She had to keep trying; she couldn’t give up now.
She heard “Ya terminé!” from Qhari, and when she looked over, he was clapping and singing and doing a little dance beside his bench. In moments, the audience was clapping along with him.
A tiny flicker of joy for him fluttered her wings, but it was immediately quashed.
The gong clanged, and a judge shouted, “Time’s up!”
Cemre didn’t need to look around at the other contestants to know she was in the bottom three. Her fish looked like it had met with a hyperactive shark who wasn’t actually hungry, just looking for a toy to play with.
The judges walked from bench to bench, delivering compliments and pointing out the tiniest flaws. One contestant had not removed the fins smoothly enough for their preference and was chastised. Cemre’s shoulders sunk lower and lower.
When they finally approached her bench, she couldn’t look them in the eye. The judges were silent. Finally, Mr. Ogleby said, “Round two for you.” And they walked on to the final row of contestants.
Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry.
She would give herself away if she let a tear fall – none of these men would dare to cry, especially not in front of an audience.
The judges having completed their rounds, the contestants were lined up to the right of the stage. While sombre music played, the round two unfortunates were announced. Cemre’s name was called first, and she stepped forward. She was joined by a tall, skinny young man who seemed as nervous as she was, then by a suave-looking dark elf.
Suddenly, something pelted Cemre in the leg. She looked down to find a rotten tomato oozing its way from her knee to the floor.
“Who did that?” Massimo leapt to the front of the stage, hands fisted at his sides.
“Back in line, son,” scolded Mr. Bronson while Mr. Ogleby strode to the front of the stage and told off the audience.
Sir Beckwith-Parsons raised his hands placatingly. “We will break for the 30-minute interval while the stage is readied for the second round.”
Cemre walked off-stage in a daze, jostled by pixies bolting benches and equipment off the platform. The moment they were in the wings, Massimo was holding her disgusting fish-gut coated hands and saying something she couldn’t discern in a soothing tone of voice. Qhari patted her back while Rhydian and Tsytryn nodded at whatever Massimo was saying. Then she was hustled into the interview booth. The ring light near-blinded her. She muttered something in response to the cameraman’s questions but had no idea what she’d said when they hustled her back out again.
She was in round two. She could be packing her bags and going home soon.
Somebody tugged on her jacket. She looked down to see . . . “Thumper?” What are you . . . ? How did you . . . ?”
“Shh.” He towed her into a dark corner, his little body angling steeply as he threw all his weight into it.
“How did you get in here?” she whispered. “You’ll get in trouble if they catch you.”
He shrugged. “I’m a pixie, same as half the crew here. Nobody looked at me twice.”
He was a lot smaller than the adult pixies working at the theatre, but with all the bustle backstage, it wasn’t all that noticeable. And he was a good deal cleaner than the last time she’d seen him. When she commented on this, he shrugged and replied, “Rubella said I stank.”
Well, she was grateful her little sister had at least used her uncanny power over the boy for good. “Why are you here, though? We’re not supposed to have any contact with friends or family while we’re here, no one from the outside.” Her throat seized like a turnip was stuck in it. “Is everything all right at home? Xanthan—"
“She’s tol lol. Taurine makes her medicine, and Rubella’s cooked us some rum prog.” This last was divulged with great glee. Thumper dug in his pocket and pulled out a folded paper. “They sent this for you. They give me a whole lot of other fings to tell you, but I forgot.”
The note was in Taurine’s handwriting.
Dear Algernon,
We wanted to tell you how proud we are of you and that you made it through the first round of the competition. We are managing quite well without you and don’t want you to worry (because we know you do). Mother has been feeling stronger of late, and Rubella has quite astounded us all with her fine cooking. I was nervous about scrounging without you, but I’ve had unexpected success with it and am feeling rather pleased with myself. Thumper has been a great help, accompanying me and carrying things, and has even shown me some new places to find perfectly good, discarded food. He’s more than earned his room and board!
We wish we could come to the theatre and see you on the stage. But please don’t fret about us at all – put all your energy into your cooking. Whatever happens, stay there as long as you can. We can take care of ourselves.
