“Of course you are,” Chef Rude said. He turned to the rest of the class and clapped his hands together. “Tonight we are cooking one of the most difficult dishes known to mankind . . . the dreaded Chicken Cordon Bleu!”
Several of the students gasped.
“Oh, dear,” said Mr. Bop, who used a hand towel to wipe at his forehead.
“What’s the matter, Mr. Bop?” Isadora said tauntingly. “Can’t handle the heat?”
Mr. Bop slitted his eyes at her but did not respond. Oona frowned. It seemed that Isadora Iree was just as competitive and snooty as ever. Though Oona was a judge and knew she should not have such prejudicial thoughts before even tasting the food, she hoped that Mr. Bop’s dish would prove to be superior to Isadora’s, especially since Isadora had nearly cheated her way to a victory over Oona in the Magician’s Tower Contest.
“You have forty minutes to complete your dish,” Chef Rude said. “And the time starts . . . now!”
The student chefs began running about their cooking stations, pulling pots and pans from beneath counters and utensils from drawers. They scrambled for ingredients along the tall pantry wall, which occupied one whole side of the room. Oona could feel the floor shake as Mr. Bop made his way quickly toward a glass jar full of what looked like bread crumbs, but the enormous man’s hand closed down on nothing as the jar shot magically across the room into Samuligan’s outstretched fingers.
“What the . . . ?” Mr. Bop said, looking around for the jar.
“What seems to be the trouble, Mr. Bop?” Chef Rude chided. “You look lost. A chef must never be lost in his own kitchen.”
“That’s right,” Isadora said as she opened a tin of cooking oil to pour into her pan, but like Mr. Bop’s bread crumbs, Isadora’s pan flew off the counter and into Samuligan’s hand. It occurred too quickly for Isadora to understand what was happening, and she poured the oil straight onto the countertop.
“Concentrate on your own work, Miss Iree.” Chef Rude scolded her. “A great chef never wastes ingredients.”
Isadora shouted when she realized what she was doing and looked wildly around for her pan. She eyed Samuligan suspiciously as he placed the pan atop his wood-burning stove. He flashed his eyes at her, displaying his frightening grin, and Isadora did not dare accuse him.
“Now, that was interesting magic,” said Mary Shusher, who had clearly seen everything. “Though it would have been better if he had made some sparks or flashes as well. It would have accentuated his spell work.”
Oona’s mouth pulled into a tight line, and she clinched her fists. Criticizing Oona’s magic was one thing—even if she didn’t like it, Oona could reasonably accept that her own skills could use improvement—but that Mary could have the audacity to criticize Samuligan the Fay’s magic, good intentions or not, Oona found infuriating.
Mr. Bop, who was now heating a pan over his stove, gave Oona a friendly wave, and she waved back.
“Oh, you mustn’t socialize with the contestants,” Mary said sweetly to Oona. “It is unprofessional. We must remain impartial and objective.”
“Isn’t lying unprofessional as well?” Oona asked in a hushed tone.
Mary looked surprised, though Oona suspected it was just an act. “Lying? What do you mean?”
Oona turned in her chair. “Tell me, Mary, why did you lie about your whereabouts on Monday night? I have it on good authority that you were not with your grandmother on the night of the theft at the museum, but you were here, working as a food judge . . . just as you are every Monday and Wednesday night.”
Mary turned to face Oona, her eyes all at once like piercing daggers. It was most uncharacteristic of the sweet, helpful exterior she usually portrayed, and Deacon cawed uncomfortably from Oona’s shoulder. Oona braced herself for a hard rebuke. . . .
But then Mary’s expression fell, and she looked disappointed. “I . . . I lied because I didn’t want my mother to know what I’m doing. As I told you yesterday, she doesn’t like my being a critic. Since Adler was there when we were talking, I was afraid that if he knew what I was doing, he might tell my mother . . . even by accident. If she found out, she would be furious. She is adamant that one day I should become a full-fledged librarian like her.”
Deacon cocked his head thoughtfully to one side. “But . . . if you live with your parents, then how can they not know that you are coming here?”
