by Heidi Lang
“You okay, Pigtails?” Slipshod asked.
“Yes,” Lailu lied. Then she noticed how pale Master Slipshod looked, his forehead beaded with sweat despite the late afternoon chill. “Are you okay?”
“Me? Never better. Never better. Calm as a clam, that’s me.”
“Are you sure? Because you seem to be talking awfully fast.”
Master Slipshod pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at his face. “I’m just worried about Mystic Cooking. We did leave your mom and Hannah in charge. Maybe that was a mistake. Maybe we should go back.”
Lailu gaped at her mentor. Was he serious? He was thinking of bailing . . . on the king? He used to cook for the old king all the time. Why would he be so nervous now? “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said slowly. “I think we need to see this through.”
“You’re right. Of course you’re right.” He looked out the window, his shoulders tense, and they rode the rest of the way in silence.
Eventually the tall stone towers of the royal castle rose into view. Even though the Academy shared the same island as the palace, Lailu had never been so close to it before. On all sides rose magnificent stone walls covered in ivy and blooming vines. As their carriage pulled up, a footman leaped forward to get their door.
Lailu helped Slipshod with the large Cooling and Containment cart, then followed him out. “Wow!” she whispered, spinning in a slow circle. The castle had presence, almost like it was a grand mystic beast, the stones very much alive and waiting. Watchful.
“Come on, Pigtails,” Slipshod barked. “This way.”
“Er, sir, I can show you—” the footman began.
“No need, I remember the way.” Slipshod marched past, Lailu at his heels as they went through an open side passage and into an empty stone hallway.
“This here is the servants’ hall,” he explained, the cart’s wheels squeaking on the bare ground.
“Where are all the servants?” Lailu asked. A thin film of dust had settled on most of the surfaces, with the occasional faint footprint.
“Elsewhere,” Slipshod said helpfully. “Since the last king passed, there hasn’t been much need for servants here. Our current king, as you know, is still hard at work with his Scholarly Academy studies, so he spends little time here these days, and Lord Elister prefers to perform business at his Gilded Island estates.”
“But what about the queen?” Lailu eyed a shabby-looking tapestry. The ends of the silver embroidery had been chewed away by mice. Her earlier amazement at the palace began boiling off like overcooked stew.
“Rumor has it she’s been spending more and more time at her country estates, over near LaSilvian’s vineyards.”
They reached a spiraling stairway, and each of them took an end of the cart, hauling it up two floors before Slipshod had them set it down again in another hallway. This one looked more well-used, with bright, cheery tapestries displayed between wide-open windows. Lailu nodded her approval as their boots clicked across the freshly polished marble flooring.
“Wait until you see this, Pigtails.” Slipshod’s eyes gleamed with excitement as he threw open a large bronze door.
Lailu stepped inside a kitchen bigger than any room she had ever been in before, bigger than Lord Elister’s kitchen—bigger, even, than all of Mystic Cooking combined. Her jaw dropped as she spun slowly, taking it all in.
“I see you both made it this time,” a young man said.
Lailu turned too fast, tripped, and sprawled across the floor at the feet of the young king and his mother.
Master Slipshod sighed. “Way to make a good first impression.”
32
THE OFFER
Lailu scrambled to her feet, then hovered in a kind of awkward half curtsy, her face scalding as Slipshod bowed next to her.
“Rise,” the queen commanded, and Lailu straightened, keeping her eyes on her feet. She had just tripped in front of the king and queen. If Greg ever found out about this, she’d never live it down.
“Curious,” the king said, his voice surprisingly deep for someone so delicate, and Lailu glanced up. She recognized him immediately as the ethereal boy who had eaten in her restaurant the other night with Elister’s bodyguards. At fifteen, he was taller than his mother, but just barely, with similar Mystalon coloring. Rumor had it, the only thing he had inherited from his late father was the same tragic curse, a curse cast on him by the ruler of Mystalon and now doomed to carry over from generation to generation unless a cure was found.