All our love,
Taurine.
P.S. Rubella even got Thumper into the bath!
Cemre stared blindly at the paper in her hand. They were managing fine without her. More than fine. She ought to be relieved, happy for them. She’d imagined the worst when Thumper turned up, but things were even better than she’d expected.
So why did she feel the farthest thing from relieved?
“You all right?” Thumper’s attempted gruff voice dragged her from the tossed salad of her thoughts. “You’ve gone sort of green.”
Cemre blinked at him. She felt green. She felt as if she’d turned into the oldest, slimiest lettuce. Something that couldn’t even be described as a lettuce anymore. An ex-lettuce. Too liquified to even scrape together and chuck in the compost bin.
“Thirty seconds to curtain!” hollered the stage manager.
“You need a dusting, love,” said the makeup person, brushing powder over Cemre’s face that was likely shiny with sweat. “Don’t want you reflecting the lights and blinding the audience, now do we?”
Cemre glanced at where Thumper had been, worried he’d be recognized for an imposter, but the little pixie boy had legged it and was nowhere to be seen.
“Curtain!”
Cemre was hustled onto the stage to line up with the other two hapless contestants.
We are managing quite well without you.
She wanted to cry, and she didn’t understand why, and she’d been too busy sifting through the noise in her head to hear what the judges were explaining. She forced herself to pay attention.
“. . . which means one of you is going home!” Sir Beckwith-Parsons was saying. “No time for diddle-daddling – it’s time to cook us your best fish dish using the very fish you filleted in round one.”
“You have a very generous ninety minutes,” added Mr. Bronson. “You may use anything from the pantry, but your dish must have your fish as the star of the show.”
Mr. Ogleby took a deep breath. “Your time starts now!”
The gong dinged, and like Pavlova’s grig 1 , Cemre rushed to the bench where her mangled fish waited. She’d truly desecrated the poor creature.
Don’t fret about us at all.
Godes, she had to focus! She poked the pile of flesh and skin.
We can take care of ourselves.
All was well with them. She was supposed to be happy. This desolate hollowness in her chest made no sense at all.
She needed to concentrate!
She looked back at the fish and tried to think. The fillets were too ragged to be used for a nice grilled piece, but she’d cooked with fish scraps before, heads and fins and tails.
First, the stock. Then she’d figure out the rest. Mind made up, she dumped all the trimmings into a pot and browned them with spices and salt. Then she added boiling water and let it simmer.
She was left with the middle section of the fish, which hadn’t yet been boned. She did that and then chopped the flesh into neat bite-sized pieces.
She didn’t dare look around at the other two cooks. She couldn’t bear it if they were calm and composed.
“You have one hour left!”
Cemre jumped like a startled deer and stared at the judges as though they were aiming shotguns at her. She still had so much to do.
A movement behind the judges, in the wings, caught her eye. She squinted into the darkness, half-blind from all the stage lights, and finally made out Massimo and the others waving at her with big smiles and raised thumbs.
A flutter went through her from her head to her toes, and she felt lighter, as if her wings had lifted her off the ground a little. She glanced down, just in case, but her steel-toed boots were firmly on the floor.
She looked back at her friends and smiled. They believed in her.
Managing well without you.
She shook the unwelcome thought from her head and carried on cooking.
Then she smelled the burning. She dropped her knife and scanned her pots and pans. Her stock! The burner was turned up too high. She pulled the pot off the heat and tasted it, but the acrid taste of blackened onion permeated the whole thing.
Now what? Her eyes stung from withheld tears. Without the stock, she had no dish. She might as well throw down her apron and leave and . . .
. . . go home? Where they apparently didn’t need her?
She stared at the congealing stock, the oil on the surface curling into patterns that looked inexplicably akin to sad faces.
A sharp whistle snapped her eyes back to her friends in the wings. They were jumping up and down and waving at her – well, all except Tsytryn, who would likely crash right through the wooden floor if he performed such antics – and it struck her that she’d be quite devastated if she had to leave them so soon. And the way they were carrying on . . . they wanted her here too.
