by Heidi Lang
When she finally came back, all smiles and hugs and acting like she hadn’t just abandoned her family again, Lailu had never quite believed it. She had seen the truth now: her mother’s heart was always longing to be elsewhere. Her family wasn’t enough for her anymore.
Lailu shook her head, ridding herself of those ghosts. Her mother had never been the most reliable person, but at least the ointments she made were dependable. Lailu ran her finger over the heart her mother had carved into the top of the ceramic container, then screwed it shut. She hadn’t seen her mom in over a year. Her mother hadn’t even bothered coming to Lailu’s graduation.
Lailu shoved the ointment back into the drawer and closed it harder than necessary. Hannah rolled over in her sleep, muttering something about a comb. Ignoring her, Lailu pulled on a baggy, loosely knit shirt that fell to her knees, which she belted over a pair of tight-fitting trousers and her favorite soft-soled boots. As she finger-combed her hair into pigtails, she decided she looked presentable enough that Master Slipshod wouldn’t know how disastrously her hunt had gone.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
Lailu jumped. She glanced at her bed, but Hannah snored softly on as whoever was at the door continued to pound away. Lailu turned and headed down the stairs, clutching at the rail as the world spun dizzily around her. The last thing she needed was another good fall.
Bam! Bam!
“I’m coming, I’m coming.” Lailu pushed aside the curtain and stomped her way through the dining room, yanking the door open. “What now?” she demanded, then stopped. “Vahn?” For a moment she wondered if her memories had somehow pulled him here. Her hand was clenched around the doorknob to keep herself standing as her knees threatened to give way.
The boy standing in her doorway gave a small bow. “At your service,” he said gallantly, straightening and tossing his waves of honey-gold hair back behind his shoulders, looking every inch the hero he had set off to become.
His eyes were deep blue like a twilight sky, and Lailu remembered all those days she’d spent lost in them, waiting for him to notice her, and here he was, like something out of a dream, standing in the doorway of her restaurant. He was so tall the top of her head barely reached his chest, and his shoulders practically filled her doorway.
“Vahn, I–I mean, uh, that is . . .” Lailu stumbled, the words crashing into and over one another as her tongue seemed to fill her whole mouth.
Vahn flashed her a brilliant smile. “I often have that effect on people.”
Lailu’s face flushed, and she hoped he wouldn’t notice. “Wh-what are you doing here?”
“I’m in the city on some business, and I promised Laurent I’d stop by and check on you.” Vahn shifted his weight back and forth impatiently.
Lailu’s heart sank. “That’s all, huh?” Just checking up on her for her overbearing oldest brother. At sixteen, Laurent believed he knew everything, and he was always trying to oversee Lailu as if she couldn’t handle things on her own. She just hoped Lonnie was giving him enough trouble for the two of them.
“Pretty much. But I must say, though, Lillie, you haven’t changed a bit.”
“Lailu,” she corrected automatically. “It’s Lailu.”
“Of course it is,” he said smoothly, adding, “You wouldn’t happen to have any food on hand, would you?”
Lailu nodded. Someday he would remember, she promised herself as she led Vahn into the restaurant. Someday he would see her as more than just her brother’s kid sister. He was only four years older than her, and that wasn’t so much, not when they were meant to be together. Someday.
The door slammed shut, jolting Lailu out of her happy fantasy. “So, here’s my place. Well, mine and Master Slipshod’s. Welcome to Mystic Cooking.” Nerves made her babble a little faster, and her voice came out in a high-pitched squeak.
“Master Slipshod, eh? So it’s true. You are apprenticed to him.”
“Yes.”
“Interesting choice.”
Lailu frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. It means nothing at all,” Vahn said quickly. “So, how does this work? This whole restaurant thing?”
“It’s for people who want a nice meal sometimes but can’t afford to keep a household chef, or who want to try something different,” Lailu explained. “We vary the specials every day, and people come in here and pay to eat them. Or at least I really hope they will.” She took a deep breath, let it out. No need to tell Vahn all about their troubles.
