“I don’t have all day,” Serilda said. “Now or never.”
“My . . . foster mother recently passed away, as did our . . . mistress, the woman we both served. The new mistress wasn’t as . . . kind as the old one had been.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. I had just left out some pertinent details. Names, dates, places, murders.
“So this new mistress is the one who gave you that nasty shiner?” Serilda asked.
“No, not exactly. She told her . . . men to give it to me.”
“So you ran away from home, came here, and now you want to join the troupe so you can get your revenge on her,” Serilda finished in a bored voice.
Revenge? Of course I wanted revenge on Vasilia, but I also knew that I could never, ever get it. She was the fucking queen now, with practically unlimited money, magic, and resources. I couldn’t have gotten close to her, much less actually hurt her, not even if I’d had an army at my disposal.
Serilda shook her head, and a little bubble of laughter escaped her lips. Somehow, that small, soft sound was far more mocking than all the others’ guffaws put together.
“What’s so funny?” I growled.
“Do you know how many people have told me this same sob story? Someone did them wrong, and they want to learn how to fight, become a great gladiator, and win countless riches, along with the adoration of the public, all so they can take their revenge on their enemy.” Serilda laughed again. “It’s all so ridiculous that it might as well be a fairy tale, or a story in the penny papers that the children sell on the street corners every morning. The only thing that would make it even more cliché is if you claimed that you were some long-lost princess, desperate to become a warrior so you can reclaim your kingdom from evildoers.”
Vasilia’s smug, triumphant face flashed before my eyes. That was exactly what I wanted, and it was utterly ridiculous, like Serilda had said.
“I’m no bloody princess.” I spat out the word. “But, yes, I want to become a gladiator. Not for revenge, but for myself. So that no one can ever do what my . . . mistress did to me again. So that no one can ever hurt me like she did again.”
Serilda’s eyes narrowed, although her gaze was as sharp and blue as the eye of the swan on the pennant on the wall behind her. Once again, I got the feeling that she could see much more than I wanted her to. “And why should I give you a chance instead of someone else?”
A small opening, but I latched onto it. “Because I’ll do anything you want.”
She arched her eyebrow again. “Anything?”
I lifted my chin. “Anything.”
“I almost think you mean that.”
I gave her a thin smile. “If there’s one thing that you should never question, it’s my resolve. My new mistress . . . humiliated me. Nothing you could ever do would be worse than what she put me through. Nothing.”
“That sounds like a challenge.”
I shrugged. “Call it what you will.”
She kept staring at me, and I met her gaze with a steady one of my own. Sullivan, Emilie, Paloma, and Cho glanced back and forth between us.
Serilda leaned forward and steepled her hands together on her desk. “Well, you obviously have no fighting skills, given how easily Paloma tossed you around. So what can you do?” She examined my face, neck, and hands. “Are you a morph? Magier? Master? Mutt?”
“Mutt.”
“With what skills?”
I sighed, knowing that they were going to laugh at me again. “I have an enhanced sense of smell.”
And laugh they did, long, hard, and loud.
“So you can’t fight, and you don’t have any real magic,” Serilda said when everyone’s laughter finally died down. “That makes you officially useless.”
Maybe it was the faint, sneering note in her voice, or the fact that everyone at the palace had treated me that way for so long, or the hard truth that I had thought of myself that way more than once, but my hands clenched into tight fists. “I am not useless.”
“Then what can you do?” she asked. “What can you do better than anyone else already here?”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I didn’t have an answer. Oh, there were lots of things that I could do better than anyone else here. Dancing, curtsying, engaging in polite, inane chitchat about art, music, and books. But I couldn’t tell Serilda that, much less where I had learned all those skills. Besides, she was right. They were completely useless here.
Sullivan, Emilie, and Paloma were still watching me, waiting to see what I would say. So was the morph mark on Paloma’s neck. The ogre was frowning as if it felt sorry for me, telling me how much trouble I was in and how I needed to come up with an answer—any answer.
“Well?” Serilda snapped. “What can you do?”
