Chapter 4
CHAPTER
FOUR
PAMELA
I am a terrible person. Terrible.
Because I might be manhandling this poor bird just to see Toghar's reaction.
He makes an unholy sound when I plumb the internal cavity, looking for the giblets and organs, and his mouth falls open as I pull my hand free.
He stares at me with aghast horror, and I can't help it—I burst into giggles. "Oh god, you should see your face."
He chuckles, just a little. "For a moment, you had me going. I thought you really were going to do something with that...thing's innards."
Oh dear. I pause, putting the dripping bits into a bowl. "Now's the time I should probably tell you that I'm going to make a gravy out of them."
He makes a horrified sound again, then clears his throat. "I, uh, I am certain it will be quite delicious in your hands."
"You're sweet." Maybe I'll wait a bit to explain to him where the stuffing goes.
"Tell me what I can do to help you." He puts on a brave face, but I can tell he's getting nauseated by the sight of the poor turkey. Well, not really a turkey. I'm not sure what kind of bird it is, just that it's one that isn't intelligent enough to be anything but someone's dinner.
I knew Toghar was vegetarian, but I had no idea he would be so distracted by some dead quasi-turkey on the counter. "How do you feel about pie?"
"I feel very, very good about pie."
TOGHAR
Pamela has a kind heart. It's why she sets me to making the pies instead of whatever she's doing to that poor carcass.
I try not to watch, keeping my focus on the dough I'm pressing into the pie tins, using a tined instrument to form a pattern on the edge of the pan.
I want to gaze at Pamela as she works and confess all my feelings to her.
To tell her that I admire her and want to touch her, not as a friend but as a lover.
But when she shoves her hand in the animal's backside, I get distracted every time. Perhaps food preparation is not the time or place to confess my adoration. Perhaps I need to wait until things are less...busy.
I glance over at her and am horrified to see that she is shoving fistfuls of some crumbly creation into the poor corpse. My thighs tighten and my ass puckers reflexively.
Perhaps I'll wait until later to discuss personal matters.
Hours later, everyone is fed and happy, and I could not be in love with Pamela more.
She worked tirelessly all day to craft an enormous meal—the roasted bird overflowing with the bread mash, buttered tubers and other veg, sweet pies, steaming rolls, stuffed eggs, several dishes of something she calls a casserole, and a tart fruit jelly that goes atop all of it.
The dining table practically creaks with the weight of the meal, and I can tell by the teary delight on Lady va'Rin's face that this meal of thanks has made her very happy indeed.
She hugs Pamela repeatedly, exclaiming her joy.
Pamela is equally emotional, wiping at her wet cheeks.
I watch from afar at my post guarding the door, but I can feel their joy in the air, and it pleases me to see Pamela's work so appreciated.
The family eats, and even though there are three children, Lord va'Rin and his lady, they only make a very small dent in the mountain of food.
This, it seems, is part of the holiday, because they are quite elated about leftovers as well.
A bone from the bird's carcass is dug out and snapped in half by the children, which seems a rather bloodthirsty sort of ritual, but I long ago accepted that humans have strange customs, and I try not to judge it too much.
Once the family is done eating, the dishes are to be cleared, and I assist with that, simply because I cannot abide standing by the door and doing nothing while Pamela works so hard.
She fusses at me but lets me help, and we take cart after cart of delicious, prepared (and barely eaten) food back to the kitchen.
"Are you pleased with your holiday?" I ask as we cover dishes in sheets of plas-film and put them into the refrigeration unit. "Was it everything you wanted?"
"Oh, it's not over yet. Just the family's part is done."
I pause, uncertain of what she means. "There is a second half to this holiday?" Kef, I hope it doesn't involve more bone-breaking and cavity-stuffing. I swallow hard as I heft a heavy pan full of food into the cold storage. "Tell me more."
"I'll just show you. That's easiest." She beams at me, all sweet, flushed cheeks and flour-covered apron. "It'll be ready soon enough. Until then, I should say thank you."
"For?"