“Sounds simple enough.” Vahn ran his hands along one of the unlit candelabras that snaked along the wall, then paused to inspect the menu.
Lailu realized she was staring and gave herself a shake. “Feel free to sit anywhere, and I’ll bring some food right out to you.”
“Can’t wait.” Vahn flashed her another brilliant smile. “I remember what a great cook you always were.”
She smiled up at him, way up at him. She wouldn’t have minded her height so much if she were at least dainty, too, but she was built like her mother’s people: solid and stocky, unlike the other native people of Clear Lakes, who were all tall and lean like Hannah. Maybe she’d grow a little more when she was older.
Back in the kitchen she got to work swiftly, de-feathering the soaked batyrdactyl with quick, practiced movements before transferring the meat to a cutting board. After preparing a dozen flaky meat pastries and putting them in the oven to bake, she took some of the batyrdactyl’s chopped thigh meat and panfried it, letting it sizzle before dribbling olive oil and herbs all over it, the smell spilling out of her kitchen and into the main room. While waiting for the pastries to finish cooking, she figured she might as well get started on the lunch special. She wanted to prove to Master Slipshod that she had what it took to run a restaurant. She’d save the rest of the batyrdactyl, she decided, and reuse yesterday’s ingredients in a delicious kraken hot pot.
Nodding to herself, Lailu began filling her special pot, a brass contraption practically big enough for her to sit in. Dials on its front adjusted the temperature and a small, narrow pipe wound along the side, letting steam escape without overheating the food. Once the hot pot was filled and set to a medium heat, she pulled the pastries out of the oven, setting them on a rack to cool, then transferring them to a plate for Vahn.
Out in the dining room, Lailu watched Vahn flip through pages of paper, the same kind of glossy white paper Greg’s story had been written on. Hannah had told her it came from something called a “press.” Lailu narrowed her eyes at it. No one had heard of the scientists until Starling Volan unveiled her line of stoves at the Chef Academy two years ago. Now it seemed like there was a new invention every week. Lailu thought Starling and her followers should just focus on cooking inventions and leave everything else alone.
She put the plate down in front of Vahn. “Breakfast.”
“Thanks, Lola.” His eyes didn’t leave the paper.
“Lailu,” she said, but he clearly wasn’t listening. She frowned, then said again, “So, breakfast.”
Vahn looked up, his blue eyes widening. “Sorry, distracted.” He smiled, and Lailu felt her heart melt like butter. He could call her whatever he wanted as long as he smiled at her like that.
“That’s all right,” she said dreamily.
Vahn picked up a pastry and took a huge bite, chewed, swallowed, and took another bite. “Delicious,” he said through a mouthful of food. Lailu almost swooned with happiness on the spot.
“Do you really think so?” She rested her elbows on his table.
“Would these lips lie?” He grinned, and Lailu found herself grinning back and leaning toward him.
A soft footstep, the creak of a floorboard, and she straightened, turning so fast her neck popped.
Greg stood there, one hand on the door like he’d been trying to slip out.
“Greg!” Lailu’s cheeks burned. “What are you doing here?”
“I, uh, came to bring you your things,” Greg mumbled, looking stran
gely subdued.
“My things?”
He held out his hand, showing her a dead batyrdactyl wrapped in her grappling hook. She must have killed a third one. “You left them this morning. I thought you might need them.”
Lailu hesitated, then walked forward and took them. “Thanks.”
His mouth twitched in a half smile. “That’s two ‘thanks’ from you in one day. Be careful or it might become a habit.”
“Don’t count on it.”
They stood there staring at each other, the dead batyrdactyl between them, and for a second Lailu wondered why she spent so much time hating this boy. He had helped her out twice today, and with Vahn sitting in her restaurant, enjoying her cooking, she was feeling a little more charitable than usual. “Greg,” she began.
