The Redwood Palace

by M K Hutchins

  Dami had been on the waiting list to become a palace servant for three years; we’d gotten word a month ago that she was next. But she might still have months to wait. I laid a hand on her shoulder. “The palace will send a courier with a summons for you eventually. Don’t worry.”

  She yanked away from me. “You’re lucky, Plum.”

  “Pardon?”

  “With your birthgift. You’ve had everything handed to you. Easy.”

  Easy? I rubbed the calluses on my hands from scrubbing crocks and the scars from a half-dozen old knife wounds and burns. Yes, my birthgift—perceptive-of-taste-and-smell—gave me an advantage in cooking, but I’d toiled for my accomplishments.

  “You think I don’t deserve him. You think Sorrel should turn me down.” My stomach churned, thinking of all the things I could learn about cooking at his home. I needed that calming salmonberry tea.

  “No. I’m bored of watching you fret. Sorrel should accept you. You were born to be a great chef,” she grumbled.

  Didn’t I spend every day training and working with Father in the village, while she traipsed about the forest? I bit back my accusations. I should talk to Dami while she was willing to talk. “Are you worried about your post?”

  “They accept yellow- and green-ranked girls for service. You think yellows like me won’t get the dirtiest tasks?”

  “They might not,” I tried to cheer her, though Dami was probably right. “You’ve never seen the Redwood Palace. You might love serving there.”

  “Serve at the palace.” Dami wrinkled her nose. The hazy pre-dawn light did nothing to soften her expression. “Fetch this, fetch that. Wash this, wash that. It’s all so menial.”

  I’d assumed my restless sister was eager to see a bit more of the world and live in the capitol. This post was perfect for her.

  “Most jobs are menial, most of the time. The better part of cooking is scrubbing crocks and cleaning parsnips.” I tried to make it sound boring, even though I loved scrubbing vegetables.

  “What you do matters.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. The last thing a mother ate before delivery determined her child’s birthgift. The perfect bite could endow an infant with remarkable abilities. A careless dish could leave the baby crippled, or worse.

  Even when births weren’t in question, proper food could heal the body or balance the soul. Everyone needed to eat, even the Ancestors. What could be more important than cooking?

  “Maybe the work isn’t exciting, but aren’t you excited to travel?”

  She snorted.

  “Well, then think of the tax exemption you’ve granted Father for being on the list. Thanks to you, he’s bought every home in Clamsriver a decent crock.” I gestured toward the clustered thatch homes of the village. “You’ve helped so many families already.”

  “The villagers can rot for all I care. Maybe I’ll stay with the trees.” Her face was stone-serious.

  I stared at her. “Dami, you can’t abandon your post.”

  A breeze rustled through the garden. “You always mix up can’t with shouldn’t.”

  “Father would have to pay the back-taxes.” I didn’t have to say the rest aloud—that Father didn’t have any savings. A chef’s duty was to increase the health and longevity of others; Father generously shared his skills and his salary toward that end.

  Dami shrugged. “Our parents are smart. They’ll find a way to pay it back.”

  “Even if that were true, they’d suffer horribly in the meantime.”

  Dami glared at me. “None of you ever care about what I want. My happiness.”

  “You could be happy after plunging your family into ruin?” I asked.

  “The world isn’t as simple as you think it is, Plum. Food doesn’t always make everything better.”

  I winced. Food was my world. But that didn’t mean I was stupid. “Your agreement with the palace is for two years. You can leave after that, if you like. Is that really so horrible?”

  She folded her arms and leaned back against one of the log pillars supporting the eaves over the porch. “I was supposed to be a soldier.”

  I gawked. “Is your brain boiling between your ears? A soldier? You know plenty of those don’t come home, right?”

  “Plum, you’re usually better-spoken than this,” Dami sneered. “I’m not sure if I should be hurt or proud that your insipid little mouth can be rude.”

  She wanted to rile me up. I stepped closer and kept my voice calm. “You do remember the girl they hung in Meadowind six months ago, the one who tried to join the army? It’s treason to lie to your officer in wartime, even about your gender.”