Mary shrugged. “They have their book club every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday night. They never know I’m gone because I leave just after they do, and get home before. And my grandmother never tells them.”
Oona stared at her for a moment, feeling disappointed. “So that’s all there is to it? You lied because you didn’t want your mother to find out?”
“Or my father,” Mary said. “He thinks being a critic is a waste of time. Especially for a woman.”
Oona’s mouth fell open. “What does being a woman have to do with it?”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong. He’s not one of these completely chauvinistic men who want women simply to sit quietly and be dutiful. He’s just a very practical sort of man, concerned that a woman would never get hired by the newspaper, which is what I want to do.” Mary rubbed one hand against her cheek and spoke as if to herself. “But here I am, against his wishes, volunteering as a food critic.”
A shock of sympathy penetrated Oona’s heart. She knew what it was like to long for the approval of her parents, especially her father, whom she so often aspired to be like. And though her parents were both gone, she could easily imagine what it would be like to feel their disapproval; despite Oona’s own misgivings about Mary’s opinions, she had to admire the young woman’s ingenuity for finding a way to follow her dream, regardless of her parents’ wishes.
Oona was almost tempted to tell Mary as much, but she felt too foolish to open her mouth. Mary was, after all, still a person of interest in the case, even if she did have an alibi, and as Mary herself had pointed out, socializing would be unprofessional.
A burst of light caught Oona’s eye. Everyone turned to look. Samuligan held two cast iron frying pans, one in each hand, and was presently tossing a burning ball of purplish fire from one pan to the other. Each time the fire hit the pan it would sizzle and hiss. It was quite spectacular to watch, and it took Oona several seconds to realize that within the flame was some sort of thickening sauce.
“Such technique I have never seen before!” exclaimed Chef Rude, apparently transfixed with Samuligan’s cooking style. “Brilliant!”
“How’s mine looking, Chef Rude?” Isadora asked.
The chef rounded on her, clearly displeased that she should have interrupted him, and then gazed disapprovingly down at the contents of her pan.
“Yours is looking shriveled and slimy,” he said.
“Well, it’s not done yet,” Isadora said, but the chef had already turned to Mr. Bop’s station.
“This,” he began, and Mr. Bop looked up hopefully, “looks like someone has already eaten it and then spit it back into the pan.”
“Well, it’s how it tastes that matters,” Mr. Bop said, sounding quite hurt.
“Actually, presentation is half of a good meal,” Mary Shusher explained to Oona.
“And smell is the other half,” Hector Grimsbee said with a dramatic sweep of his arm.
“I suppose that leaves no room for taste then,” Oona said.
Mary’s well-plucked eyebrows slid closer together. “You aren’t going to tell her, are you? My mother?”
Oona considered this for a moment. “I can’t see any logical reason to do so.”
Mary took Oona’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Oh, thank you, Oona. I will tell them eventually, but only when the time is right.”
Oona nodded uncomfortably, pulling her hand away from Mary’s surprisingly strong grip. Just then a loud bang echoed around the room. Oona turned to discover Samuligan pulling fistfuls of glittery powder from his pocket and tossing them into the hot pan. Each fistful exploded like g
unpowder, sending sparks of blue and white in every direction. The other student chefs were jumping back, attempting to avoid the sparks.
But Chef Rude moved in closer, eyes wide. “Look at how crisp your outer crumb layer is getting, and so fast! It is perfection.”
“That’s not fair,” Isadora said, sounding quite huffy. “He’s using magic.”
Chef Rude spun on his heels and peered down the sides of his narrow nose at her. “A master chef uses all of his skills to create his dish.”
“Or her dish,” Isadora said.
The chef peered once again into her frying pan and sniffed. “If she can call such a shriveled morsel a dish.”
Isadora’s mouth tightened. “I do,” she said, though her voice betrayed her insecurity.
Mr. Bop began to chuckle, but then stopped when Chef Rude turned to his workstation. The chef looked into his pan, picked it up by the handle, and held it beneath Mr. Bop’s jiggling jowls. “This is already overdone! I expect better of you, Mr. Bop.”