Lailu didn’t know all the details; the existence of the curse was not publicly acknowledged, but chefs were notorious gossips, and she’d heard all the whispers during her time at the Chef Academy. Apparently Old King Salivar had been betrothed to the heir of Mystalon but had fallen in love with her sister and married her instead. As a country, Mystalon was known for its higher concentration of magic and magic users, and when the heir took over as ruler, she crafted her magical revenge. Of course, she denied it, and Mystalon and Savoria were officially allies. But unofficially? Lailu didn’t like to speculate. They were having enough trouble with the Krigs.
“What is curious, Your Majesty?” Lailu asked when it became apparent he was speaking to her.
“I would think one who hunts dragons and griffins would be more graceful.”
Lailu wanted to dig a hole and crawl deep inside.
“Be nice to the poor girl,” the queen said. “Look how red she’s become.”
Lailu realized there would be no hole deep enough for her. Maybe she could visit Old Salty the kraken at the bottom of the ocean instead.
“Sullivan, I’m so glad you could come again, and on such short notice. My son and I look forward to whatever wonderful feast you have planned this time,” the queen continued. “I’ve asked Lord Elister to grace us with his presence as well.”
“I am happy to be of service.” Slipshod dropped into another bow. Lailu stood there, wondering if she should curtsy too. She glanced at the king. The corner of his mouth quirked up in amusement, and then he and his mother left.
Lailu buried her face in her hands. “I can’t believe that just happened.”
“Believe it. At least you got that out of the way at the start, eh, Pigtails?”
Lailu looked back up at him, the queen’s words just now hitting her. “What did she mean by ‘again’ and ‘this time’?”
“Er . . . I did used to cook here, remember?” He adjusted his puffy chef’s hat. “From here on out, we have to do everything perfectly. There’s a lot riding on this dinner.”
“Like what?” Lailu asked, but Slipshod didn’t answer.
And while Lailu may have physically landed on her face, Slipshod seemed to be tripping up in his own way, overseasoning the soup, slicing the vegetables so unevenly they didn’t cook as well, and just generally making rookie cooking mistakes. There were only so many Lailu could fix.
“Master Slipshod, is everything all right?” she asked the third time she had to stop him from using the wrong seasoning.
“What? Oh, oh yes. Everything is going wonderfully. Couldn’t have hoped for better.” He lapsed into silence, studying his spice bottle. “This isn’t pixie paprika, is it?”
“No, it’s not,” Lailu sighed. “It’s really not.” She had a bad feeling about this dinner. It was definitely not shaping up to be their best work.
Lailu eyed the king nervously as he took a sip of their cream of hydra soup. “Hmm,” he said, setting the bowl down. Did he taste the extra spices that had been accidentally added?
She glanced at her mentor as the queen took a delicate bite of the griffin. Could she tell it had been overcooked just a tad? Enough to give it a hint of stringiness? Lailu had tried to add in a bit of hydra sauce to counteract that, but she wasn’t sure if the flavors combined well enough.
Slipshod’s face looked especially gray against the white of his chef’s hat, and Lailu could see the sweat beading his upper lip.
Finally Elister patte
d his mouth with a napkin. “Still not your finest work, Sullivan,” he commented. “But better this time.”
The queen frowned at him, and he immediately quieted. Interesting, Lailu thought. Maybe Lord Elister didn’t call all the shots. The queen certainly seemed more sure of herself here than she’d been at his party, a quiet confidence radiating out from her slender frame. “Don’t listen to him, Sullivan,” she said. Like her son, she also had a deeper voice than expected, low and beautiful. “I thought this meal was marvelous. The hint of hydra especially was a fine touch.”
“Time is wasting. Let’s get to the point.” The young king put down his fork and turned to Slipshod. “Do you know why we asked you here today?”
Lailu frowned. Was there an ulterior motive?