  Dami shrugged.

  I put a hand on her shoulder and turned her toward me. “Promise me you won’t do something that reckless.”

  It seemed like something she might do.

  “Fine. I promise. I’ll be boring like you for the rest of my life.”

  I swallowed my annoyance and managed not to snap at her for that one.

  “But you can’t tell me Father wasn’t hoping I’d be a soldier when he cooked for my birthgift. Vinegary kale. Strong-of-arm. He thought I’d be a boy.”

  “I’m glad you’re not, with the war on.” Battles raged on the opposite border of Rowak, but we’d felt its effects here. Five Clamsriver boys had already joined their Ancestors.

  “What’s a soldier in peacetime? I could be helping—fighting for Rowak and its citizens.”

  “And now you’re one for helping.” I shook my head. “You’re a puzzle of contradictions, sister.”

  Dami glowered. “I’d rather have blunt and insulting than a nicely-worded lecture, Plum. Mother loves all this work, or she wouldn’t keep doing it.”

  “We found Mother collapsed in the garden yesterday.”

  “Her fault,” Dami said, not a trace of guilt on her face.

  “Why are you so convinced that being a soldier is more honorable than being a daughter? Mother’s a citizen, too. Help her.”

  Sunrise glowed at the tips of the trees behind Dami, the exact rich, amber color of good duck stock.

  “I’m going back to bed.” Dami stomped past me and disappeared into the house.

  The morning spring air felt cold on the back of my neck. I finished setting up our picnic alone.

  Long shadows stretched from the forest, but dawn scoured the sky to a powder-blue. Father, Mother, Dami, and I knelt around the table, eating steamed buckwheat drizzled with sweet-and-sour blackberry molasses.

  Dami wouldn’t look at me. She barely looked at her food.

  “Sweetheart, you should eat,” Mother encouraged Dami. “It’ll improve your disposition. You can’t be muttering and slouching when you’re at the Redwood Palace. What would your Ancestors think?”

  “I’m sure they have better things to do than nag me,” she mumbled, so only I could hear.

  How could she say such a thing, with Nana gone to the Ancestors just this autumn? Dami straightened her back, but she didn’t smile.

  I poured my parents tea to give myself something to do other than shout at Dami.

  Father sipped his tea, then raised an eyebrow at me. “Sweet salmonberry. Not anxious about anything, are we, Plum?”

  “Of course not.” I nervously balled my hands in my skirt. A courier carrying my fate in his satchel might arrive any moment.

  Father chuckled and poured me a cup. I took it respectfully with both hands and sipped.

  Sweet, sour, and spice, rounded out with a touch of salt. It stilled my writhing innards. For the first time all morning, I took a deep, calm breath. The air smelled of so many familiar things. The old wood of our house. Dew on our sprawling vegetable garden. Spicy redwood bark and sweet forget-me-nots from the forest beyond.

  “Look!” Mother pointed down the path at the courier strolling our way.

  My pulse pounded in my throat, but the tea kept my stomach calm. The conflicting sensations left me dizzy. He was coming here. With my letter?

  I clenched m
y fists in my skirt under the table, then made myself stretch them flat. I smoothed my skirt and folded my hands neatly on my lap, but I couldn’t keep them from quivering.

  Dami rolled her eyes at me. I didn’t care.

  I recognize the courier as he strode up our porch steps—Elek. He grinned, front two teeth missing, his skin wrinkled like old leather. It always made me smile in turn.

  “Good morning, Elek,” Father said. “May we offer you some buckwheat?”

  “Ah, smells lovely, that does. I’d be happy to take a bowl from you.” He didn’t offer up any letters from his satchel, but he flicked me a glance, a mischievous crinkle around his eyes.

  He did have my letter. I forgot not to clench my skirt.

  Elek laughed as he sat at the table. “Ah, I shouldn’t tease you! It’s hard to be a young thing, feeling like every moment’s as long as a year. Let’s see. I do believe I brought more than my appetite to this table.”