She simply had to think of something. What was left of her fish? There were her bite-sized pieces of fillet and the bones and skin she’d pulled from them. She might still be able to get a little flavour from the bones, if she made a very small amount of stock, so she quickly got that on the stove. As for the skin . . .
A memory twitched in her brain . . . something Qhari had said in the practice kitchen.
It needs texture, something for a crunch.
What if she baked the fish skin until it was dried out and crispy? There was a lot of flavour in the skin that was often ignored, but a few crunchy chips of it atop her soft fillet . . . That could really elevate the whole dish.
She pressed the skin between two greased baking trays and slipped it into the oven, wracking her brain for what could go with it all, bring it all together. Some kind of stew, perhaps, a sauce that would just cook the meat. If only Qhari had said something else useful while they’d been making that saffron custard—
And then it hit her. Saffron wasn’t limited to desserts. It could work just as well in savoury dishes. A smooth, savoury saffron custard with melt-in-the-mouth chunks of white fish and crunchy, salty skin flakes on top.
She bit her lip. Would that be enough? And then she remembered how Tstyryn had made his orange juice caviar. Could it work with lemon juice? Lemon juice was a perfect pairing for fish and would cut through the richness of the custard.
Massimo and Rhydian had come up with those delicious wine-poached pears together . . . No, she couldn’t put pears with fish. A white wine in the custard, however . . .
Wings perked as much as they could be within their bindings, Cemre worked furiously to pull all her elements together, paying careful attention to anything on the stove lest she burn it again. The clapping and heckling of the audience faded away, along with the volatile orchestral accompaniment. Her vision narrowed to the movements of her hands over the bench, a wooden spoon stirring, a knife slicing, a whisk swirling. Garlic crushed and mashed, white wine drizzling from the bottle, salt sprinkling and dissolving.
And then her finished dish sat before her, just-opaque gems of white lounging in a bed of glistening yellow, sharp shards of crackled skin perched carefully atop the fish so as not to get soggy, and a pile of lemon-bright pearls in the middle of it all.
She wiped her shaking hands on a dishcloth while the audience and judges counted down the last ten seconds. She’d done her best. If this didn’t save her, she’d just have to accept that she wasn’t good enough. She’d have to say goodbye to her new friends. To Massimo. She bit the inside of her lip to stop it quivering. What if this was her last opportunity to help Mel?
“First up, Mr. Ashburn.” Mr. Bronson levelled an expectant stare at Cemre.
Her knees wobbled as she walked to the front. Don’t trip don’t trip don’t trip. Dropping the plate would guarantee her exit.
Mr. Ogleby sniffed when she laid the dish down before them. “What is it?”
She didn’t want to say “fish stew” – they’d already complained about her past dish being too simple. “Cod au saffron,” she hazarded, trying to keep the question mark out of her voice.
Mr. Bronson’s flourishing eyebrows rose, but he was the first to dig his spoon in. A pleased hum vibrated his throat as he rolled the bite around in his mouth.
Chef Santini – deadpan while tasting – sent her a wink so quick she questioned whether she’d imagined it.
Sir Beckwith-Parsons put down his fork. “It certainly isn’t . . . traditional.”
Cemre gulped and tried not to squeak her dismay.
“I must say I was expecting rather more of the fish in this.” Mr. Ogleby tapped his spoon against his black-granite lips. “But I can’t deny it is perfectly cooked and seasoned.”
“Ingenious,” said Chef Santini through his translator, fingers pinching the air and bobbing merrily.
Sir Beckwith-Parsons frowned at him, then flapped a limp wrist at Cemre. “You may go.”
Her lips had gone numb, and she tottered back to her bench on wilted spinach legs, barely registering the audience’s applause. The judges hadn’t hated it. Mr. Bronson had seemed to enjoy it, though he hadn’t commented at all – he’d been too busy scraping the plate. And Chef Santini had called it ingenious, but did his opinion really count? The judges respected him, but was that respect stronger than their preference for classical cooking with expensive ingredients? Then again, what was more expensive than saffron?
“To the front, please,” ordered Mr. Ogleby.
