by M K Hutchins
I don’t know if I slept. The world seemed a hazy array of shapes and noises I couldn’t place. Words that didn’t sound like my own language. For a moment, I thought I’d become the real Dami—lying with my skull cracked open on a battlefield while others counted the dead.
By the time I felt the wood grain under my fingers and remembered where I was, my mouth tasted faintly of celery and parsley. My head pounded.
“Dami should recover soon; she didn’t digest enough to ever be in danger of dying. Lady Sulat’s stable, but she’ll need constant care and it might take her a week or more to wake up. She was already frail from delivery.”
Such a sweet voice. It sent a thrill through my heart. What did I love so much about it? Sorrel. Ah, Sorrel the amazing chef, Sorrel who had greenhouses and a library at home. Sorrel—
—who’d already chosen and married someone else.
I groaned and opened my eyes. Soldiers crammed the room. Sorrel sat by Lady Sulat’s bed, glaring at me. I still laid on the floor, staring up at rafters and soldier’s beards. Odd, that I’d never noticed the rafters were as clean and polished as everything else in these apartments.
One of the soldiers knelt next to me, dripping parsley-flavored celeriac broth into my mouth. Sorrel must have cooked this version; a hint of green onion and sweet carrot backed the mild sour.
A soldier spoon-fed Lady Sulat as well. Her chest rose up and down in long, shallow breaths. Alive. I’d kept her alive.
I brushed my fingers over the pounding part of my skull, but only found a lump. I’d be fine, too.
“Is it wise to keep that person here?” Sorrel jutted his chin at me, like I was a stain on the floor. “The poisoner belongs in a cell where she can’t do more harm.”
I spluttered, trying to defend myself, sending warm broth trickling down my neck and into my dress.
“Before she warned us about Lady Sulat and subsequently saved her life,” Moss said, “she named someone else the poisoner.”
Sorrel kept glaring at me, as if that could erase me from this world. Yesterday I’d prayed that he’d notice me, look at me. But I hadn’t imagined hate glinting in those dark, hematite eyes. “She tasted Lady Sulat’s food. You can’t believe she’s innocent.”
“You think Dami poisoned herself?”
“She’s alive, isn’t she?” Sorrel snapped.
The doors slid open and Lieutenant-General Behon strode into the bedroom. His skin glistened from exertion, but his agile face showed nothing of fatigue—only cold inquiry. “It’s true. Lady Sulat’s poisoned. How did this happen?”
“She did this!” Sorrel ranted. “She’s a hateful, spiteful—”
Lieutenant-General Behon silenced him with a masterfully raised eyebrow that seemed to reach to the top of his bald crown. “Lieutenant Yellow-ranked Moss. Your explanation, please.”
Moss bowed, then summarized.
Lieutenant-General Behon pinned me with his stare, the condescending curve of his mouth screaming his loathing. “The poison taster failed to warn her mistress. Suspicious, indeed.”
All the syllables in suspicious sounded like rope hissing against rope, a noose being tied.
“I don’t know why she isn’t already locked up,” Sorrel agreed.
The wood floor dug into my shoulders and back. With a single step, either of them could crush my face underfoot. “It was bittersleep. I didn’t notice it beneath the sweet. I tasted poorly today, but I didn’t attack her.”
“Lieutenant-General Behon, we needn’t rely on accusations.” Moss stood in a military-stiff posture. It didn’t suit him. “As soon as Lady Sulat’s poisoning was confirmed, I sent a squad of soldiers to search both the rooms Dami has lived in and the room of the woman Dami accused—a Green-ranked Violet of Napil.”
Moss had believed me, had trusted my word. When I could sit up again, I’d make him a honeyed fruit compote.
“You didn’t wait for my commands.” Lieutenant-General Behon stabbed Moss with narrowed eyes and a tightened mouth, the picture of condemnation.
Moss barked a laugh. “You only now arrived! If I’d waited for the messenger to fetch you from the walls, it might have given the poisoner time to cover her tracks.”
“You say that like you found something.” Lieutenant-General Behon’s face returned to a disciplined neutral. “You have evidence of Dami’s guilt?”
Moss turned to the lattice door. “Suruc! Bring it in.”
