16. Chapter 16
Chapter 16
C emre rose well before their pre-show interviews and went in search of Hyounhie. Thankfully, the centauress did indeed know where to find Chef Santini and directed her to a dressing room very near the stage. The doors in this passage were spaced wider apart, and there was much better lighting along the way. Clearly the stars of a production were accommodated here.
Cemre knocked so softly on the door that she wasn’t surprised when it didn’t open. She clutched her churning belly and tried again, rapping harder this time. She heard a chair scrape across the wooden floor, then the measured clomp of heavy shoes.
The door opened wide, and Chef Santini peered at her with a pensive expression. She didn’t have her chef’s toque on, her long grey hair pinned into a sensible bun at the base of her neck rather than atop her head as yesterday. She no longer needed to hide it under her cap.
Without a word, she waved Cemre inside the room, closing the door behind them. Cemre hovered beside the entrance, fingers twisting together restlessly, as Chef Santini seated herself in a plush velvet armchair, then gestured to a matching chair across from her.
But they were alone. “Your interpreter . . . Perhaps I should come back—”
“I speak Anglish,” said Chef Santini in a clear and confident voice.
“Oh.” Would the surprises never cease? Cemre perched on the very edge of the seat and folded her hands in her lap. “Um.” She couldn’t quite remember what she’d intended to say. “Sir, uh, madam—”
“My name is Maria. You may call me that.” Her accent was thicker than Massimo’s, but she spoke slowly and carefully, not stumbling over words in her haste as Massimo was wont to do.
“Your Anglish is very good. Why—”
“Maintaining a false voice is tiring, as you must know.” She flicked her fingers in her characteristic way. “It is easier to have an interpreter speak for me than put on a show for so long in front of so many people.”
Cemre’s hands squeezed each other. “You have been putting on a show for a very long time.”
Maria nodded slowly. “Yes. Nearly thirty years now.”
Cemre couldn’t stop her jaw from dropping. “Thirty! You wore a moustache all that time? Didn’t you . . . ?” She gestured to her still-pink upper lip.
Maria smiled. “I learned better ways. But I am glad that bruco 1 is gone.” She flicked her fingers at the offending matt of hair on the dressing table.
“What of your family? Did they know?”
“I left as a young girl. They think I work as a kitchen maid. Never have they known that I wear a disguise, that I am a great chef.” She shrugged. “When I go home, I am just Maria. And with this I am content.”
Two lives. Was that how Cemre would have to live if she wanted to work in the best kitchens? She may have caused a sensation by revealing herself as a woman, but would that change the minds of the restaurant and hotel owners who did the hiring? Would she have to return to her disguise in order to be taken seriously?
“And now?” Cemre asked, and her wings trembled at the audacity of her question. “The royal family, will they . . . ?”
The corner of Maria’s mouth twisted up. “Massimo is a good boy. He will fight for me.”
“Did he know?”
“Yes.” She flattened her hands on her thighs and looked at the ground as though remembering. “As a little boy, he come to the kitchen by himself, first to search the treats, but then he become curious. Every time, he asked me ten thousand questions. So I told him to put on a uniform and work with me. He would elude his tutors and sneak into the kitchen. I teach him everything I know. But as he grew older and more was expected of him, his parents forbid him from such lowly work. That is when he begin to come in full disguise. He was most downhearted for this. And I was lonely, with no one knowing who I truly am. So I told him. And we protect each other from discovery.”
Cemre’s wings shivered, no longer tightly bound but still concealed beneath her chef’s jacket. No wonder Massimo had seen through her disguise yet had no intention of revealing her. He understood exactly what she was facing, why she’d done it.
And she’d turned her anger on him, accusing him of not knowing suffering when he’d been suffering in an entirely different way.
“I . . . said some hurtful things to him.” She swallowed the lump forcing its way up her throat. “If I wrote a letter, would you be able to get it to him?”
Maria eyed her for a long time, and an itch crept across Cemre’s skin beneath her bindings.
Finally, the older woman said, “I believe this is something you must say face-to-face.”
Cemre’s hands clenched. “I can’t leave the theatre for a few days yet. I don’t want him to think I . . .”
Maria shrugged, and the gesture was so similar to how Massimo did it that Cemre’s legs ached. “You will both learn patience.”
