by Sky Sommers
Maybe they just didn’t know how to cook?
At least when the twins are with us, they are supervised.
‘Are you really related to the king as they say?’ My favourite gossip-mill enquires.
I guess people needed a reason why the king would ever sell one of his prised castles to a mysterious stranger.
‘I neither confirm nor deny.’ I say and she cackles.
‘You know, missus, your beef bourguignon tastes almost as good as human flesh,’ she says, licking her lips.
‘Thank you, Grizelda,’ I say levelly.
It pays to be polite to customers, especially witches you definitely want to stick to their newly found vegetarian diets.
Vegetarian meaning saying no to cannibalism in this particular instance and at least in this neck of the woods.
‘Are you sure you use beef and not...’ she winks.
‘Grizelda, if you think I would ever undermine the stupendous progress that you have been making with your wonderful new vegetarian diet, then perhaps you would like me to show you the remains of the cow that this delicacy came from?’ I ask.
It’s not like the corpse is out back, but we can walk to the butchers around the corner.
The witch looks squeamish, ‘No thanks, dearie. I trust you, if you trust your suppliers. Awfully tasty cooking, though. Much appreciated. Even if I have to have the meatless version.’
I stir the smaller pot next to the giant one and nod.
If you can fool meat-eaters with tofu and fish-haters with how you prepare tuna, then you know the secret to cooking. The right spices and fresh ingredients.
The door closes behind her and I finally exhale in relief and wipe my hands on my apron.
Must go close that back door.
I don’t want anyone else bothering me before we actually open.
There is a salad to finish, Hans and Greta to protect and Ella to admonish. Once she gets home.
I wish I had that Weasley clock from Harry Potter that would tell me where all my family members are or if they are in trouble.
I open the door out back and tell the younger twins out in the garden to come inside, pack and go to Mellie’s.
They turn serious, whatever fun game they were playing forgotten.
‘Are you sending us away because is Grizelda dining with us tonight?’ Hans asks and I nod.
‘She’s already made a reservation,’ I say. ‘In fact, the sooner you learn how to read, the sooner you’ll be able to check the registry book to see when she’s coming and when you are free to roam about,’ I suggest.
Greta nods. ‘Mama didn’t have time to teach us. If we go to school, like Ella, I’ll learn really fast,’ she promises.
‘You can start learning now,’ I argue. ‘Go take that fairy-tale book and try to read it to Henry! Make up the story from the pictures, if you have to.’
Greta nods happily.
‘Ella doesn’t have to study during her free time,’ Hans grumbles.
I’m not sure studying is what Ella does even at school, as her grades have taken a turn for the worse since she recently discovered boys. Out loud I say, ‘In her free time Ella should be helping me as you very well know.’
Hans looks about the kitchen.
He’s always hungry.
Always.
I swear, feeding these kids four times a day is…
‘Can I have the leftover porridge?’ Hans asks, licking his lips.
‘May I have the leftover porridge,’ I correct him without even thinking. ‘And, yes, you may, if you share with Greta.’
‘I don’t want any, you can have it all,’ Greta says, holding Henry’s storybook.
‘You might want to reconsider, missy. We have a full house tonight, so there might not be any stew left at the end of the night,’ I say. Or any porridge, for that matter.
Greta puts the book away and takes a plate.
‘Just a quick bite of porridge, then you help me set up for the night and then you go to Mellie’s. You need to stay away from the restaurant. She might be back tomorrow, so it might be a good idea to stay at Mellie’s the whole weekend, ok?’ I ask and they both nod. On the nights Grizelda dines with us, I lose two of my best servers and have to ask Ella and even Peter to fill in. Ella always grumbles even though she usually earns good tips. The beautification spell she got from that witch as a tip a few months ago was a priceless time-saver. She didn’t have to waste twenty minutes every morning on her makeup for a whole month. And her tips increased.
I see Henry standing by the sink with his bowl and cup. ‘Can’t leach,’ he says, looking around for something he can use as a stepping stone.
Bless!
‘Oh, honey, you’re such a good boy, thank you! Give the bowl and cup to mama now, thank you!’
I give him a hug and he goes off to play with pots and pans and onions in the corner.
Who said kids need truckloads of plastic toys or a new Xbox every year to make them happy?
My husband comes in and loosens his cravat with one hand, while tousling Hans’ and Greta’s hair, barely catching them on their way out.
Whether it is Grizelda or interrupted fun, they’ve wolfed down their porridge and are heading upstairs with their mouths still full.
‘Thank you would be nice!’ I yell after them.
‘…nk…uuuu…’ echoes the stairway.
‘Coffee? Tea? Me?’ I ask Peter.
Peter blinks.
The silence stretches.
‘Tough day?’ I ask and get a kiss.
‘Mhmh,’ he mumbles. ‘Socks.’
I nod and let him go upstairs to change his socks.
When he gets monosyllabic, it has been an exhausting day.
It’s been a long day for me, too.