To both Oona’s and Mr. Bop’s astonishment, the chef tipped the contents of the pan into the garbage.
“Now, start again!” Chef Rude said before striding across the room toward another terrified-looking student.
Mr. Bop stood there for a long moment, looking down into the trash at the contents of his entrée. At last, he seemed to come to himself and returned to the pantry to start again from scratch.
“That was simply rude,” Oona said.
“He has to learn somehow,” said Mary, once again back to her sweet, informative self. “His food is often overseasoned and much too salty. That ruins the palate, you know.”
“The what?” Oona said.
“Palate,” Deacon interjected. “Meaning: the roof of the mouth, or sense of taste.”
“I think Mr. Bop is an excellent cook,” said Hector Grimsbee. “The aromas he creates are divine.”
The rest of the forty minutes was whittled away with Chef Rude alternately praising Samuligan for his magical pyrotechnics and berating the rest of the class for their clumsiness and incompetence. Samuligan never once left his pan, but instead would simply snap his fingers and the ingredient he needed would fly from the pantry shelves—or alternately fly from the hands of the nearby student chefs—and into his red-hot cooking skillet. Oona was amazed that his dish was not burned to ash, but always it maintained a perfect crispy and quite delicious-looking color.
Soon Oona’s mouth began to water.
“Time is up!” the chef called.
Looking tired and bedraggled, the student chefs were all given five minutes to plate their dishes in any artful way they liked, and then asked to line up in front of the judging table. Oona counted eight contestants, including Samuligan, who lined up behind Mr. Bop at the front of the line. Isadora was just behind the faerie, and Oona could see her looking daggers into Samuligan’s back.
As hungry as she was, Oona was just beginning to wonder if she would have a large enough appetite to taste each dish, when Mr. Bop presented his entrée before them.
“The presentation is lacking somewhat in originality,” said Mary Shusher straightaway. “Though not unappetizing. Much improved from last week, Mr. Bop.”
Mr. Bop did not seem to know how to react.
Admittedly, it was not the most elegantly plated dish Oona had ever seen, but she was impressed that Mr. Bop had been able to finish in time, regardless of having to start his meal over again, and it looked delicious.
“It smells edible,” said Hector Grimsbee.
The three of them took a piece of the finely breaded chicken and chewed. Oona hadn’t realized how hungry she had been, and she swallowed her bite after several chews. Mary, however, continued to chew for what might have been half a minute before swallowing.
“Tough,” was all she said.
“Tough?” said Mr. Bop. “Why, I never!”
“No arguing with the judges, Mr Bop!” Chef Rude snapped. “Remember what happened last Monday.”
Mr. Bop’s mouth clamped shut, and even through his multicolored tattoos Oona could see his face redden.
“I thought it was just right,” Hector Grimsbee said, and patted his stomach. “I could smell it all the way down.”
Oona cringed at this, and said: “It was delicious, Mr. Bop. I commend you.”
She couldn’t help but feel slightly guilty about this judgment, however, because she knew that Mary had been right. The chicken had been on the tough side, but Oona liked Mr. Bop too much to say so. It occurred to her that this business of being an impartial critic was harder than she might have thought.
Mr. Bop smiled graciously at her, the tattoos about his face scrunching up at the corners of his mouth. “Why thank you, Miss Crate. I’m pleased that you—”
“Next!” said Chef Rude.
Mr. Bop’s mouth once again snapped shut, and he stepped aside to allow Samuligan room to set down his plate. All three judges gasped, staring at the crispy golden chicken before them. The crust appeared to sparkle, as if it had been coated in precious glitter, and the steam that rose from its surface moved like fingers, coaxing the observers closer, encouraging them to taste its playful yet sumptuous texture.
Despite his solid white eyes, Hector Grimsbee seemed hypnotized by the faerie’s dish, breathing in slow, deep breaths, lost in the aroma.
“Dig in,” Samuligan said.
