The kitchen was cold when Jasper entered, the daytime chef having left it over an hour before and the house staff forbidden from entering between the shifts of the two men like children pressed between the stormy whims of their parents. Jasper did not mind the cold. Old houses had their drafts and Echo Manor was the oldest.
He lit the lamps and fired the stoves himself. He liked to feel the grain and heft of the pieces of wood between his fingers before he fed them to the fire. He selected the best, hardiest logs, cut daily by the outdoor servants. Once the kitchen began to warm, the kitchen staff began to enter. They deferred to him and kept their eyes low, busying themselves with those mundane things that Jasper allowed, but always he watched.
After his knives were unrolled and his stoves were well hot, Jasper asked for the meat. Big iced trays were brought before him by the strapping kitchen boys. The two of them were rough, lean and towheaded with ruddy faces. The cords of muscle that ran up their arms bulged as they lifted the heavy, ice-laden trays, and a hint of animal sweat touched their brows. The fish that they brought before Jasper still smelled of the ocean and the blood of the beef had not even finished darkening.
“And what else?” Jasper asked. “Is that all?”
More trays were brought before him, the contents of each slightly stranger than the last. The head of an elk hunted from the lord’s forest, squirrels still twitching in their deaths from traps outside the lord’s gates, the stringy flesh of a wolf, newts sliced lengthwise… Jasper looked over his meat and called “What else?” and “Is that all?” until a full dozen trays of the chilled dead were brought before him.
Jasper raised his hand; he had seen enough. The kitchen boys disappeared to their other tasks and Jasper settled his eyes on the meat. The present week had seen stewed monkey, reduced to organ meat and cooked long and slow over a quivering flame until it was so tender that just a touch from the lord’s fork would burst it, spilling its juices over roasted potatoes. Then there had been nearly raw pig, rolled in salt and smoked for a time before being rubbed with lime and herbs from the lord’s expansive gardens. Over a bed of oven-wilted greens the pork preened with brave flavors and the hint of bacon touched it with the decadent.
What, Jasper asked himself, could stand above those dishes?
He stared at the ice trays and wondered until slowly the dish came to him. He reached out and touched the nearest kitchen woman on her shoulder and she jumped at the contact.
“Help me,” he said. The two of them extracted a side of beef from one of the trays and hung it from a hook in the back room adjoining the kitchen. Jasper asked for a large shallow bowl and placed it below the uncut carcass like an offering. With one of his knives—a long, thick silver piece with a wicked edge—he sliced open the creature and allowed its essence to pool beneath it. He carved into the beast and extracted cuts so lean and juicy that his mouth watered at the uncooked selections.
Back in the kitchen he oversaw the preparation of his meal. Without a word the staff, trained up since birth, had begun readying potential complements. He walked among them, gently touching on the shoulder those who he thought had best anticipated his needs: the stout older woman whose name was Martha had cut carrots so thin and uniform that he had to use them, and he touched her shoulder. Another woman, whose name escaped him, had cut long curlicues of beetroot that looked like broken hearts. He touched her as well.
The dish was coming along in his head. He chose a cooled beef stock, made fresh that day, and began working it into what his mind saw. He commanded that the cow’s blood be spiked with a dash of vinegar to discourage clotting and on the stove he added spices to his slowly simmering broth: cloves to awaken the senses and allspice to keep them open, a little garlic for body and fresh chopped peppers to ward off complacency. He added his cuts of beef that he knew would become creamy and soft in the soup, the carrots so finely cut that they made him smile, and the broken hearts of beetroot so red and delicate that he could have wept over them. Hours slipped away as the soup grew bolder and richer.
Jasper called for the blood and added it very carefully. Even still a fat drop spilled onto the underside of his wrist. He watched it ride the tendon down toward the crook of his arm, leaving a bright trail against his pale skin. He licked his wrist clean.
The soup bloomed with the blood’s addition. It was no longer just a soup, but a creation with a beating, bloody heart. Jasper had it plated immediately with a dollop of squid’s ink in the dead center of the bowl. The darkness fanned outward like phantasmal fingers.