Patience? But he would be sad, perhaps angry, and if she didn’t let him know somehow that she was in the wrong, he’d think she’d forgotten him. She opened her mouth to protest, but Maria was already speaking.
“You have great potential. Your capacity for pairing flavours is—” She kissed her fingers. “But . . .” She drew out the pause. “This competition has taken your heart, I think. You have hidden more than your appearance.”
Cemre dropped her gaze to her lap, the bases of her wings burning with shame. Chef Santini had not minced words when criticizing her more recent dishes. She’d seen through the farce and buffoonery, their attempts to win the audience so the judges couldn’t eliminate them.
“Tell me.”
Cemre’s forehead rumpled. “Tell you what?”
Maria thumped the centre of her chest. “Tell me what is in here. If you could cook anything, spend your life cooking, what would you do?”
The breath in Cemre’s lungs solidified; time froze. What sort of question was that? Did she not spend her life cooking already?
But she knew that was not what Chef Santini meant. She was asking something that Cemre had barely ever allowed herself to think.
Now, in this quiet, softly lit room, away from the world she knew, only herself and her idol to witness it, she let her mind spin a fantasy.
And she saw a kitchen, but instead of the luxurious, expensive, rare, perfect ingredients of the competition pantry, there were boxes of slightly wilted spinach, not-quite-round oranges, fish heads and tails. And a team of chefs – with Cemre at the head – created hearty, tasty, nourishing dishes that sailed through the double doors into a cozy, well-appointed restaurant where people who wore rags and slept on the street and hadn’t had access to bathing facilities in some time sat and ate and smiled.
She licked her dry lips. “I want to feed the poor. I want to retrieve all the perfectly good food that the food industry discards and turn it into meals that the hungry can come and eat for free.” A long breath escaped her, and her shoulders drooped as the tension of holding back for years seeped out of her.
Chef Santini smiled, an approving, impressed sort of smile. “Why don’t you do it?”
Cemre’s wings jerked as though wanting to pull her backwards. “How could I? I would need a place for them to come. And helpers to collect all the waste and cook it up and serve it. How would I pay them?” A wry chuckle escaped. “In mushy cucumbers?”
Maria let out a gruff snigger. “You will think of something. I believe in you. Massimo believes in you too.”
Looking into the woman’s wise grey eyes, Cemre could not gainsay her. Chef Santini really did believe in her.
Maria slapped her thighs and stood. “Come. You have a stage to conquer.”
Cemre giggled nervously as the chef hustled her out of the room, and she felt a little giddy as she glided down the passage on a cloud of dreams and hope. Her hero – heroine – believed in her. Massimo believed in her.
The cloud dissipated into a damp fog. Massimo. She had to see him as soon as possible. Her legs ached at the memory of that last sad glimpse of him.
She looked around to make sure she was alone. “Mel?” she whispered.
Instead of a burst of glitter and a goddess, she heard a voice inside her own head.
Oh no you don’t, sugarplum, said Mel in a watery timbre, as though she spoke through a very long metal pipe. You’ve had your quota of magick from me without any return. You’ll have to find a way to reach him on your own.
Cemre’s wings drooped. She couldn’t blame the goddess for being unwilling to help after she’d disappointed her so many times, failed to do the sort of inspiring Mel needed to live. Could she sneak out of the theatre alone? But even if she resorted to Hyounhie’s horse costume, how would she get inside the palace? Last time she’d had an invitation and a magickal bracelet from Mel. The guards probably wouldn’t let her past the front gate.
Shoulders slumped so low her knuckles nearly dragged on the ground, she trudged her way to the stage.
***
And so Cemre suffered through the next few rounds with no way of speaking to Massimo. At night, she dreamed of his sad puppy-dog eyes, and in the day, she kept finding herself peering down side passages in case he was hiding there. The courtyard became her refuge, and she wore a path in the moss with her pacing. Then she’d sit on the cold ground and close her eyes and remember his kiss.
One by one, the last three male contestants were eliminated. Cemre cried as she said goodbye to Gwyn at the end of the semifinal.
“Don’t cry just yet,” the asrai said cheerfully. “I’ll stick around to watch the final. We’ll see more of each other yet.”
And then it was the night of the grand finale and it was down to Cemre, Qori, and Tsytryn. She felt proud of how far they’d come. Sad that they couldn’t all take home the prize. If only Gwyn and Massimo could have been with them.