But at first Oona was afraid even to touch the food, fearful of destroying such a beautifully crafted work of art. And she did not seem to be the only one. Both Grimsbee and Mary appeared to hesitate, as if to bask for as long as possible in the presence of the plate . . . but at last Oona reached forward with her fork, and the other judges did the same. They took their bites at the same time, and then simultaneously burst into tears.
Oona could not remember ever having tasted something so succulent. So divine. So . . .
“Perfect!” said Mary, who was practically bawling over her plate.
Oona knew exactly what she was speaking of. It was perfection in a single bite, and she wept because she knew that never again would she taste something so pure, so perfectly true. In that single taste was all the sorrows of the world, and all the joys, and all the dreams, and hopes, and despair. It was all there. All of it. More than Oona had thought possible. Her heart seemed to grow heavy and yet float at the same time. She felt infinite.
And then it was over. She swallowed and wiped her face with a napkin.
“This is the clear winner,” Mary Shusher said, her voice trembling with emotion.
“The undeniable winner,” agreed Hector Grimsbee, whose tear-streaked face had more color in it than Oona had ever seen before.
“Samuligan, you won!” Oona exclaimed.
In a grand sweeping gesture, the faerie removed his hat and took a bow, clearly pleased with himself.
“Wait a minute!” Isadora shouted. “You haven’t tasted the rest of ours. You have to taste all of our dishes before you declare a winner. That’s the rule!”
Mary sighed and looked at Chef Rude.
“It is the rule,” the chef said with a shrug, and he pulled a fork from his pocket to taste Samuligan’s dish for himself. As expected, the chef burst into tears of utter joy.
“Very well,” said Mary, who did not seem pleased at all to have to taste anything else after having tasted such perfection, and beckoned Isadora forward.
Isadora placed her dish before them, and as she did so, Oona’s heart leapt into her throat. She gasped, shaking her head as if she were not seeing right.
Isadora’s plating technique was beautiful; the way the entrée sat just off center but was balanced by an artful display of sauce liberally dribbled around the plate’s edge. But it was neither the sauce nor the chicken that inspired Oona’s reaction. It was the thin red ribbon that Isadora had used as decoration on top of the chicken that caused Oona to lose her breath. More specifically, it was the knot that Isadora had chosen to use. Not just any knot. It was the knot. The one
Oona had been searching for.
It was the Rose Knot.
“Oh, dear,” said Mary Shusher, picking up the knotted ribbon between her thumb and pointer finger. “I’m afraid that inedible garnish is a real no-no. The reason for this is that someone might try to eat it, and then—”
“Shush, Mary!” Oona said forcefully, and then turned to Isadora. “Where did you learn to tie this knot?”
Isadora looked as if she were confused. But Oona’s heart was thrumming. She did not think that Isadora Iree was one of the Rose Thieves—she was too young—but whoever had taught that knot to Isadora just might be a suspect, not only for stealing the Faerie Carbuncle, but also for the murder of Oona’s father.
Isadora shook her head and shrugged. “I found it in a book.”
“A book?” Oona asked urgently. “What book?”
“A book I checked out of the library,” Isadora said. “But I’ve already turned it back in.”
Oona jumped to her feet. “The public library? What was it called? What section was it in?”
Isadora’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Why, just look at it,” she said, pointing at the knot, which was still being held between Mary Shusher’s fingers. “It is a work of art. Where else would I have found it but in the art section?”
Chapter Eight
The Art of Abraham McGillicuddy
The following morning Oona was awake and waiting at the museum front entrance before nine o’clock, Deacon on her shoulder. Her plan was to get an early start on finding the art book Isadora had returned to the library and still have time to attend the political rally that afternoon.
At ten till nine, Mrs. Shusher, the librarian, and her daughter, Mary, walked up the stone steps and stopped in front of the large wooden door. Mary gave Oona a nervous look, as if afraid that Oona might tell her mother about Mary’s secret life as a food critic.
The librarian raised an eyebrow at Oona and said: “I’m afraid, my dear, that Adler Iree is not in today. He has a test at the Magicians Legal Alliance, and so he has the day off from the library.”
The Magician's Dream (Oona Crate Mystery: book 3) Page 10