Alongside the soup he served black bread baked by the lord’s own bakery and a creamy drink on shaved ice to cool the lord’s palate. When it was finished, the dishes were taken off to the lord’s table with strict instructions on what was to be served and at which times. The lord of the manor, Mr. Hugh Echo, was not finicky about his dinner service nor did he hold elaborate dinner parties but Jasper considered dinner a sacred affair and quietly encouraged the staff to do the same.
After dinner was served, Jasper dismissed much of the kitchen staff, but retained a few just in case the lord was displeased with dinner and wanted something else made. It had never happened before, but Jasper always wanted to be prepared. He had them clean, wash, and ready the unused portions of the dinner for donation to the kitchens of the town’s poor in the morning.
Hours passed and Jasper finally relented and let the last of the kitchen staff go to their rooms. He knew where to find them if he needed them. He himself awaited the arrival of the butler, who always came to inform Jasper that the lord had retired. Before long he heard the heavy, familiar steps of the butler. The man, Rudolf Feathersport, entered the kitchen with a jacket in hand and spoke in his melodiously arch tone.
“The lord of the manor requests your presence in his solar,” Rudolf said. “I surmised you would not have a jacket at the ready and so took the liberty of bringing you one.”
“The lord wants to see me? Do you know what this regards?” Jasper asked.
Rudolf raised a manicured eyebrow. “Food, I presume.”
Jasper put on the jacket and smoothed his hair back into a neater ponytail than usual. It wasn’t the most decorous look, but it would have to do.
He followed Rudolf up through the bones of the manor. They took the back stairwells rather than going up the grand staircase at the front of the house. Through an incomprehensible zigzagging path they arrived before a mahogany door. Rudolf rapped twice with his knuckles, opened the door for Jasper and stepped aside. Jasper took a step into the room and then Rudolf, as if it had been prearranged, closed the door gently behind him.
Jasper glanced around the room quickly as not to seem like the moony-eyed son of some pauper gawking at the belongings of his betters. There was a painting of the late lord Herbert Echo, grandfather of the current lord, with a stern expression and a ceremonial black sash across his chest. He was tall and dark-featured, handsome in a steely way.
There were crests on the wall, a splendid oak desk and richly draped windows that were all attractive sights, but it was the carpet that drew Jasper’s eye. Perhaps it was because his gaze was lowered, but the deep scarlet carpet stood out. It was like a cask of red wine had been breached and allowed to bleed.
“Mr. Jasper Roux, it is a genuine pleasure to finally make your acquaintance,” said Mr. Hugh Echo to his chef.
Jasper was quick with his courtesies. “I’m sure the pleasure is mine entirely, Mr. Echo.”
“You must be wondering why I called you here so late at night.”
“I’m certain you have your reasons, Mr. Echo.”
“Please call me Hugh and there’s no need for you to stare at the floor. I promise my gaze won’t turn you to stone.”
Jasper looked up. Hugh Echo was strongly built. He had long dark curls, olive skin and a neat mustache. Add to this his high boots and the close cut of his jacket, and he looked like nothing so much as a pirate captain from a story. His eyes were striking, dark mirrors for the burnin
g candles throughout the solar. “There. Isn’t that better?”
“Of course,” Jasper responded. His own hair seemed ridiculous bordering upon comical in Hugh’s company. His skin pallid and his posture limp. He straightened himself up, or tried.
Hugh gave him a strange look. “You remind me of someone, but I can’t for the life of me remember…. Do you have any family that once worked at Echo Manor?”
“No, sir. Only myself.”
“Ah, I see. I must be mistaken. Well, I won’t worry you for a moment longer. The reason I called you here, Mr. Roux—”
“Jasper,” the chef said. “If you insist that I call you Hugh, I mean. You might at least consider calling me Jasper.”
The lord of the manor bent his head to indicate that a fair point had been made. “Jasper. I called you here not to chastise or worry you, but to give you my highest compliment. Your soup…blood soup was it?”
“Indeed, it was. A variation on a very old recipe.”