Desperate, I glanced over at Cho just in time to see him sink his teeth into a fruit pie. He made a face, as though it tasted bad, and set it down on the platter with the others.
“I can make pies.”
The words popped out of my mouth before I could stop them, but they weren’t a lie. I could make pies, thanks to all the hours that I’d spent with Isobel in the kitchen.
“Pies? Really? That’s your big skill?” Serilda said. “Anyone can make a mere pie.”
I stepped forward. Paloma started toward me, but I held up my hand, and she stopped. I made sure that she wasn’t going to flip me over her shoulder again, then looked at Serilda.
“Not just mere pies. The most delicious pies you’ve ever tasted. Buttery crusts. Sweet fruit fillings. Decadent mousses. Spiced nuts that will make your tongue tingle with delight.” I had heard more than one overwrought, flowery speech at the palace, and I made my descriptions as rich and inviting as, well, pudding in a pie crust.
Silence descended over the library, and I wondered if I had exaggerated too much.
“Those sound like my kind of pies.” To my surprise, Cho was the one who spoke.
Serilda snorted. “Don’t encourage her.”
Cho strolled over and sat down on the corner of her desk. He looked to be in his midforties, the same as Serilda, and was a few inches taller than me, with a lean, wiry body. He reached up and scratched his neck, drawing my attention to the morph mark there—a dragon’s face made of ruby-red scales. Cho might not be as big and strong as Sullivan, but in his own way, he was just as dangerous.
“Tell me more about these pies. What flavor is your specialty?”
“Cranberry-apple.” It was the first flavor I thought of, since I had made so many of them yesterday.
His black eyes gleamed, as did those of the dragon on his neck. “That’s my favorite.”
Serilda sighed. “Forget it, Cho. We already have a baker who can make pies.”
“No, we don’t. Kiko stayed behind in Andvari with her lover, remember?” He stabbed his finger at the breakfast platters. “I don’t know who made those, but they are definitely not pies. I wouldn’t feed those sour, soggy things to the gargoyles.”
“Well, I don’t feel like taking in any more strays, especially not to appease your sweet tooth,” Serilda grumbled back.
I opened my mouth to protest that I wasn’t a stray, but Paloma shook her head, warning me to keep quiet.
Serilda glared at Cho, who smiled back at her, as did the dragon on his neck. After several moments, Serilda rolled her eyes again and gave a sharp nod.
“A test?” Cho asked, an eager note in his voice.
She sighed. “A test.”
He clapped his hands together and hopped off the desk. “Excellent! Let’s do it now.”
Serilda nodded at Sullivan, who stepped toward me. I leaned down and snatched my stolen pillow off the floor before he latched onto my arm again.
“What’s going on?” I asked, thinking that they were going to throw me out after all.
Serilda got to her feet and gave me a thin smile. “We’re going to see how good your pies really are.”
Chapter Twelve
Serilda walked out of the library, followed by Cho, Pal
oma, and Emilie.
“I hope your pies are as good as you think they are, highness,” Sullivan said. “Cho doesn’t like to be disappointed. And neither does his dragon.”
I got the message loud and clear. If Cho didn’t like the pie, his inner dragon would come out and snack on my bones.
Sullivan marched me out of the manor, and we followed the others through the gardens and to the dining hall. Sullivan opened one of the doors and shoved me inside.
The building was split into two sections. The front was a large, open dining space, with long, rectangular wooden tables and chairs in the center. Other, smaller tables ran along either wall, all of them covered with platters of eggs, bacon, hotcakes, and more. A wooden partition that was about three feet high separated the dining area from the kitchen in the back.
Dozens of people were sitting at the tables, chowing down on their breakfasts before going about their day’s work. They were dressed in regular tunics, leggings, and boots, instead of the glitzy costumes and glamorous makeup they had sported during the show. Everyone glanced curiously at our group, but they went back to their food and conversations.