  He made a show of rummaging through his envelopes. Most were plain, undyed cloth, but bright embroidery decorated a handful of them. One of those would be mine, wouldn’t it? Already, the mild tea was wearing off. All his rummaging wrung out my insides like an old dish towel. I took another sip.

  At last, Elek held one aloft. Too fine for my letter—purple and amber brocade, a royal envelope. “Ah, let’s see. This is for Dami.”

  Dami snatched it from him and shoved it under the table, but everyone had already seen the royal colors.

  “It’s from the palace! Open it,” Mother urged her.

  I stared at my hands, swallowing the lump in my throat. Nothing for me. And a letter for Dami that she strangely dreaded.

  Mother craned her neck trying to glimpse the envelope again. “You’ll make such good connections, serving in the Redwood Palace! Perhaps you’ll even increase your rank, if you serve remarkably.”

  “You think I’ll scrub floors so brilliantly they’ll promote me to Green?”

  “Dami!” Mother scolded, horrified.

  My sister dropped the unopened letter on the ground and stalked off toward the woods. I pursed my lips. Following her right now was useless—better to wait until she’d had a moment to cool.

  Mother opened the envelope, shaking her head. “It’s as I thought—she’s to report to the palace in seven days.”

  Father quietly apologized to Elek for Dami’s rudeness, but Elek waved it away. “I can hold nothing against a house that prepares—and shares—such an excellent breakfast. Perhaps my other letter will be more cheering.”

  He pulled a finely woven envelope embroidered with blueberry shrubs and ginger flowers from his satchel.

  I jerked upright. “Elek, don’t tease me anymore. Is that for me?”

  “It is.”

  He passed me the envelope. This had to be from Sorrel of Westbank. I could shortly be learning the finest cooking methods, with access to the best ingredients. My Yellow-ranked sleeves itched against my arm. Did his family think me beneath them?

  “Aren’t you going to open it?” Elek asked. “Now you’re teasing me.”

  I felt like I teetered on the edge of a cliff. I couldn’t put the letter back once I’d read it. This moment held hope, possibility. The next might bring rejection.

  I slipped the fine paper from its sheath and unfolded it.

  “I am pleased to accept...”

  I got no further before closing my eyes. Accept. Hand shaking, I passed the letter to Father. “Please read it out.”

  Father’s voice stayed smooth.

  I am pleased to accept your proposal to arrange a wedding between Green-ranked Sorrel of Westbank and Yellow-ranked Plum of Clamsriver. In two week’s time, we will come to your home for the formal engagement ceremony.

  I will admit, old friend, it was my inclination to decline your offer. But when Sorrel heard of it, he was overjoyed at the prospect of marrying a chef—someone who already loves what he loves. I am a soft father who spoils his children, I’m afraid. I couldn’t refuse my son’s pleas.

  I am delighted that I’ll be seeing you again soon. My son, on the other hand, is disappointed that I insisted on propriety, and didn’t allow him to come to your Plum right away. Instead, he is cleaning and rearranging his rooms for his new bride. Usually I cannot drag him out of the kitchens. This marriage is not what I’d planned, but my son is extraordinarily happy, and I thank you for that.

  Sorrel wanted me. He’d pleaded and argued for me. And I’d meet him in two weeks!

  I had to agree with Sorrel and not his father—it would have been better if he’d come right away. If he were standing here, right now.

  Elek thumped the table. “Fine news! Fine news!” He packed in another spoonful of buckwheat.

  “Good news all around,” Mother said, glancing into the woods, a worried line between her brows.

  I stood before she could. “Stay, Mother. I know you’ll want to hear the news from the front. I’ll find Dami.”

  “Thank you.” She nodded her appreciation.

  Father turned to Elek. “Is there any war news?”

  “There might be. Could you dish me up another bowl?”

  I strolled beneath the redwoods. They shot skyward, impossibly taller than any building. On the ground, shade-loving ferns unfurled for spring.

  Dami wasn’t sitting on her favorite log—a crumbling old thing half-covered in moss and frilly, inedible mushrooms. I sat on it anyway, waiting, my feet dangling.

  I watched ants crawling through dead tree needles and sprouting plants. The air tasted of loam, mixed with the brightness of buttercups in bloom somewhere nearby.