“Yes, Lailu?” Greg leaned in closer to her, close enough that she could see the dark circles under his eyes, proof he was actually working hard, was pouring his heart into his new business the same way she was. His curly hair looked crazier than usual, and his black shirt had a few small cuts in it, like he hadn’t gone home at all since she last saw him.
“I was thinking—”
“Hey, you’re that famous chef!” Vahn said loudly, coming up next to them.
“What?” Greg asked, surprised.
“Gregorian LaSilvian,” Vahn continued. “I recognized you from the paper.” He rattled the page between them, and Lailu, glancing down, saw another picture of Greg smiling on the front, his arms opened wide, customers pouring into his restaurant. YOUNGEST CHEF IN THREE HUNDRED YEARS PREPARING FOR SECOND DAY OF SUCCESS read the headline. Lailu scowled and turned away. That was why she hated him.
“Wait, Lailu!” Greg pushed past Vahn.
“I’m sorry, but I have customers to prepare for,” she snapped as she hurried toward her kitchen.
“It doesn’t look that way to me.”
Lailu spun around and glared at him.
He stood there frozen, his hand halfway to his mouth. “I didn’t mean that. I just meant—”
“Oh, stuff it. Just go away.”
“Look, I just wanted to tell you the offer’s still there, and I’d love to have your help. We could both benefit—”
“I told you once, and I’ll tell you again: I am not working for you and your uncle. I might not have any money, but I still have some pride left. Now leave.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
Greg shook his head. “I can tell you’re in over your head. I heard you and your mentor borrowed money from Mr. Boss, and—”
“And it’s none of your business.” How did he know that when she’d just barely learned of it herself?
“Stop interrupting me and listen! He’s bad news. You don’t want to let that man own you, Lailu. I’m offering to help you here.”
“You are, huh?” Her fingers clenched around the dead batyrdactyl. Once she would have been happy to accept his help. But she wasn’t the same naive village girl she’d been at the start of school. “Well, I don’t need any of your so-called help. You don’t owe me anything, and I don’t want to owe you anything in return. We’re rivals. That’s it.”
Greg pressed his lips together. Next to him, Vahn looked back and forth between them, his expression curious, like this was a show they were putting on for his benefit.
“That’s it, huh?” Greg said finally. “That’s what you think?”
Lailu nodded. They stood there for a few more seconds, the time ticking by painfully, Greg’s expression hard and unreadable. “Go back to your restaurant,” Lailu whispered, breaking the awful silence. “I’m sure you, at least, really do have customers to see.”
“Fine.” He turned his back on her and stalked away.
“Hope you had fun slumming it over here!” Lailu yelled after him as he slammed the door. The dining room felt strangely quiet after that, and she stood there, breathing hard as if she’d been running.
“Well, that was dramatic.” Vahn sounded as cheerful and unruffled as ever. When Lailu looked at him, he smiled and pointed to his empty plate. “Got any more pastries for me?”
6
PAYING CUSTOMERS
He just waltzes in here, acting like he’s better than me.” Lailu slammed more ingredients into her hot pot. “Stupid aristocrat.” She gave the bubbling pot a vigorous stir, then stomped back into the dining room, where even the sight of Vahn eating her cooking failed to cheer her up.
The bell above the door chimed.
Lailu’s jaw dropped. Someone new stood in the doorway. A . . . customer?
“Is this restaurant open?” the man asked, glancing around the mostly empty room.
“Yes, it is.” Lailu nervously pushed her fluffy white chef’s hat straighter on her head, her anger evaporating like soup left too long on the stove. “Welcome to Mystic Cooking.”
His face brightened. “So this is Mystic Cooking. It’s so far from the center of town, I wasn’t sure. I never would have found it if not for the referral.”
“Referral?” Lailu asked.
“Yes, from that other chef, La—”
The door opened. “Sorry I’m late,” a woman said breathlessly, clutching a tiny hat to her head, her skirts rustling. She paused in the doorway. “Oh, it’s nicer inside than I thought.”