We walked through the dining space, pushed through a swinging gate in the wooden partition, and stepped into the kitchen. Preparation stations in the center, ovens lining one wall, metal chillers against another, sinks full of dirty dishes in the back, workers scurrying everywhere. My heart ached. It was so much like the palace kitchen that I half expected Isobel to appear with a smile on her face and a plate of cookies in her hand.
But Isobel was dead, and I would be too if I didn’t focus.
A man standing at one of the prep stations spotted Serilda. He was tall, with a broad, thick body; short, curly black hair; dark brown eyes; and ebony skin. He was wearing a long-sleeve white tunic like the other workers, but the swan crest stitched in black thread over his heart marked him as the kitchen steward. Given the exceptionally large knife in his hand, and the garlicky tang of magic that wafted off him, he was a cook master as well.
He finished chopping an onion, then wiped his hands on a cloth and came over to us. “Serilda. What’s going on?”
“Theroux, this woman says that she can make pies,” Cho said in an eager voice. “Cranberry-apple pies.”
Theroux’s lips pressed together. He seemed to be as well acquainted with and unhappy about Cho’s love of pie as Serilda was. Theroux’s gaze raked over me the way that everyone else’s had. At this point, I was used to the constant scrutiny and silent judgments.
“You could use a new baker now that Kiko is gone,” Cho said in a wheedling tone. “Especially since pies and pastries aren’t your specialties.”
Theroux gave him a flat look, but it didn’t faze the other man.
“Let’s see what she can do,” Serilda said. “Then we’ll talk about whether she can stay.”
Theroux didn’t like that much either, but she was the boss, so he nodded to her and crooked his finger at me. Sullivan let go of my arm. I shoved my pillow into his chest, and he instinctively grabbed it.
“Be a dear, and hold this for me, Sully.”
His eyes narrowed, but I gave him a sunny smile, then followed Theroux into the back of the kitchen. Theroux gestured at one of the sinks, and I rolled up my sleeves and washed my hands. My hair was a mess, half in and half out of its original braid, but I didn’t have time to fix it, so I wet it and smoothed it back away from my face.
While I cleaned myself up, Theroux moved around the kitchen, pulling out butter, flour, and more, along with bowls, a rolling pin, and measuring cups and spoons. He lined everything up in a neat row on an empty countertop. The other kitchen workers eyed us, but they soon returned to their chores.
Theroux snapped his fingers at me. I bristled at the summons, but I walked over and stared at the ingredients and the utensils. Yesterday, I had been doing this exact same thing with Isobel. If only I could go back and change what had happened to her and everyone else. Hot tears pricked my eyes, but I squeezed them shut before the treacherous drops could escape.
I couldn’t afford to let anyone see my tears.
“Any time you’re ready, highness,” Sullivan said in a snide voice.
My hands curled around the counter. The stone was smooth and worn, just like the one at the palace. But I wasn’t at the palace anymore, and I had to make the best damn pie that I’d ever made, or I would be kicked out of the compound, at the very least, and possibly become dragon food, at the very worst. So I pushed my pain, sadness, and heartbreak away and thought about Isobel and everything that she had taught me. Then I let out a breath, opened my eyes, and reached for the butter to start making the crust.
Paloma and Emilie left the kitchen, but Cho, Serilda, and Sullivan stayed and watched me work. Cho with obvious excitement, and Serilda and Sullivan with open suspicion. It reminded me of the time a few weeks ago when I had built gingerbread houses for the children of several Bellonan senators who had traveled to the palace to celebrate the yuletide season. I supposed that I should be grateful that my audience today wasn’t trying to run off with all the spearmint sticks, black-forest gumdrops, and cherry candy canes like the kids had.
I ignored my watchers and mixed the ingredients together for the crust. Once it was ready, I rolled out the crust, cut it into a large circle, and draped it over a metal pie tin. Theroux, in particular, studied every move I made, assessing my technique.
I held up one of the scraps of dough. “Would you like to taste it?”
He crossed his arms over his chest and gave me another flat stare. I shrugged and popped the piece into my mouth. I was so hungry that I didn’t care that the dough was raw. I would have eaten the rest of the pieces if I didn’t need them for the lattice pattern on the top.