Pamela moves to my side and bats at my arm, smiling. "For helping me, of course. You didn't have to, but the extra set of hands was very appreciated."
"I have strong hands," I blurt out. Then I want to kick myself. Why did I say such a fool thing?
"Yes, you do." Pamela touches my arm again. I can't tell if she's flattering me or teasing me for saying such silliness. "And I enjoyed working alongside you. You're easy to talk to."
Is...this a trap? Did one of the guards tell her how I feel?
They all know I'm wildly obsessed with the pretty human cook, that I've scheduled my work shifts to match hers, that I covet her smiles and laughter.
It amuses them to watch me get flustered every time she looks in my direction. "I...thank you?"
She chuckles, the sound so caressing she might as well brush my sac with her bare hand. "Why would you thank me? We're friends."
Friends. I do believe I hate that word. "Yes," I manage, voice thick. "Friends."
I say nothing else as we continue to put away the food.
The kitchen still smells delicious, of braised veg and warm spices, and I'm briefly envious of the va'Rin family and their feast, so carefully made by Pamela.
I have nutrition bars back in the barracks, and if I feel the need for something different, I can always make myself a comforting bowl of noodles.
It's not as if I'd want to eat the bird anyhow.
"Well, now that we've tidied all that, we've room to work," Pamela tells me.
She bustles across the kitchen and opens an oven that I did not realize was still on.
The moment she opens it, wave after wave of delicious scents fill the kitchen.
With protective gloves covering her hands, she pulls out a casserole dish, then another.
A pie. Another pie. An enormous tureen full of what looks like the savoriest noodles I've ever seen.
I'm in awe, my mouth watering. "Did you forget to feed Lord and Lady va'Rin some of the prepared food?"
To my surprise, she gives me a rather shy look. "Actually, I made this for you. I wanted to celebrate the holiday and thought that I'd celebrate with you. There's no one else I'd rather spend the day with, and I wanted to make sure that you'd enjoy the food. So I made a feast with you in mind."
She did all of this under my nose and I had no idea.
We'd made so much food over the day that I hadn't realized that all of it was not appearing on the table.
I stare at the bounty of delicious-smelling meals, all made without the cheeses and meats that humans love.
These are mesakkah foods, right down to the fried leaves and piles of roasted tubers lightly coated in oil and pepper.
She did this for me.
Because she wanted to spend time with me. Because she is thankful for me.
I pull her close and press my mouth to hers.
She makes a startled sound, and for a moment, I wonder if I am kissing wrong.
It is not something mesakkah do, but I have dreamed of this day for months now, and I have prepared.
There is a human guide to lovemaking called Outlander, and I borrowed it one afternoon when I saw it left on Lady va'Rin's sewing table.
I had the computer scan it in and read the text to me through my data pad, as I cannot read the human tongue.
It was very enlightening. I studied the mating passages in that book a great many times, preparing for the day that I might need to impress Pamela with my skills. I paid very close attention to how the male in the guide touched the female.
Trying to remember it with my lips upon Pamela's is very difficult, though. She is so...soft. So yielding yet sweet. I groan despite my efforts to remain in control. It occurs to me that I did not ask for permission first, and I should have. I lift my head—
She whimpers and pulls me back down, her lips on mine once more.
That is all the permission I need. Ravenous, I kiss her again, enjoying the mash of lips together, the press of my mouth to hers, sometimes hard, sometimes soft.
I remember in the book that tongues were used, and I brush mine against the parting of her lips.
Pamela moans. Her hands twist in my uniform, and she's kissing me back, her tongue rubbing along mine.
It is the greatest sensation in the world, and my mind goes blank.
I forget about the holiday, I forget about confessing my feelings to her.
I forget about everything but the sensation of her mouth, her lips, her tongue, her taste.
"Toghar," she pants between kisses. "W-what is this?"
"This is me kissing you," I tell her. She's talking, and that means she's no longer focusing on my kisses. It means I need to kiss her more, to make her as lost to pleasure as I am. "Can I touch you more?"
She gives me a startled look and then nods. "If you'd like to."