As they waited at their benches for the judges to finish their elaborate, closing night introductions – only Mr. Bronson and Mr. Ogleby, for Sir Beckwith-Parsons had abandoned the show in disgust – Cemre scanned the audience for Gwyn’s face, but the galleries and pit were too dark and she doubted Gwyn would have gotten a seat in the dress circle, if she’d gotten a seat at all. The show had been sold out days ago, after all. She’d need to get in on a cancellation or buy a ticket from a duffer 2 , though Cemre hoped she wouldn’t waste her coin on that.
Her gaze wandered over to the royal box and was hit by a lead cart. She blinked a few times and even rubbed her eyes in an attempt to resuscitate her stunned sight, but it refused to budge as her mind yelled at her that what she was seeing couldn’t possibly be true.
The royal box was filled to bursting, not with the usual ladies-in-waiting and other members of the royal entourage, but with the queen and her husband, Cemre’s family and Thumper, and the royal family of Cantuccini. Including – hair slicked back and official dress uniform in place – Massimo.
Rubella waved furiously at her. Cemre surreptitiously raised her hand slightly, eyes darting back to Massimo, who watched her with a composed, reserved expression. Was he wearing his Prince Vittorio persona? Or did he hate her now?
Her wings fluttered frantically like trapped butterflies, and her feet itched to run to him – she even considered jumping off the front of the stage to shorten the distance, but she didn’t think she could make it across the orchestra pit without getting a wind instrument up an orifice.
Mr. Bronson yelled, “Your time starts now!” and Cemre hadn’t even heard what the challenge was.
She hissed at Qori as they all scampered into the pantry. “Qori! Qori, what are we supposed to cook?”
Qori levelled a puzzled look at her but hastily explained, “In honour of the monarch, we must prepare a dish fit for a queen. We have two hours, and we can use anything from the pantry.”
A dish for a queen . . . but all she could think of was her prince! She just wanted to speak with him. Or . . . could she get a message to him with her cooking?
What would speak to him? What could she make that would express her deep remorse, her affection, her longing to be with him?
She thought back to the first time they’d met. Their interlude in the park. He’d told her strawberry ice cream was his favourite.
So that was what she would make.
She had no hope of winning with such a simple dish, but winning no longer seemed very important. Not without Massimo. If she had to slave away in one of Mr. Ogleby’s restaurants for the rest of her life in order to provide for her family, she would do so, as long as Massimo forgave her.
Cemre prepared the simple anglaise, cooled it, and got it into the churner. Then it went into the freezer compartment of the ice box, waiting to be served. There were still forty-five minutes left, but she was determined to present an exact replica of what he’d had that day with her. Otherwise he might not understand what she was trying to do.
The pixies took great pleasure in interviewing her repeatedly, apparently lapping up the trepidation on her face (which she could see bright and clear on the big screen).
“That’s really all you’re making?” Mr. Ogleby asked, and his eyebrows couldn’t have been any closer to his hairline without his eyeballs falling out. He’d quickly come around to the idea of female chefs once he saw the ticket sales – had even renewed his job offer – and Cemre fiercely hoped that her decision today wouldn’t change his mind.
She folded her hands behind her and said loud and clear into the megalophone, “Yes.”
The orchestra played an ominous melody, quickly shifting into a jaunty one when Mr. Ogleby moved on to Tsytryn’s dish. Cemre tried not to look at what the others were cooking. It didn’t matter. She strained her eyes trying to see Massimo, but he seemed to be sitting towards the back of the box, out of the light, and she couldn’t make out his face.
With every tick of the clock, Cemre’s stomach did another flip.
When she thought she couldn’t bear another moment of waiting, the gong finally dinged.
Tsytryn went up first, and the judges were thoroughly pleased by what she presented. It was definitely the best thing she’d cooked in the entire competition. Then Qori had her turn, and the praise was even more fulsome. Qori positively glowed with pride as she returned to her bench.
Cemre collected her bowl of ice cream from the icebox, dished into a tin cup like the one the sciapod at the park had served it in. She laid it on the table before the judges and stepped back, hands clasped tight in front of her.
They stared at the bowl for some moments.
Finally, Mr. Bronson opened his mouth. “This is what you brought us . . . for the grand finale ?”
Cemre swallowed the bile burning her throat. “This may not be a dish fit for a queen,” she stammered, “but I know a prince who likes it very much. And I made it for him.”