When I finished with the dough, I grabbed a paring knife, sliced the bloodcrisp apples, and placed them in a bowl with the honey cranberries, along with cinnamon, sugar, and more. I combined everything, then poured the filling into the crust. Then I looked at the bottles of flavored sugars, spices, and salts on the counter, ready to give the pie its finishing touch. Finally, I turned to Theroux.
“Where are the orange flakes?”
Cho looked at me. “What are you talking about?”
“You can’t make a proper cranberry-apple pie without orange flakes.” I turned to Theroux again. “Don’t tell me that you don’t have any. Why, I would think that a fine kitchen steward such as yourself would have all the appropriate seasonings on hand.”
Theroux’s dark eyes narrowed, and Cho, Sullivan, and Serilda looked back and forth between the two of us. Everyone recognized my words as the insult they were. Tongues had always been sharper than razors at Seven Spire, and I wielded mine as well as anyone. Besides, I had learned a long time ago that just because someone saw me as a useless decoration didn’t mean that I had to act like one, and that people respected their enemies far more than those that they thought they could walk all over.
Cho laughed and clapped Theroux on the back. “She’s got you there, my friend.”
Theroux gave the other man a sour look, but he went over to one of the cabinets and returned with a bottle of orange flakes, which he shoved into my hand.
I pulled the stopper out of the bottle. The sweet citrus tang punched me in the nose and made me think of Isobel again, but I forced the memories away. I leaned forward and went around the pie, carefully sprinkling on the orange flakes. One, two, three light taps on the bottle, like Isobel had taught me. The orange crystals landed on top of the luscious fruit filling and slowly melted into the mixture.
“That’s it?” Theroux asked, a challenging note in his voice. “That’s all you’re going to use?”
I capped the bottle and shoved it back at him. “Yes.”
I arranged the final strips of crust onto the top of the pie, creating a pretty lattice pattern, then slid it into one of the hot ovens and set a timer that was sitting on the counter.
I expected the others to drift away to their
chores, work, or whatever they did during the day, but Cho, Sullivan, and Serilda stayed in the kitchen, alternating between watching me and the pie baking in the oven. I didn’t want to stand around and be stared at, so I grabbed the dirty bowls and utensils and moved away from the counter.
Sullivan stepped in front of me. “Where do you think you’re going?”
I held up the bowls. “Where does it look like I’m going? Over to the sinks to wash the dishes. Unless, of course, you want to wash them for me, Sully.”
He glared at me, but he moved out of my way. I dumped the dishes in one of the sinks and turned on the hot water.
Theroux watched me for a few moments before barking out orders to the rest of the staff and going back to his own prep station. Cho started talking to Sullivan about the merits of cranberry-apple versus plain apple pie, although the magier just grunted in response. Serilda leaned a shoulder against the wall and stared at me, a speculative look on her face, as if I had surprised her. I stared back at her a moment, letting her know that her silent scrutiny didn’t bother me, then washed the dishes.
I had just finished drying off the last spoon when the timer dinged. I slid a pair of mitts onto my hands, took the pie out of the oven, and set the hot tin on the counter.
The crust was a perfect golden brown, and the fruit filling bubbled up like ruby lava in between the gaps in the lattice strips. I drew in a breath, tasting the scents in the air. The buttery crust, the sugary fruit, the hint of orange that curled through it all. The aromas were the same as they had been in the palace kitchen, and this pie would be just as good as those had been. I smiled, even as more sadness surged through me. Isobel would have been so proud of me.
“That looks amazing!” Cho reached for the pie, but I smacked his hand away.
“You have to let it cool first, or the fruit filling will run everywhere. And you don’t want to burn your tongue.”
He frowned, as did the morph mark on his neck. I wondered if I might end up being dragon food after all, but his frown melted into a sheepish grin. Even his dragon grinned at me, and I found myself grinning back at both of them.
Kill the Queen Page 13