Fortunately, the beef - the main dish for the night - is nearly done.
I start the grain coffee he hates but needs.
Peter hasn’t adjusted to Magic Kingdom as yet. Sometimes he raises his left hand as if to look at his wrist watch, which is no longer there. He used to have it, except in this dimension, which exists outside of time, the watch went completely crazy and was showing odd time. Sometimes, I’ve noticed him touching his ear where the bluetooth device used to be.
I bring a plate of porridge from the restaurant. If I don’t stash things from these kids, they will eat me bare, I swear. I put the plate next to a mug of steaming coffee.
My husband trudges down the stairs and oomphs himself into the wooden chair.
‘This isn’t the espresso you love, but it’s the closest thing to a pick-me-up we can get here,’ I say.
‘Porridge for dinner again?’ he grumbles and I grit my teeth, biting back the remark.
‘You need to eat before we start serving the guests,’ I say.
‘Why don’t we do it the other way around? They get our leftovers?’ he jokes, picking up a spoon.
‘We are fully booked and there might not be enough, so I’d rather not risk it. So, we get porridge,’ I say. ‘And you get the last of the coffee.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want to keep it for yourself for the first thing in the morning, darling?’ he asks.
‘I have to find other ways to keep me awake than coffee. It’s expensive, even the grain one. We need to save up to put both of the twins through school. Greta wants to go next year.’
‘The coffee is fine, darling. It really is,’ Peter says, considerably revived. ‘I’ll go sweep the floors. And I need to speak to the miller,’ he says and is gone before I can ask him if it can wait.
Well, whaddaya know, even grains lift you up when they kick in.
‘What’s for dinner?’ Ella asks, strolling in and dropping her satchel to the floor.
‘Whatever you make, dear,’ I say. We have this routine every e
vening. ‘You know the rule. If you come home late and you can reach the stove, then you’re on your own.’
She huffs again. A little less this time.
‘No touching the beef. Or the salad. We are at maximum capacity tonight, we might not even have enough for guests. And the smaller pot is for Grizelda personally. So if you touch that, I’ll tell her it was you who ate her food.’
Ella huffs again and eyes my sandwich. ‘I’ll just have tea, then. Dinner is for losers anyway,’ she says and grabs the cup I poured out for myself.
‘I spat in there!’ I tell her, although I didn’t.
She puts the cup down, shoots me a dirty look and pours herself a new one, holding the iron kettle with both hands. ‘I’ll get blisters some day, I swear,’ she mumbles.
‘Don’t swear, dear, it’s not lady-like,’ I say and pick my cup up. ‘Now, go get changed and don’t forget your apron. Hans and Greta have to stay away from the restaurant tonight.’
‘On account of Grizelda.’ Ella nods.
‘Yes,’ I confirm. ‘So, please, please get ready and help me, ok?’
‘You know, missus, your beef bourguignon tastes almost as good as human flesh.’
* * *
Before the evening rush, I escape to our bedroom and unearth my favourite piece of furniture – a floor-length mirror with a golden frame.
‘Mirror, mirror on the wall…’ I mumble and I think I see the surface wobble. When I reach out my hand to touch it, the surface is solid. Great! I’m seeing things.
The voluptuous woman with raven curls smirks at me.
I stare her down, raising an arm to my hip.
She does the same, grey eyes glinting.
The grey eyes are the only thing I recognise of my former self.
It seems strange.
Two years.
Almost three.
Once upon a time I used to have short black hair.
The kind you can straighten all you like but that frizzes at the first drops of rain or a few minutes in a hot kitchen.
Now, I don’t have time for hairdressers and it’s down to my waist.
Who knew the perfect solution for keeping your hair straight was the weight?
I used to be stick thin.
Not after Henry.
Together with the kid I also got The Scar.
Across half of my stomach.
C-section, old-school.
Considering the doctors were in a bit of a hurry to get Henry out, I have decided to forgive them for disfiguring me.
‘What are you looking at?’ I ask the stranger in my mirror.
There are lots of things I don’t recognise about myself.
I’m quite sure my face wasn’t as round and my feet as sturdy.
I seem to remember I used to bike a lot.
In London.
A million miles away.
Another dimension.
Another lifetime ago.
Sometimes, I catch Peter looking at me like he doesn’t recognise me.
Hell, I don’t recognise me.
All those queens in front of their gilded mirrors.
It wasn’t vanity, you know.
I think they all wished the mirror would lie.
Just a little.
That they were the fairest of them all.
The way they used to be.
Years ago.
‘Sometimes, I, too, wish you would lie.’
Perhaps they wished the mirror would erase the deep lines etched under their eyes and into their foreheads.
To turn those frowns upside down.
So that for ten seconds a day or even for that brief moment in between two blinks these women would feel…what’s the word…
Beautiful.
Maybe some mirrors obliged.
For self-preservation.
Until they didn’t.