Chef Santini beamed at her.
Mr. Bronson sighed. “Well, let us taste.”
Chef Santini was the first to state her opinion. “It taste of love,” she said in her own voice, no interpreter necessary.
Cemre’s stomach leapt, but it had been in such a knot for so long that the effect was more bilious than joyful. She longed to look behind her at the royal box, but she forced herself to face forward and pretend to listen to the scathing critique of the two judges.
She didn’t care that they’d been thoroughly disappointed. She’d sent her message to Massimo, and all that mattered was him receiving it.
Qori won, of course. Cemre couldn’t have been happier for her. She knew Qori would make good use of the money in Ch’uya Chokolati, opening a cooking school there where women and marginalized species would be welcome. Yes, Cemre wouldn’t be able to do everything for her family that she’d hoped, but she still had the job with Mr. Ogleby waiting for her and that would keep them in bread and butter.
Because the choice of winner had been so close, Mr. Ogleby offered Tstytryn a position at the new restaurant he had scheduled to open in the new year. The troll only responded with a stony “Thank you.”
There was much cheering and triumphant music and hurling of streamers, but finally they were allowed off the stage. The three girls hugged each other tightly – well, Tsytryn mostly allowed herself to be hugged, because responding in kind would likely have cracked a number of her friends’ ribs – crying and laughing at the same time.
“I will share the money with you,” wailed Qori, overcome with the excitement of winning and the sadness of it all being over.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Cemre firmly. “You won that money fair and square, and you have an entirely noble plan for it.”
“Yes,” agreed Tsytryn. “It is yours.”
Somebody cleared their throat behind them, and the girls turned. They were immediately struck silent. A clean-shaven man with slicked-back hair and royal dress stood quietly with his hands neatly folded behind him. His smile was gentle but regal.
“Massi— Ahem. Prince Vittorio.” Cemre curtseyed.
He bowed his head briefly in response but did not speak, instead offering a bow to Qori and Tsytryn in turn. Then he waited, examining their faces with that same small smile.
Qori gaped while Tsytryn simply stood still as a rock.
Massimo chuckled softly. “We can tell them.” He looked both ways, then placed a finger across his upper lip, like a moustache. “It’s me,” he whispered.
Qori and Tsytryn didn’t move. They had still been coming to terms with having a prince in front of them when this next surprise was revealed.
“But you can’t tell anyone else, all right? It must stay secret.” He remained serious and restrained, nothing like the irrepressible, effervescent Massimo Cemre had come to know. He put a hand on her shoulder. “We can speak? Privately?”
She nodded vehemently, and he took her hand – which she felt was promising – and led her to the courtyard.
Once inside with the door closed, he let go of her and studied the bare cobblestones. “You have come here many times since I left.” His expression was carefully blank, and he stood to attention with his arms behind his back. Was she speaking to Prince Vittorio or Massimo?
“Yes,” she said with a tremor in her voice. There was so much she wanted to say, but she wanted to say it to Massimo , not this grave, unsmiling man.
“Why?”
“Because . . .” Could she say she’d missed him? She felt as if she was talking to a stranger. “I wanted to be closer to . . .” Her fingers twisted around each other.
Slowly, like the sun rising, the corners of his lips turned up. His hands unclasped and dropped to his sides. A fraction at a time, his shoulders lowered and relaxed. “I am sorry I . . .” His teeth grazed his lip, but he quickly pulled them away. “I am not myself.” He cleared his throat. “It is hard for me to be” – he waved at his dress uniform – “this way and then be . . . myself.”
And then she couldn’t help herself. She stumbled to him and threw her arms around him. He was still her dear, sweet Massimo, just as confused and uncomfortable in his disguise as she had been. Except it was the prince’s uniform that was the disguise, not the chef’s whites.
His arms came around her, and he wrapped her tight, laying his head on top of hers. He let out a long breath. “I miss you so much.”
“I missed you too.” And she was not going to cry all over his nice clothes. “And I’m so, so sorry—”
He squeezed her to stop her apology. “I know. You were not yourself, as I am not myself when I wear these clothes. We don’t speak of it anymore.” He lifted his head and held her away so he could see her face. His mischievous smile had returned. “Strawberry ice cream, eh?”