Suruc carried a redwood box, the varnish making the red even richer. Low-relief carvings of buttercups and bees decorated the corners. The top panel consisted of a lattice of interlocking squares, contrasted against a pale white-pine backing.
“That’s my Violet’s! How dare you take it?” Sorrel snapped.
Lieutenant-General Behon graced him with a flat, incredulous stare.
Suruc knelt. He emptied the contents one by one—a small manuscript box and a number of letters. Then he snapped a false bottom out of place. Suruc’s broad shoulders blocked my view, but Lieutenant-General Behon peered closer and Sorrel blanched.
“All these vials, with their liquids and dried herbs... it seemed rather suspicious,” Moss said. “I had Suruc consult with Tanoak, an apprentice in the kitchens, as to their natures. They are all poisons.”
I exhaled, not sure if I was shaking or imagining it. Silently, I whispered a prayer of thanks to my Ancestors for this proof that I wasn’t crazy-jealous or a would-be-murderer.
Sorrel’s pallor greened. “Dami planted those. She must have...”
“Somehow crafted a false bottom to a box in Violet’s possession?” Moss asked. “I didn’t know Dami possessed such fine carpentry skills. We’ve wasted her talents here.”
Sorrel’s hands clenched and unclenched at his side. Under his hateful glare, I felt like a bear hanging in the butcher’s room with my innards already scooped out.
What had I expected—that Sorrel would be pleased I’d disposed of his new wife? The woman he doted on?
“Somehow, she did it. To frame Violet.” Sorrel’s hoarse voice sounded like sand scrubbed against a crock wall.
“Dami’s been under the military’s watchful eye since the first poisoning. When would she have done this?”
“You’re right, Moss,” Lieutenant-General Behon said, expression neutral. As he turned to Lady Sulat, his face softened in concern. “The evidence against Violet is undeniable.”
Moss bowed. “Violet is in a military prison.” He handed Lieutenant-General Behon a slip of paper. “This location. You can interrogate her at your convenience.”
“I will.”
The other soldiers in the room nodded gruffly. No one here had love or sympathy for the woman who’d poisoned their Minister of Military Affairs.
Except for Sorrel. I wanted to stand, to run my hands over the lines carving his face into hateful chunks and apologize. I’d hurt him once by abandoning our engagement. And now I’d hurt him by revealing Violet’s duplicity. He needed candied beets or honeyed hazelnuts or ripe, sweet blackberries for his heartsickness. I ached to cook for him, to be in the kitchen with a crock humming merrily next to us.
Maybe if I convinced the Council to pardon my lies, we could spend the rest of our lives in the kitchens. We could both be happy, like we’d planned. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Sorrel.”
“I’ll prove you’re guilty somehow, poisoner.” He spat on my face, then stomped past the soldiers and out of the room.
I stared at the bedroom ceiling while Moss, Lieutenant-General Behon, and a few others discussed their next action in the sitting room. That left Lady Sulat, more soldiers, Poppy, and the wet nurse in the same room with me. But I couldn’t focus on any of them. My head buzzed.
However much I loathed Violet, it still seemed surreal. She’d tried to kill Lady Sulat. She’d tried to kill this infant. Poor Sorrel loved her. I couldn’t imagine that kind of betrayal. Dami had abandoned me, but she hadn’t tried to murder anyone.
Sooner than I expected, Moss
knelt next to me.
“Meeting over?” I asked, head still pounding, vision still swimming.
He nodded. “We’re sending Azalea, Lady Sulat’s daughter, east to stay with her paternal grandmother. Lady Sulat and the infant will go to a safehouse. You’re to come with us and nurse our Lady back to health. Can you do that?”
To cook again. My heart thrilled. “Yes.”
I’m not sure where we went. Moss told me to let the poison-induced sleep come, and I obeyed. I woke in a dim room with rough wood paneling. It smelled like spruce, with something earthy behind it. A lantern in the corner trailed smoke up to a vent in the ceiling.
“We’re underground, aren’t we?”
Moss sat next to my rolled-out mattress, whittling. “Didn’t know you had eyes.”
“This is the safehouse?”
“Three bedrooms including this one, a cellar, and the main room with the hearth. It’s not fancy, but it’s secure.”