Cemre’s spiralling thoughts slipped down her throat and churned in her stomach as she obeyed. Had they finished tasting everyone’s dishes already? She hadn’t even noticed the other two contestants walk to the front and back, she was so tangled in her worries. She should have paid attention, then she might have a better idea of what was coming next.
“Mr. Ovenstone,” said Sir Beckwith-Parsons, addressing the contestant to Cemre’s right, “Your fish was perfectly poached and your white wine sauce impeccable. You are safe.”
Mr. Ovenstone – the skinny human – let out a huff of relief, waved to the audience, and exited the stage.
“Mr. Ashburn.” Sir Beckwith-Parsons’ eye twitched. “Your flavours were unconventional, and we expected more fish on the plate.”
Unconventional? Cemre blinked. Was that a positive or a negative?
Sir Beckwith-Parsons turned to the third contestant. “Mr. Krisp. Your fish was undercooked, and your vinaigrette had split.” He took a deep breath, looking between Cemre and Mr. Krisp while the orchestra’s strings flurried with tension. “In the end, the decision came down to technique. So the contestant who is going home is . . .”
Get on with it!
Sir Beckwith-Parsons looked her in the eye.
It’s me. I’m going home. Her stomach roiled, threatening to empty itself.
“Mr. Krisp.” Sir Beckwith-Parsons’ lip curled as though he wasn’t happy with the name he’d been forced to say.
Cemre’s ears felt blocked. Had she heard correctly? He had said Mr. Krisp, hadn’t he? She hadn’t dreamed it? But no, Mr. Krisp was walking off the stage with his fists clenched, and the curtain was closing.
She wasn’t going home?
She was . . . still in the competition?
A slap on her back nearly knocked her over. “Well, butt,” said Rhydian, “You had us worried there for a minute, dancing on the cliff’s edge like that.”
Massimo hugged her. “Bravissima!” He held her by her shoulders, grin so broad it could have split his head open. “You are fantastica!”
And then her feet were dangling above the floor as Tsytryn lifted her in a rather painful hug. She was barely back on the ground before Qhari had his arms round her.
She offered no resistance as her friends shuffled her off the stage and towards their room. The four chattered about how brave she’d been, how amazing she was, and a lot of other things she didn’t hear because all she could think about was how close she’d come to walking out of the theatre.
She caught a glimpse of poor Mr. Krisp disappearing down the passage ahead of them.
And suddenly it was too much.
“I just have to” – she waved vaguely at a side hall – “do something.” She fled.
She zipped along the halls, nipping down every side corridor she encountered, not worrying about how she’d find her way back in the end, until the noise of the theatre got softer and softer and finally died away altogether.
She’d ended up in some kind of narrow gallery in the depths of the theatre, with alcoves lining either side of it, each piled high with what appeared to be dusty old props and cobweb-strewn broken equipment.
She toddled along until she found a large sack on the ground that, when prodded, revealed itself to be full of something soft. She sat on it. Then she nestled farther into it, until she was curled up in it like a squirrel in a nest.
And then she allowed herself to think.
She’d come so close to being eliminated. So close.
And she’d tried so hard. She’d really given it her best shot.
Well, perhaps not her best shot. She’d been exhausted and miserable about the horrible job she’d done on filleting that fish.
What kind of chef didn’t know how to fillet a fish? Not a real chef. And she wasn’t a real chef. She’d barely made it through that last round.
And there were still twelve to go. How could she possibly keep this up? Would she always be in round two, always cooking too simply for the snooty judges? Too simply to inspire others and release the magick that Mel needed to survive?
And then there was that note from home. She tried to force a smile. At least they were well. She didn’t have to worry about them. They didn’t need her.
With inexorable force, her smile inverted itself.
All the fear and despair and guilt built up into a churning ball and flooded out of her. She let herself cry, really cry. Big sobs and weeping and a mess of snot and mucous all over the hapless sack.
“Algernon? You are here?”
She almost didn’t believe her ears. Massimo had found her? Perhaps if she was quiet, he’d go away.
But she should have known him better than that. His safety boots tapped down the stone passage, pausing at regular intervals until it stopped in front of her own alcove. She hastily pressed her face into her cap, but it was too late to hide the tears from him.