Why did she feel blood rushing to her cheeks? “Yes,” she replied, determined to push through the bashfulness. “I wanted you to see, to know , that I . . .” Her nerve turned yellow, fled the country, and changed its name.
Massimo pressed his thumb into the space between her brows, gently rubbing away the lines. “I know,” he said, and the look in his eyes made her feel warm and bubbly and soothed and terrified. “You love me, and I love you.”
And then there was no other option but to kiss him.
His hand came up to clasp the nape of her neck, and she had never been so thoroughly held , so completely safe. Her heart strained at the seams with the emotions swelling inside it, but she could do nothing to kerb them, so she’d just have to die here in his arms from an explosion of happiness.
When they finally broke apart, she couldn’t help asking, “So you are not angry with me?”
He chuckled. “How could I be angry with you, cuoricina? You are too sweet. Too tender-hearted.”
She shook her head. “I’m none of those things. I’m selfish and self-absorbed. But I love you. I love you so much I wanted to die thinking you were somewhere out there, sad, believing I didn’t.”
And just in case he still didn’t believe her, she kissed him again.
She ignored reality as long as she could, but eventually the questions clamoured too loud in her head to be pushed aside.
She fiddled with the large silver buttons on his dark green tunic. “What now?”
He puffed out a breath, fluttering her hair. “I must return to the royal party, or they will send guards in search of me.”
“And then? You . . .” Her throat caught, and she swallowed. “When do you travel home to Cantuccini?”
His thumb rubbed her back where he held her. “I . . . do not wish to return there. I wish to stay here with you.”
“But . . . you’re a prince! Don’t you have royal duties and . . . things?”
“I do, but I am the second son, so it is not so often as him. But . . . what if you were to come with me?”
Her head jerked back, and she peered into his deep brown eyes. “Go with you? No, I can’t. You know I have to care for my family. I can’t leave them here. I— Why are you grinning like that?”
He chuckled. “I forget you do not know this yet.”
“Know what?”
“Your sister Taurine and my brother, they are very much in love. There will not be an announcement for some time yet – it must appear that they have a proper courtship – but within the family, they are engaged.” He sniggered and tapped Cemre’s jaw, which was halfway to hitting her chest. “You had no idea of this? She did not hint at it?”
“We’ve had no communication since that letter Thumper smuggled in. It was probably not possible for him to sneak in again. But . . .” Taurine in love and engaged. The shock was melting into joy. After all the tragedy in her life, finally, Taurine had something to be happy about.
But if they were engaged, did that mean . . . “So, she will go to Cantuccini with him?”
“And your mother and Rubella and Thumper. Umberto wishes to take care of them, and of course he does not want to part Taurine from her beloved family.” He laughed. “Rubella is too excited about moving to another country. She is asking questions all the time. What do we eat there? Do we have dancing and balls? What do the houses look like? Are there a lot of murders? Do people steal dead bodies?” He shook his head. “Really, she is too much occupied with the morbid. Why is this?”
Cemre giggled. “Honestly, I don’t know. She’s always had a fascination with things that polite company doesn’t discuss. We’ve tried to dissuade her, but it’s no use. I think it’s her way of making us laugh. So we don’t get too bogged down by our problems.” What would she do without Rubella making inappropriate comments around the table? Her wings drooped.
“No, fragolina!” Massimo slid his hands up her arms. “Why you are sad now?”
She shrugged one shoulder, not wanting to look at him. “I’ll miss them, is all.”
“No, no! Ah, porca miseria, I am very stupid.” He shook her gently. “Please forgive me. I should have said it first. Of course you too are invited to live with us.” His eyes crinkled and he glanced away shyly. “If you so wish.”
Relief flushed through her like a gulp of cold water on a hot day. They would not leave her behind.
But she would have to leave Wenn. Her father’s house – even though she’d always known the day would come when they could no longer stay there. And her friends, Tsytryn and Gwyn. Qori would return to Ch’uya Chokolati, naturally, but Tsytryn had the job offer from Mr. Ogleby and Gwyn hadn’t said what she wanted to do next. And then there was Hyounhie, whom she’d grown very fond of. And Ellie – she’d planned to visit her as soon as the competition was finished. If her medicine had helped Taurine so much, perhaps it could help her?