‘You keep showing me a stranger, but blink as I might, she isn’t going anywhere.’
I don’t need a golden-framed mirror to tell me my stepdaughter is half my age and drop dead gorgeous while I feel like a fat cow.
‘Mirror, mirror’, indeed.
Ella
Thursday, February 28th
Grace is crazy!
Violently so. I had to get her own child away from her! She looked like she was close to slapping Henry!!
He’s two!!!
And he’s the sweetest little boy you can find.
He hardly talks and I’m starting to think it’s Grace’s fault. I mean she says she’s worried he’s too quiet, but then she goes and yells and nearly slaps him! How would he learn to talk if all she does is yell at him?
Some people shouldn’t be allowed to have children.
Especially not people who talk to mirrors like they are people.
Yesterday, I caught stepmother arguing with her bedroom mirror, the huge ceiling-to-floor silver-framed one that I wished I had.
Today she almost beat up her toddler.
Crazy, I’m telling you.
Poor kid, asleep on my lap. You did nothing to deserve a mother like that.
I swear, when I’m a parent, I’ll be a better one. A better grown-up. A better everything.
Chapter 3. The Crazy
Grace
An hour later, I’m alone in the kitchen and I’m not liking it.
Ella is home. Peter is supposed to be home. Or is he still at the miller’s.
Where are they?!!
With the twins forewarned, I survey my domain and start making lists in my head.
I guess you can nominally call our home a castle. It comes with turrets and towers and a rooftop where there are holes for crossbows, so we could defend ourselves if we wanted to. Some do call it a castle, others a mansion, I just call it our house. It’s about half the size of Peter’s loft in London where we used to live before we moved here and amassed four kids.
I don’t look gift horses in the mouth.
Castles or new lives or even surplus kids.
We’re making do. It’s snug, but it’s home.
Right. The dinner.
The checklist.
I take a scroll of paper usually reserved for shopping lists and a gnawed-on stub of a pencil from the stove and start writing:
1.Beef stew READY
2.Salad READY
3.Potatoes NEED TO BOIL + CHECK if pot is clean, wash if not
4.Diced oranges on small plates DO when guests are finishing their dinners
5.Plates 20 dinner + 20 bread CHECK if clean
6.Goblets 20
7.Forks, knives 20 CHECK if washed READY
8.Linen, candles 8+2 to spare just in case
9.Tables – check guest list, maybe need to redo 4 tables of 4 and 2 of 2
10.Napkins 20
11.Fairy lights out front DO later when dark
12.Sweep floors.
Of course, Peter didn’t sweep them before he went off.
I’m sure I forgot something.
In fact, I’m certain.
It will come to me.
I hope.
I sigh and ready the plates, the napkins, the cutlery, the goblets. Yes, we have goblets and not glasses. I sweep the floors of our dining room that fits about six tables and twenty dining guests per night. What if there are more than 20? What if some people leave early and more people come? I won’t have enough of things. Or I would need to keep the dishwasher going on a permaloop.
I can do that. I have time to do that. Right?
Soon, we’ll have to either build a larger place or have two serving times, like they do in some Paris restaurants and then limit the dining time to two hours so that everyone who wants to eat gets to eat. Demand is up, which is good. What
is not so good is the workload that has exponentially increased with it.
I no longer have time to do my own delicates by hand, nevermind the other laundry. And the dishes are killing me every night even with the makeshift dishwasher we have set up. We don’t have enough plates and goblets for everybody per night, so we have to wash them throughout the night after one set of customers is done and before some of the latecomers arrive.
Two admittance times per night might be the right solution.
Something has to be done. Otherwise, I’ll only be getting two hours of sleep per night and with Henry’s potty training, I’m already running to and fro the bathroom with him a couple of times a night and the burrows under my eyes could fit a mole.
Two moles.
Right. Concentrate. The dinner.
I hear a loud clanging noise.
When I turn, I see Henry, covered in salad, his favourite red shirt dripping with olive oil, staring up at me in dismay as the wooden bowl rolls into the corner.
He probably reached for the bowl he likes to play with.
He simply wanted to play.
He didn’t intend to ruin the salad I made for the entire night.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to yell.
‘Henry,’ I say gravely and the kid ducks as if I had yelled, ‘Go. Wash. Up. Now.’
He scurries off outside, to the pail of water we keep next to the donkey.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
I mentally add number 13. New salad to the list.
Meanwhile, I have to go find new clean clothes for Henry. Deciding to delegate, I yell, ‘Greta!’
Silence.
Where is she?
I start relieving Henry from his oily clothes, shuffling the muck under my boots out of the way. I can clean up later.
I look at Henry. His pants only have a few stains. Still, he needs a new shirt. At least the kitchen is warm.
Greta better get down this second!
Then I remember I sent the twins off and curse out loud.
Half an hour until the guests arrive. There is still time.
I peek outside and find one of Henry’s red shirts hanging out to dry. Only the sleeves are a bit damp. This’ll do.