Master Slipshod cleared his throat. “I . . . have some ideas. I know that this is Your Majesty’s final year of Academy studies, and I know that . . .” He cleared his throat again, adjusting the neck of his apron. “That you’ll be needing a fuller staff here at the castle.”
“As future ruler, we . . .” The king glanced at Elister. “We all thought it best that I apprentice under Lord Elister and begin learning how the kingdom is run.” His smile turned to a grimace.
If Elister noticed, he gave no indication.
“During my apprenticeship, I will need a more complete staff. Including a head chef.” The king tapped his plate.
Wait, what? Lailu’s jaw dropped. Slipshod wouldn’t look at her.
“Someone loyal, experienced,” the queen spoke up. “Someone who knows how to be discreet. Someone who can be of help in the days to come.” She leaned forward. “We are inviting an ambassador from the Krigaen Empire to join us. Our two countries have much to discuss.”
“And I told you, Your Majesty, that this will not be necessary,” Elister said carefully, his tone respectful but annoyed. “Starling assures me her automatons will be corrected and enhanced. There’s no need for us to make a new treaty with the Krigs.”
“And I told you, I am no longer confident in Starling or her plans,” Queen Alina said. “Not after this most recent fiasco. I don’t believe we will be strong enough.”
Elister’s jaw clenched, but he remained silent.
“What about the elves?” the king asked. “Fahr has said if we banish the scientists, then he will—”
“Never trust the elves,” Queen Alina snapped.
Elister sighed. “We’re wasting Master Slipshod’s and Apprentice Chef Loganberry’s time.”
Queen Alina pushed her plate away. “Sullivan Slipshod, you served my husband faithfully for a number of years. I am willing to put some of your later indiscretions behind us both, if my son decides he would like you to join our staff.” Her blue eyes flicked over to Lailu, who stood completely frozen in shock. Was this what Slipshod had been working on?
Had he been planning on leaving her all along?
The queen’s eyes filled with something like pity, and Lailu looked away, her own eyes burning.
“What do you say, Sullivan Slipshod?” the king asked in his strangely deep voice. “Will you be my royal chef?”
33
GOING PLACES
Lailu crossed her arms and glared out the carriage window. At least everything finally made sense: Master Slipshod’s improved appearance, his distracted air, his near panic when the king showed up at the doorstep of Mystic Cooking yesterday. He was trying to leave her, again.
Lit candles in windows grew fuzzy, and masked faces blurred as the carriage rolled on past. Lailu blinked rapidly, trying to keep the tears in.
“You okay there, Pigtails?”
“Yes,” Lailu sniffed. “Fine.” She wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. “So you have been cooking for the king without me. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
Slipshod sighed. “I wasn’t really expecting them to make me the offer tonight. This was just supposed to be the final test, and then I thought they would spend time deliberating. I thought—I thought I would have more time to sit down and explain things to you.”
“But you did have time,” Lailu said, turning on him. “You had lots and lots of time. You just chose to keep everything so secret!”
“You weren’t there yesterday when I came back—”
“But that was just one time! You could have told me before our griffin hunt, you could have told me while we were preparing for Lord Elister’s party, you could have told me today, even, in the carriage ride over. You had all week to tell me, but you chose not to.”
Slipshod’s face reddened in the dimly lit carriage, and he opened his mouth several times before fixing it into a grimace. “I’m sorry,” he said finally.
Lailu shook her head. She wasn’t ready to accept his apology. “What’s going to happen to Mystic Cooking?” she asked. “What’s going to happen to me?”
“Well . . .” Slipshod scratched his chin. “I imagine you’ll go on to be a famous chef, one of the best in history. And as for Mystic Cooking, I’m sure it will blaze in history right along with you.”
Lailu wanted to smile at that, but the dream felt lonely, like a cupboard with no pots. “And what about my apprenticeship?”
“It will be complete as soon as I take this position as the king’s chef. I’ve already sent the Academy your papers.”