“Yes. That blood soup was—you outdid yourself, my man. The flavors were bursting with life and the presentation: sinister and romantic both. It was a delight. So much so that I almost disdained involving the bread, as fine as it was. And I almost turned away your cream refreshment so as not to spoil the taste; indeed, I let it linger on my tongue like…” Hugh smiled. “I fear simile would do the dish a disservice. Suffice to say that I enjoyed it very much.”
“I am quite pleased to hear that…” Jasper said, adding, “…Hugh.”
“I was so impressed that I had to meet the man behind the creation and ask him a favor.”
“A favor?”
Hugh brought his hands together and raised them over his mouth as if in deep concentration or prayer. His brows furrowed. He brought his hands back down again, knitting them in front of him, but the crease in his brow remained.
“I confess that I still have a taste for something novel,” Hugh said.
“That’s no favor at all. I’ll have the kitchen staff awoken at once—”
“That won’t be necessary,” Hugh said, then asked, “How long have you worked here, Jasper?”
“Eight years.”
“Eight years. How old were you when you started here?”
Jasper paused to think about it. “Roughly twenty six?”
“And in eight years’ time, what rumors have you heard about me?”
Jasper flinched. “Pardon me?”
Hugh strode across the dark-red carpet, the sound of his footfalls lost in the sumptuous fibers. He reached up with his long arms and fingered the Echo crest high on the wall. “Rumors, gossip, hearsay. You must have heard something, even if you don’t do much fraternizing. It’s hard to keep your ears closed for eight years, Jasper.”
Hugh turned back to Jasper. The reflection of the candle flames gave his eyes a hellish glow.
“What have you heard about why I don’t leave this manor? Why I keep it empty unlike my grandfather, who so loved parties and galas and fêtes? Who could not wake happily in the morning but for the sound of his children shouting his name.” Hugh grinned and moved away from the crest. His attention fell solely on Jasper once again. “Tell me what you’ve heard.”
“Hugh—”
“It’s all right. Just say it.”
Jasper sighed. “They say it makes you sick to leave the grounds, that you have fits, tremors. I suppose I’ve heard that it grows worse in public, when you’re around people, so you keep the manor empty,” Jasper said, clutching his hands behind his back.
“In my grandfather’s final years he must have thought me a disappointment. Two sons lost to war, a sister to illness, and my mother as well. His only surviving grandson a shut-in, a cripple. I doubt we shared much beside a name. I wasn’t even here when he died. I hardly knew him.” Hugh stroked his chin. “But we both loved food, I do know that. His chef was one of the best in the world, brought here through great personal cost to my grandfather and lavished with gifts. He served here for twelve years and for each of those twelve he was given a knife, a knife unlike any in the world. That was before the war, before things changed. Alas.”
Hugh shook his head as if memories could be as water flying off of a dog’s back.
“But let’s discuss why I brought you here. What I want from you,” Hugh said, again walking across the room. “As you can see I am not a sickly man. The rumors are only half right on that account. I do disdain crowds, but that is because of what I am. There is no word to accurately describe it because I think I am the only one that there has ever been. I spent my years abroad searching for someone, anyone who could do what I can. As the years passed it grew worse, more powerful and I grew frail in the company of others. All that time and all that pain…I found nothing. I found no one.”
“And what is it that you can do?” Jasper asked.
“I can see…I can sense…” Hugh made a frustrated noise. “I can taste what others have tasted, see what others have seen, feel what they’ve felt. I can see that you don’t believe me. Perhaps you think this is too incredible to be true and why would I blame you? I wish it were a lark.”
“How?” Jasper said; it was all he could say.
Hugh came toward him directly and touched a finger to his lips. Jasper recoiled, surprised. Then Hugh took that same finger and put it to his own mouth. Hugh’s tongue, pink and wet, licked the tip of his finger. He closed his eyes.
“Blood. I taste blood.”
“The cow’s blood, a drop I licked up earlier. Forgive me, Hugh, but I made you blood soup. It’s hardly surprising you would think of blood. Hardly miraculous,” Jasper responded calmly.