“Cuoricina, no! Come to me.” He tugged her to her feet by the elbow, and face still shoved into her chef’s cap, she let him. His heart beat a quick but comforting rhythm, and she sunk into his chest, soaking up the warmth of his arms around her, allowing his body to block out all the pain.
Then his words pierced through the fog of misery, and she froze deadstill.
Cuoricina.
He knew?
He knew!
She ripped her face away and stared up at him, jaw loose. “How— What did you call me?”
His face crumpled. “Eh . . .”
“You know .”
He nodded apologetically. “From the first.”
Her fingers flitted up to her moustache, which she discovered had slipped sideways. She frantically tugged it into place.
He put up his hands. “No, your disguise, it’s good. No one could guess it.”
She pawed at her throat. “The voice, then?”
“No.” His mouth tilted up at one end. “I think I would know you anywhere, cuoricina.”
Beneath their bindings, her wings shivered. “But you didn’t say anything. Didn’t . . . tell anyone.”
He shrugged. “Is not my affair. And” – he hesitated shyly – “I’m happy you’re here.”
Her wings did their best to flutter. When he looked at her like that, she was happy to be there too.
And she’d almost lost her place. The pressure . . . It had gotten to her, colliding with receiving that letter from home and feeling . . . Well, she wasn’t quite sure what she was feeling about that, except that it was sad and lonely and didn’t make any sense at all. Her eyes welled with tears again.
Massimo’s hands flew to her shoulders. “Ah, fragolina. You know I tell you this face is not for crying.” He pulled her into a hug and mumbled a string of Cantuccinian phrases into her hair.
She sobbed into his chest, and all the while he held her, murmuring gentle and low in his musical language so that the resonance spread through her body and soothed away the hurt. She inhaled his comforting scent of garlic and coffee, the latter of which she now knew came from his espresso addiction. His chest felt so strong, so solid, like a bulwark against all her fears and worries. And his arms braced her, wrapped her up tight, so she couldn’t melt into a puddle of misery.
When the sobs had reduced to light sniffles and hiccups, Massimo pulled away just enough to look her in the eyes. His soft brown ones held so much tenderness she almost burst into tears again. He stroked her hair back from her face and said, “Tell me.”
“I don’t . . .” She coughed and gulped back the lump all her crying had caused. “I don’t know how to do this.”
He nodded knowingly. “Is very difficult, yes.”
“Not just the competition.” She hiccupped. “My family sent me a message.”
“Oh!” His forehead wrinkled. “All is well?”
“Yes.”
He smiled. “Ah, well, that is good, then.”
Cemre didn’t smile.
Massimo’s mouth drooped. “It is not good?”
Cemre shook her head and released a fresh waterfall of tears. Massimo’s chef jacket was completely soaked now.
“Ah, polpettina, you have to tell me. Why is this not good?”
Cemre tried to reply, but it was drowned in a watery gurgle, so she shook her head again.
“All right, I have to determine this myself, yes?” Massimo pulled her towards her burlap nest and sat, tugging her down beside him. He put an arm around her, and she rested her head on his shoulder. She’d liked it better with both of his arms around her, though, and the cradle of his chest with the soothing throb of his heart.
Massimo chewed his lip, gazing up at a corner of the ceiling. “Your family are well, but this makes you unhappy. This I don’t understand. You care much for them, no?”
Cemre nodded, not yet trusting her voice to work.
“You care for them, you worry for them – this I know – but now you are not with them and they tell you they are well . . .” He scratched his chin. “No, no, I cannot see it.” He tapped her hand gently. “Tell me of your family. Your stepmother and two stepsisters, yes?”
She blinked up at him, trying to clear her waterlogged vision. “You – hic – remembered.”
His eyes grew warm and soft. “I remember everything of our first meeting.”
Her wings quivered under his gaze, a gaze that prickled her skin and made her want to jiggle about as though an ant crawled over her but also made her heart feel big and warm enough to heat her whole body. She wanted him to look at her like that forever. Like she mattered.
“You cook for your family, I am certain,” said Massimo.