“And I had the idea,” Massimo went on. “Always you speak of saving food and how many go hungry. I thought to open a place in Cantuccini where the poor can come to eat. We can collect the produce that is wasted by the restaurants and shops and cook it so that everyone who need it can have a meal for free. I will speak to my parents and the government ministers. Always we are looking for ways to better the lives of our people. I am confident this will work. And you will be in charge of everything. And I will help you.”
He looked so pleased with his idea, and she couldn’t deny that it was a wonderful dream, so she smiled and hugged him.
But why did her heart sink even as he held her close?
***
After excited promises to meet her outside the theatre with her family as soon as she’d cleaned up and retrieved her belongings, Massimo left her there in the courtyard, expected back at the royal party.
She couldn’t quite get her feet to move, frozen by the hundreds of thoughts whirring inside her skull. Yes, she hadn’t won the competition, but she had the prospect of a life with Massimo, doing the work she loved.
In Cantuccini.
It made perfect sense for her to go there. Her family would be there, Massimo could continue his princely duties when he wasn’t working with her at their free restaurant, and the palace would subsidize the whole endeavour.
It made sense.
So why did she want to cry?
She sniffed and spoke sternly to herself. “You’re sad for no good reason. Pull yourself together and be thankful for what you have.”
A tinkle and a flash in the corner of her eye was all the warning she got before Mel yelled in her ear, “You’re doing it again! When will you learn that it’s perfectly natural to want things and that taking the opportunity to work towards them is not a vile crime?”
Cemre stumbled back and rubbed her ear. “Wh-what?”
Mel huffed, hands on her ample hips. “Once again, young lady, you’re trying to squeeze yourself into someone else’s mould. You do not have to do what makes everyone else happy if it makes you miserable.”
“I’m not miserable.” Cemre wrung her hands and stared unseeingly at a sprig of honeysuckle.
Mel grabbed her shoulders and shook her, not at all gently. “What do you want ?”
“I want to be near Massimo. And my family.”
“And?”
“And . . . to cook.”
Mel let out a noise like an enraged kitten, and the next thing Cemre knew, she was standing on the pavement in one of the shoddiest parts of the city. Grubby barefoot urchins – about Thumper’s age – chased each other around a shabby square while an old orc who was all elbows and knees begged for alms on the corner. A ramshackle construction of rotten planks and cardboard poked out of an alley – somebody’s home.
Cemre’s legs ached.
“I want to feed them,” she murmured at last. “I want to help these people, right here in Wenn.”
Mel released a pleased sigh. “Then that is what you should do.”
Cemre’s head whipped to the goddess. “But my family—”
“Your family will be happy for you because they love you. Cantuccini isn’t that far, especially not now they’ve got that new railway tunnel between Angland and the continent. And it would be good that you stay near Ellie for now so she can monitor your medicine and ensure it’s working.” Mel narrowed her eyes. “Once you finally go to see her.”
“I will go. I promise. The competition is done with now, so I have no excuse not to.” She looked back at the wretched scene before her. “I suppose my family doesn’t need me anymore, now they have this new life waiting for them.”
Mel pinched the bridge of her nose. “It is taking a great deal of effort on my part not to box your ears.” She levelled a death glare at Cemre. “That is not what I meant at all . You really need to go and see Ellie immediately.”
“I will, but . . . what about Massimo?” A tremor ran through her wings. She didn’t want to be parted from him, but she also didn’t want to leave Wenn. Either way, her heart would break.
“Oh, something tells me you won’t have to worry about that, sugarplum.” Mel winked. “If anyone can contrive a way to be with you, it’s him.” She tossed her glorious fiery mane. “And besides, it’s good to make a man do a bit of work to get you. Now” – she rubbed her hands together, and Cemre was back in the courtyard – “Get yourself washed and dressed and packed and go tell your family your news.” The goddess vanished in a burst of light and glitter before Cemre could thank her.
***
Cemre had barely set foot outside the backdoor of the theatre before a ball of pink catapulted into her.
“I missed you!” squealed Rubella, gripping Cemre tighter than her bindings ever had. “You were gone for ages and I had to cook every day and Thumper was a right little arse about bathtime.”
“Rubella, language!” scolded Cemre, though she hugged her back and kissed the top of her head.
“I was not!” protested Thumper, popping out from behind Rubella’s voluminous gauzy skirt. Sparky perched on his shoulder and darted out a purple tongue as if agreeing with his friend. Cemre still wondered whether Sparky was actually a girl, but she wasn’t going to check now.