Hugh opened his eyes. They were sleepy and far-off, still in the midst of whatever reverie had come over him.
“You’re…you’re right. That was silly of me, I suppose. Here: give me your hand.”
Jasper presented his right hand and Hugh raised both of his. Hugh’s fingers traced over Jasper’s fingers, feeling every callus and every ridge. His fingers slid up to Jasper’s palm and over the smoother skin on the alternate side. Their thumbs touched and Hugh pressed his into Jasper’s as if there were something there to find, some secret just beneath the skin.
“A bone handle. A stained oak grip. A thick iron knife with a sharper edge than most. A man’s throat…”
Jasper ripped his hand away at that and Hugh blinked hard, squinting and groaning softly as if the candlelight were too much.
“I’m…sorry, Mr. Echo. I’m not sure I’m comfortable…”
“No, no. I should apologize. I didn’t mean to look so deeply. I didn’t realize what I would find.”
“If it’s all the same to you, Mr. Echo, I’d like to go—”
“No!” Hugh shouted. There was an edge of panic in his voice, but he tried admirably to smooth it out. “I mean, let me apologize. Again, I didn’t mean to pry. Your personal business is your own. Can we start again?”
“What do you want from me?” Jasper whispered. His eyes again on the bloody carpet.
“I want to taste the most wonderful flavor you’ve ever encountered. You’ve trained all over the world. I can barely leave this room anymore. Let me taste the flavor you’ve enjoyed most in your travels. That’s all I ask of you. Then, if you wish to leave my employ you may do so with a stipend twice what I pay you now. I ask only that you keep my secret.”
Jasper looked up at his employer whose expression was suddenly frail, and asked, “How?”
“Think on the flavor: the taste of it, the texture of it. Close your eyes. I’ll do the rest,” Hugh explained.
Jasper hesitated, but he did as he was asked. He closed his eyes and thought of a pastry he’d once tried. It was flaky and warm. It was buttery and seemed to melt on his tongue. The inside was hot and sticky with jam. It was sweet and tart at the same time.
He was thinking of this when Hugh’s lips touched his and Hugh’s tongue slipped into his partially opened mouth. Then he was no longer thinking of pastries.
He thoug
ht of a man whose tongue had tasted of jam and whose fingers had been nimble—how they were warm and how they’d left him sticky. It had been a long time ago, a lifetime perhaps or longer, but that touch still lingered.
He thought of a tongue on his, sweet and tart at the same time. He thought of a body that had been hot against his. How the two of them had struggled in crimson sheets and sweat until the sanguine sheets turned black against their skin.
He thought of a man’s neck, his thighs, his dark hair and olive skin, his arms corded thickly with muscle. A tall man with dark features and iron in his gaze. A man whose hands were always slightly cool in the beginning and then hot by the end. A man whose hungers were prodigious.
He thought of this other man’s tongue in his mouth among other things. He thought of this man’s desire expanding and bursting under his touch. The hushed groans and mouths clamped tight to keep noises from spilling out into the night, up through the floorboards of the old house, out amongst the trees hemming in the verdant garden. He thought of everywhere their bodies had been. And the variety of fluids that had passed between them, each containing a promise or a provocation or an incitement to further debauchery.
He thought of this man’s sweet, tart meat.
Jasper pulled away and Hugh’s eyes fluttered open sleepily. It took the head of the household a moment to regain himself and another long moment before he lowered his own gaze to where Jasper’s stare had fixated below his waist. Not only was Hugh fully erect, but fluid was dripping through his trousers.
Jasper tried to spare the man further embarrassment by raising his eyes, but he could not unsee the pulsing outline of Hugh’s manhood or the slick trail it left on his trousers. The unmistakable smell of semen permeated the space between the two men. Hugh drew his jacket closed, but it did not entirely hide what was now staining the inner thigh of his cream-colored trousers.
“I’m…I can’t,” Hugh said. “I didn’t expect that. There were so many things I saw. Tasted. I’m not sure…”
Darker Edge of Desire Page 13