“Yes.” She cleared the frog from her throat. “But also . . . we have no source of income, so I must find food for us from – hic – the cast-offs of the restaurants and markets.”
“Ah, this is why you don’t like to waste food, yes?”
She dropped her eyes to her lap, where her fingers curled in the loose pants of her uniform. “And it’s why I entered the competition. Food isn’t e- hic -nough. We need coin for other things: medicine, school.”
“And you are the one who have to find these things?”
She shrugged. “My stepmother and older stepsister are ill. And the youngest is at school.”
Massimo nodded knowingly. “So you do all for them. And while you are here, who cares for them?”
“There is no one. They must manage by themselves.”
“And they say they do manage, yes?” He suddenly jolted, bobbing Cemre off his shoulder. “Ah! Si! I think I have it.” Grasping her shoulders, he turned her to face him. “You are the one who cares for them, who do everything for them, and now you are not there, they are doing these things without you and they succeed.” His eyes turned sad. “So you think they do not need you.”
Something cold slithered down Cemre’s back, between her wings. Was that really what it was? She didn’t want them to not need her? But . . . she was always so tired and wishing things were easier, that they could have a better life and Xanthan and Taurine could be healthy and happy, that Rubella could get what she needed to keep that wild brain busy. And now that they seemed to have found some of that, some joy in their success at the tasks Cemre usually undertook, she . . . didn’t want that?
“It” – she let out a particularly loud hiccup – “doesn’t make any sense.”
“No,” said Massimo, shaking his head in a commiserating way. “Emotion does not usually make sense.”
Cemre blinked. “It doesn’t?”
“No. Is not come from here.” He tapped his head. “Is not the . . . how you say, the logic. Is here” – he tapped his chest – “the heart. The heart is not for the logic. It is only for feeling.”
“But . . .” After all the tears, Cemre’s mouth felt dry. “I don’t . . .” Her lip wobbled.
Massimo wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her against his side again. “I know, polpettina.” He caught her hands in his free one and squeezed. “If your heart want to cry, you have to cry.”
Cemre didn’t want to cry anymore. No, that wasn’t it . . . She didn’t want to want to cry anymore. And anyway . . . “I thought you said this face is not for tears?”
Massimo’s gentle laugh reverberated through his shoulder and jiggled Cemre’s head. “Yes, you are right. I have say this.” His chest rose and fell with a big sigh. “I do not like to see sadness on your face, but who can stop the heart, huh? I hope that, when the tears are there, I can help to wipe them away?”
The way he pulled her tight, the serious tone of his voice . . . She didn’t understand why it made her stomach leap. They were in a competition, one they could not both win. And afterwards, he would go back to his homeland and she would go back to caring for her family.
She sat up straight, shifting so that Massimo’s arm slipped from her shoulders. “There is always ice cream,” she said, trying to sound playful. “I’ve found that good for chasing away sadness.”
“Ha ha, yes.” Massimo pulled his hands into his lap, and Cemre regretted withdrawing from his warmth. “Perhaps we should make some now, yes?”
“I don’t know if I can make it better than the ice cream we had in the park. That was truly a treat.”
“Of course you can!” Massimo stood and proffered a hand. “You will make it better than that, I know.”
“You forget that I almost went home today.”
“But you did not. Because you are too good. You will win this.”
She shook her head, but Massimo caught it between both hands to stop it.
“No more of this dubious, this doubting. Come.” He kissed her on the lips, a quick smack. “We go practice.”
Dazed from the unexpected embrace and the lingering tickle of his moustache against hers, she allowed herself to be led upstairs to the practice kitchen, where Massimo proceeded to demonstrate the trimming and filleting of various cuts of meat while she watched and imitated his movements in a fug of confusion and bliss.
1. Ivana Pavlova, a star of the Okroshkian * ballet who trained her pet grig (a tiny fairy with the lower body of a cricket) to play the fiddle whenever she blew a whistle. That is, until the grig pinched the whistle and used it to torture Pavlova into setting it free. * Okroshka, a country to the east of the continent but west of Zhu Yu, known for buildings with onion-shaped tops, dolls within dolls within dolls, and continuous efforts to launch things into space.