“Vittorio says he told you about Cantuccini,” the girl continued as though the scold had never happened, “and Taurine is getting married ” – this last in a stage whisper from behind a hand – “and we’ll get to go to balls and maybe even see a public hanging.”
“Rubella, you know Umberto told you very clearly that there haven’t been any public hangings for over a century.” Taurine embraced Cemre far more sedately than her sister, though no less affectionately. “We missed you terribly. Nothing was the same without you.”
“There still might be one,” grumbled Rubella.
Warmth flooded Cemre, a combination of happiness that they’d missed her and trepidation at the pain she’d cause them if she didn’t go with them to Cantuccini. Perhaps she shouldn’t . . .
No. She needed to do this. It was important. And it was what she wanted.
Taurine looked over her shoulder and beckoned, and Prince Umberto strode over, every inch a royal, but a pleasant smile graced his lips. He bowed as Taurine shyly introduced him. Then he took her hand and gazed adoringly at her. Cemre’s wings flittered with joy. There was no doubt they were thoroughly besotted with each other.
Massimo brought Xanthan over – she leaned heavily on his arm but broke free to hug Cemre. “My wonderful daughter,” she murmured into her ear. “I’m so very proud of you.”
Tears sprung to Cemre’s eyes. Her stepmother felt so very frail in her arms, all skin and bone.
“The house was far too empty without you,” Xanthan added, clasping Cemre’s shoulders. “I shall be glad to have us all together again.” Cemre’s face must have fallen, because her stepmother quickly said, “What is it? Are you sad about not winning? You must not fret about the money. It doesn’t matter anymore.”
Cemre shook her head, but her lips refused to shape the words she needed to say.
Xanthan’s eyes softened, and she turned Cemre a little away from the others, who were fortunately occupied by Rubella’s loud insistence that surely there must be some punishment of criminals that she’d be allowed to watch.
“You do not wish to join us in Cantuccini?” Xanthan asked quietly.
“You don’t need me anymore, now that you have—”
Xanthan scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. We will never stop needing or loving you. But that doesn’t mean we have to live in the same home.” She squeezed Cemre’s wrist. “Is that what you want? To live somewhere else?”
Cemre’s wings quivered as she tried to explain. “It’s just that . . . I’ve always wanted to help the starving of Wenn, and Massimo had an idea—”
“Massimo?”
“Vittorio, I mean.”
Xanthan’s eyes glinted with knowing as her lips turned up. “I see.”
“He suggested opening a place,” Cemre hurried on, “a sort of restaurant where the poor could eat for free. And the ingredients would come from all the produce discarded by the food industry. So I thought I’d . . .”
Xanthan nodded, patting her hand. “You will stay here and follow your dream.”
“Unless you want me to—”
“You cannot live your life for others.” Xanthan punctuated each word with a poke of her bony finger in Cemre’s arm. “We get few opportunities in this life to pursue our own happiness. I will not let you waste yours.” She leaned against Cemre, her smile mischievous. “Now, tell me about this ‘Massimo’ of yours . . .”
“He is her most faithful servant,” said a warm, chocolate voice behind her, and Massimo’s arm came around her shoulder.
Cemre laughed. “Servant? Of course not!”
“Well, your sous chef, then. Here in Wenn, at your restaurant for the poor.” His smile went crooked. “If you wish it.”
“I do! But how can you—”
“I am not the crown prince like my poor brother, so—” He jostled her sideways as his brother nudged him from behind.
“My deepest apologies, my lady,” said Umberto to Cemre as he joined their circle, Taurine on his arm. “I did not mean to harm you while disciplining my wayward brother.”
Massimo threw Umberto a wicked grin. “I only meant my duties are few compared to yours. I will stay here in Wenn with my love, and we will visit Cantuccini when I am required. And to visit the family, of course.”
Umberto inclined his head in a stately manner entirely appropriate for a crown prince, then turned a much tenderer expression on Taurine. “I am the last person to impede such love.”
Massimo clasped Cemre’s hand to his chest and smiled in a way that made her feel utterly adored. “For you, I will do anything to be at your side as you conquer the world.”
And with him beside her, looking at her like that, she believed him.
1. Cantuccinian for caterpillar.
2. A purveyor of stolen or spurious goods at exorbitant prices.