“The... Palace Guards. King Alder. They don’t know where this place is, do they?”
“Did you not understand what safehouse means? There are a handful of people here, all highly trusted.”
I sat up slowly. Despite feeling well-rested, my skull ached like someone had slammed it against a wall. “Can I stay here?”
“You are staying here.” Moss gave me an odd look.
Hope twisted my innards. “Can I hide here during my trial? Someone else could tell them Violet’s the poisoner, and maybe they’ll pardon me.”
“You’re hoping they’ll let you go because Violet’s done worse?”
“I caught her.”
Moss exhaled slowly. “That’s no guarantee you’ll escape judgment. You lied. There’s every justification to hang you.”
“I know. That’s why I’m asking to stay. Here. Safe.”
Moss leaned back in his chair. “I could ask—Lieutenant-General Behon is the highest-ranking officer in Askan-Wod now—but it won’t happen. Lady Sulat vouched for you. If you don’t appear, the Palace Guards would have a right to search all Lady Sulat’s buildings, including military facilities. We can’t have that.”
My lungs felt like they’d collapsed, but I tried to keep my breathing steady. “This safehouse is under a military facility, isn’t it?”
“Looks like you’re growing a brain.”
“Thanks, Moss.”
“Always here to help.”
I sighed. “Is there a second safehouse? One the guards wouldn’t find if they searched?”
“Oh, they wouldn’t find this one. That’s not the problem. But would you let the Palace Guard crawl over every building under your command? They have no love for the military. What they could find isn’t half as dangerous as false evidence they might plant.”
I stilled. The spruce smell was suddenly suffocating. “I’m not as useful as they are dangerous. That’s what it is, isn’t it?”
“Dami, Lady Sulat doesn’t want to see you hang. She gave you a way out.”
Bane. If I was Dami, why wouldn’t I agree to his proposal? Would he hate me, once he uncovered my lies?
“I know young people are prone to romantic fits and ideas of love, but you’ll have plenty of time to develop love later.”
Going to trial only risked my life. Not Dami’s. Not my parents. Who’d keep Nana from becoming a Hungry Ghost if my family disappeared? I’d already lost Nana once. I wasn’t going to lose her again.
Besides, I couldn’t treat Bane the way Violet treated Sorrel. I couldn’t use him, trick him into marrying an imitation of Dami. “Is there any way to know what the Council will decide beforehand?”
Moss tsked. “You’re that disgusted by his missing arm?”
“No!” Guilt burned in my chest. Is that why Bane thought I rejected him?
“I know it’s rushed. No formal engagement ceremony, no courtship, but what choice do you have?” Moss asked. “I didn’t meet my wife until our wedding day. Batting eyelashes beforehand might be pleasant, but it doesn’t make a good marriage. It’s a good deal more about compromise and taking care of each other. Bane’s not a selfish man. You could be happy together.”
My heart clenched like over-kneaded dough. Maybe Bane could be happy with me. Maybe he wouldn’t regret my lies or betray my family—I’d never told him why I’d lied to the Royal House and he’d still proposed.
But I was selfish. I wanted more from my marriage than a kind man. I wanted a kindred spirit. I wanted a chef. I wanted to wake up next to someone who adored me so much that I didn’t wake up wondering why Nana wasn’t humming in the next room over. Why Nana wasn’t singing good morning in my doorway. Why Nana wasn’t sitting in the corner of the kitchen, spinning and chatting while I put on the buckwheat for breakfast.
I wanted my new life to be so full of love that I could look fondly back at my memories of Nana without hurting anymore.
Moss continued, voice soft. “I can run a message to him this evening. Lady Sulat won’t command Bane to marry you, but now that we know Violet’s guilty, he might be willing to take your acceptance.”
Bane deserved someone as unselfish as him. “I...”
My words clumped together.
Moss peered at me. “I don’t understand you. Are you scared of the wedding night? Because having an unselfish husband is advantageous in that regard, too. You needn’t worry.”
“That’s not what I was thinking about!” My cheeks burned like freshly-raked coals. “How soon do I have to choose?”
“Before the trial,” Moss muttered, frowning.
“So, if we get married the day before?” Four days to the trial. Three days to decide. To gamble on whether or not the Purple-Blue Council would acquit me.