  But Dami didn’t come to talk to me. Maybe that was just as well. It felt cruel to have good news when she’d gotten ill. And I still couldn’t think of anything new to encourage her about her post.

  I stared up at the branches splayed against the sky. We’d gotten along so well as children. When had we become so different?

  When I returned to our house, Mother knelt in the garden, weeding around staked-up raspberry canes.

  “Mother! You have to rest!” How had she found more weeds?

  Stiffly, slowly, she turned and smiled up at me. “Your father just headed into the village. If you run, you’ll catch him before he gets to Sandpiper’s house.”

  I faltered. I should take care of Mother first—but what could I do? Father and I used to treat her daily with pickled rhubarb, but deadening her pain only made her work harder and hurt her back again. Sweet rhubarb would help her actually heal, but she never rested long enough for it to work.”

  “Your sister will be along to help me shortly. Go on.”

  Dami wouldn’t be along shortly. She never was.

  I managed to pull Mother away from the garden and sit her inside with some spinning, but I knew she wouldn’t stay there long.

  “I’ll help you today,” I offered.

  “Nonsense! Your father needs you. You don’t have long now to aide him; I’m not sure what he’ll do without you. As your mother, I insist you go. Now. Or I’ll chase you out, Plum. I promise I will.”

  She had before. I sighed, bowed respectfully to her, and hurried down the road.

  After a long day working alongside Father, I slipped into the room I shared with Dami. I untied my skirt, hung it on its peg, then unrolled our mattress and plopped onto it. Usually I found the fresh scent of the mattress’ pine bough stuffing comforting. Not today.

  I should be daydreaming about Sorrel, but guilt gnawed at my marrow. I was Dami’s older sister. I was supposed to watch out for her, care for her. And I’d failed. Miserably.

  The porch steps creaked and the front door slid open, then closed. Dami’s footsteps followed. My throat tightened. What could I say?

  But she didn’t enter my room. She went to our parents’.

  “Now that we’re ready to sleep, you finally deign to come home?” Father demanded.

  Mother’s voice was much softer. “She’s just nervous about her letter. Isn’t that right
, sweetheart?”

  Mother always was quick to forgive.

  Dami snorted.

  “I’m so proud of you,” Mother continued encouragingly. “It’s such a great opportunity for you to make connections in Rowak.”

  “Thanks for making me wish I was red-ranked,” Dami snapped. Rank determined which government posts a person could hold, from Purple—the ruling rank—down to the dishonored Red, who couldn’t take any posts. “Then you couldn’t toss me away to be a servant.”

  Dami always abandoned us—not the other way around.

  Father’s voice reverberated through the wall. “You can spite me and hate me, but you will not talk to your mother that way.”

  Dami ignored his ire and casually asked, “Did Sorrel accept Plum?”

  Mother’s voice came out tentative and soft. “Are you jealous?”

  “Jealous!” Dami laughed. “You treat her worse than you treat me! Hawking her off as a wife to some man you’ve never met, just because he’s a chef. Plum might be cold and completely fixated on cooking, but even she deserves more consideration than that.”

  I curled the blanket tight against my chest. Cold?

  “It’s what Plum wants,” Father said sternly.

  I pressed my ear hard against the wooden wall.

  “Maybe right now she thinks that. She’s been oblivious to everything but cooking for years, ever since Grandma’s health turned. And now that she’s finally dead, Plum’s obsessive. Let your daughter grieve. She might actually care about, I dunno, someone who might love her if you gave her a moment to catch her breath.”

  I dug my fingernails into my blanket. Of course I cared if he loved me. But who except a chef would? I wasn’t eternally forgiving and patient like Mother. I wasn’t fearless and beautiful like Dami. I wasn’t half as charitable as my father. I was a cook—nothing more, nothing less.

  Sorrel could respect my skills. Respect me. Love me? I imagined us sitting close together, pouring over recipes, or picking herbs in the garden, or squabbling adorably over how much salt should go in a hotpot. With him, I had a chance to not only grow my skills, but to be really, truly, happy.