Lailu wasn’t sure how to take that. Should she be offended?
“Do your parents run this place?” the woman asked.
Definitely offended, Lailu decided. Still, a potential customer was a potential customer. She pasted a smile on her face. “No, I run it. Well, me and Master Slipshod.”
“Oh! I’ve heard of this Slipshod.” The woman closed her parasol and stepped forward, letting the door swing shut behind her. “Dragon cuisine, right? The finest in the land?”
“That’s him,” the man said, taking her parasol from her. “Is he around?”
Lailu bit her lip. “He’ll be back shortly. Meanwhile, our special today is the kraken hot pot.” She tried to sound calm, like people ordered the special all the time.
Their eyes widened. “So it’s true, then. Now anyone can dine like royalty, at least for a meal. How times have changed,” the man remarked.
Lailu supposed that was true; until very recently, only the wealthy could afford to have a private chef, and even now, most of the other students who graduated from the academy found jobs training in households with experienced master chefs. She was the one who helped open up the only restaurant in Twin Rivers. Well, it had been the only one, until that snaky Greg decided to go and copy her!
“Okay, I’ll take an order of the special,” the man decided.
“Me too,” his companion chimed in, and Lailu had to exercise all her self-control to stop from dancing in place. They were staying! They wanted to eat her food! Oh, it was going to be a beautiful day.
Lailu smiled at her very first customers as they took seats in the corner, then had to refrain from skipping on her way back to the kitchen to check on the bubbling hot pot. She whistled as she cooked, stopping only when Hannah came downstairs.
Hannah flopped onto the kitchen chair, looking very colorful in a teal dress with little pink bows along the hem, her long black hair pinned back with that same gaudy emerald comb. Must be a new favorite, Lailu decided.
“You wouldn’t believe it,” Lailu whispered enthusiastically. “We have real, potentially paying customers!”
Hannah smiled. “I knew you could do it.”
Lailu added some additional spices to the pot, then tasted the result. Almost perfect. It just needed to simmer for another few minutes. She glanced back at her friend, who was fiddling with one of the bows on her dress.
“So, you wanna tell me about it?” Lailu asked
“Tell you about what?”
“Why you needed to spend the night here? What drama with the other girls?”
Hannah sat straighter and opened and closed her mouth, like she wanted to say something but wasn’t sure. Finally, she looked away. “Just some baseless accusations. R
eally, there’s not much to tell . . .”
The bell above the door chimed.
“Another customer?” Lailu poked her head out past the kitchen curtain. Three people, three whole, real live people, stood in the dining room, squinting at the sign that listed the special for the day. Much like the first couple, the middle-aged man and woman and their teenage daughter were all dressed far too nicely for this section of town. If anything, they looked like they would fit in well with the crowd on Gilded Island.
“—highly recommended, and it’s cheaper than his place,” the man was saying when he noticed Lailu standing there. “Oh! Hello.”
“Hello, and welco—” Lailu began, when the door opened again and Master Slipshod ducked inside. “Master Slipshod!” She felt a rush of relief. She was very excited about having customers but also glad to know she wouldn’t be facing them all alone.
He nodded briefly at Lailu, then turned to the customers, pulling a fluffy chef’s hat out of his coat pocket and stuffing it on his head. “Welcome to Mystic Cooking.”
“Does your hot pot really have kraken?” the woman asked. Her daughter shot her a look like she was too embarrassing for words, but Master Slipshod just grinned.
“Yes, it really has kraken.”
“Wow,” the man breathed, sharing a look with his wife. “Even LaSilvian’s doesn’t have kraken.”
“He doesn’t?” Master Slipshod said innocently. “I can’t say I’m surprised. It takes a lot of nerve to catch kraken, and not every chef is as tough as my young apprentice.” He nodded to Lailu, who stood a little taller.
As Master Slipshod seated the family, Lailu scurried back to the kitchen to scoop out bowls of kraken hot pot. Hannah, surprisingly, was still sitting there, staring at nothing.