He sighed, exasperated. “Yes. That would do. I guess I’m not running him any messages. Trying to avoid this marriage until the last hour... that’d probably crush him all over again.”
But Bane would heal. He couldn’t have cared that deeply about me to begin with. Hopefully I’d find my own way out of this trial. Hopefully Bane would enjoy long, happy years with an honest and unselfish wife.
I bit my lip. “I... think I’m getting closer with the Hungry Ghost. Can I go back to the kitchens tonight and cook?”
“Cook what?”
I stared down at my hands. I needed to cook something. Anything. “Archivist Linaan won’t be at the Hall of Records this afternoon. I could research with Archivist Kochan.”
“I’m not going to risk dropping you into the arms of an upset Palace Guard without a better plan that that. They have every reason to suspect you of poison and you have no conscious Lady Sulat to dissuade them.”
I took stock of the safehouse pantry. Lots of beans, buckwheat, and peas. Jars of salt fish, rabbit jerky, dried plum, apricots, and cherries. Crates of turnips, pumpkin, and parsley root. Blackberry molasses, maple syrup, salt, an array of vinegars and wines. Crocks of whole pickled cabbages, pickled hotradish, and pickled herbs. Cords of wood. I’d be cooking like it was the middle of winter, with only storable ingredients, but the variety impressed me. And the quantity. With six guards, Lady Sulat, myself, and the nurse down here, we could live off the cellar for six months.
I grabbed some dried peas, dried mushrooms, assorted vegetables, and celeriac before jogging upstairs. I made Lady’s Sulat’s celeriac infusion, then prepped a midday meal for everyone else. My hands fell into their old rhythms. I smelled and tasted, stirred and simmered. Immersed in this kitchen, my soul felt centered. For a moment, I could forget ghosts and trials and focus on vegetables and hotpots.
“Everything meets your approval?” Moss asked. He sat on the floor, a pace away from the low table, his head leaned back against the wall.
I nodded. “She’d benefit from a broth made with heart. Bear or elk is best, though duck or rabbit would suffice. Could we get that down here?”
“We’re not trapped. You tell us what she needs and we’ll deliver,” Moss said.
I didn’t see Lieutenant-General Behon anywh
ere. The other guard sat on the floor, on top of a trap door, playing a game of stones. I frowned. If we were underground, we’d have to go down and come back up to leave. I supposed the room was more defensible this way.
I laid out bowls of the pea stew, made savory and bright by the dried chanterelles. “These are for you. I’ll go feed Lady Sulat.”
I entered the room. A wet-nurse already sat there, humming to the infant. Except for the slight movement of her chest, Lady Sulat looked like a corpse. “There’s food for you by the hearth.”
The wet-nurse nodded and left. Moss followed me and watched me dribble lukewarm broth into Lady Sulat’s mouth. Maybe the military still didn’t trust me. If I gained that trust, would they risk hiding me?
The knot in my stomach said no. Not when I could easily save myself without giving power to the Palace Guard.
I spent the rest of the day preparing food. On principle, I started a crock of buckwheat so we’d have branches on hand to munch. Then I steeped some salted fish to make a stock and sliced some vegetables for tonight’s hotpot: thin rounds of beets, carrots, and parsnips.
The fruit compote I’d silently promised Moss came next. I set the steaming bowl in front of him, interrupting his turn in the game of stones. He blinked up at me.
“Thanks,” I said. “For believing what I said about Violet.”
His soft quarter-grin lacked his usual sarcasm. “You’re welcome.”
I gave a grateful bow, left him to the treat, and descended into the pantry once more. I rummaged until I found a lipped plate suitable for sprouting. Bean sprouts weren’t my favorite—zesty hotradish sprouts tasted better—but dull fresh greens were better than no fresh greens. In this cool pantry, beans would take six or seven days to sprout, but I doubted Lady Sulat would be recovered by then.
My stomach clenched. I set the empty plate down. Four days—my trial was in four days. I wouldn’t be around to finish growing these.
The next day, mid-afternoon, someone knocked on the trap door in a distinctive pattern. My hands were sticky with buckwheat from half-formed branches, but I glanced over my shoulder at our guest.