Lailu blotted her eyes on her sleeve. This was what she’d wanted, though, right? She remembered what Master Slipshod had said when he’d taken her on: You and me, Pigtails, we’ll go places. But he’d never said they’d go to them together.
“Can you . . . can you stop the carriage?” she whispered.
Master Slipshod hesitated, then had the driver pull over to the side of the street. Lailu drew her griffin mask down over her face, opened her door, and hopped out. “I’m going to walk.”
Master Slipshod nodded. “I understand. I’ll cover the rest of the dinner rush, and we can . . . we can talk more tonight. If you want.”
Lailu closed the door and stepped back, waiting until the carriage moved on before she broke down crying.
She let her feet carry her where they wanted, ending up at the market. Her tears flowed hot and heavy, but under her mask, no one could see them anyway. All around her people laughed and talked and sang, celebrating and trying to give her food from their stalls, but she turned it all down. She felt like the world was a feast and she was nothing but an empty plate, stacked to the side, separate.
As she passed Paulie’s Potions, she thought of the last time she was there, Ryon bleeding and half-conscious on a cot. She hadn’t seen him since that afternoon. Lailu’s misery turned to worry, and she bit her lip. Maybe she should check? Ask Paulie how he’d been?
Paulie’s front door opened, and Lailu leaped back. That witch really could read minds!
But then Vahn stepped outside.
“—head back to the palace,” he was saying. “They rely on me there these days.” He tossed his hair back over his shoulders.
“I’ll bet they do,” Paulie purred.
Lailu frowned. What was Vahn doing at Paulie’s again? It didn’t seem like he needed a spell or a potion. But why else would he keep coming back to her shop?
Paulie glanced past Vahn, locking eyes with Lailu, and Lailu quickly moved on. It was none of her business, after all. But it might be Hannah’s business.
Or it might be nothing.
She made a mental note to tell her friend. Just in case. Maybe then Hannah would actually admit she and Vahn were dating, and it would be one less secret between them. Lailu scowled. She was getting awfully tired of everyone keeping things from her.
Off to the side of the street was a brightly decorated wagon covered in cloths of every color imaginable. A large sign proclaimed: WE SELL DRAGON SILK AND WONDERS! The three women clustered around it wore clothing that was just as colorful as their wagon, favoring the same long, flowing skirts as Lailu’s mother. Lailu’s feet seemed to pull her the rest of the way over there.
“Why, hello! Aren’t
you adorable.” A woman with reddish-purple hair bustled over. “Can I interest you in some silk?”
“Actually . . . I was wondering if you knew Lianna,” Lailu asked. “Lianna Loganberry?”
The woman brightened. “Very well. She’s been traveling with us.”
Lailu idly ran her hands down a length of vivid, forest-green silk. Hannah would really love this, she decided.
“Ah, good choice,” the woman said.
“Oh, I’m not buying. I’m just looking,” Lailu said quickly. Much as she’d love to buy Hannah a present, all her money was tied up in Mystic Cooking.
“Well, if you change your mind, come find us. But don’t wait too long! We’re leaving as soon as the Week of Masks has ended.”
Lailu felt those words like a punch. They were leaving . . . which meant her mom would be leaving with them. She was a dragon who cared more about the sky than staying with her daughter, and no matter how much Lailu told her that it hurt, it wouldn’t change a thing. When the holidays were over, she would go, and Lailu would be all alone. No Slipshod, no Mom, and soon, probably no Hannah.
Her eyes filled with tears again, and she was grateful for her mask as she hurried off. What was wrong with her? It wasn’t like this was the first time she’d been abandoned. She was going to be a full master chef. She’d hunted dragons and krakens and hydra. She would be just fine on her own.
During the Week of Masks, the nights came alive, so even as Lailu left the market behind, she was still surrounded by people.
“—from Melvin’s,” a man said loudly, knocking into her.
Lailu stumbled, then recoiled as a cockatrice glared at her. It took her a second to realize those were bloodshot human eyes behind a mask and not the red eyes of death. She let out a breath.