by Katie Zaber
A woman with hazel eyes and a light blue apron walks over and gives me a slight bow. “My name is Quisha. It will be my pleasure to show you the fruit and vegetable storage.”
I find the orange vegetable Ciara used to make tomato soup—tarins. They have the same texture, acidity, and taste, but are pumpkin orange. The cooks won’t allow me to lift a finger, so I have to give them instructions. I tell them to fill two pots of boiling water and two bowls of ice cold water. They dunk all the tarins into the boiling pot. I tell them to wait until the tarins look shriveled, about a minute, and quickly submerge them in the cold water. Blanching the tarins makes the skin come off faster, easier. After they drain the boiling water, I tell them to place the peeled tarins back in the large pot and crush them with a spoon. Add a touch of water and bring them to a simmer and season.
While the sauce simmers for the next forty-five minutes, we roll out the dough and shred the cheese. At first, Manadhon stood at the single wooden doorframe, on guard. It was as if he didn’t want the staff to see him relax. After a half hour, he sat down on a stool with a view of all exits and the entire room. I think he began to realize that making a pizza would take some time. Still sitting at an advantage point, he scans the room constantly. It comforts me to see him on duty but makes me realize he is looking for a threat. He awaits it. He’s expecting an assassin since I’ve upset the order of hierarchy. It confirms one of my fears—my life is in constant danger.
I block out that thought and the ones that follow as I watch the cooks tease and mock each other. It makes me smile. They are a family, which makes me miss my own. I hate to say it, but it’s not Mom or Chelsea I think about, but Dana, Sarah, and Ciara. They were my pillars of support. Now I’m crumbling alone.
“Princess Megan, are you okay?” Quisha asks.
Tears water my eyes. I close them and take a deep breath in. I open my eyes once more with a cheery smile. “It’s the heat and spices. They are making my eyes burn. How’s the sauce coming?” I grab a spoon and stir the pot.
We gather our toppings, which makes Manadhon rush over to enjoy the spicy cured sausages the cooks take out from storage. The heat from the smell of the chorizo makes my eyes water even more. I won’t even dare try it, fearing my mouth would never stop burning. I slice the less spicy, but close to pepperoni sausage, which is much milder in comparison. One cook doesn’t eat meat and dices up an assortment of vegetables, peppers, mushrooms, onions, and garlic beside a pile of vegetables I don’t know.
With the sauce cooked to perfection, I instruct the cooks to roll out the dough in circles twice the size of a dinner plate. Each one works the dough into a flawless circle, giving us six large pies. I start with the first one and ladle sauce onto the center and spread it outward evenly. Then I apply ample cheese, covering all the sauce. I cover the pie with garlic and make half of it pepperoni. From that point, the chefs understand and assemble their own pies. Quisha and one other cook sauté vegetables, browning them before adding them onto their own pie. Another chef makes a meat lover’s pie: A combination of dried meats, sliced sausage, crispy bacon, chunks of browned ham, and some other types of salted meats too spicy for me to try. Manadhon drools over the meat lover’s pie, even urging the chef to add more burning hot sausage. I try to mimic a Hawaiian pie as best as possible, using ham and palka for pineapples, hoping it will be the right balance of sweet and savory. The plain one has a sweet, light cheese that reminds me of a mix of mozzarella and Gouda. Each pie looks like a masterpiece. Each slice of pepper, sausage, bacon, and mushroom placed just so. Masterpieces of food.
The chefs slide the pizzas into the ovens. They don’t have pizza boards, so we improvise with the various trays they use around the kitchen. While we wait for them to cook, I tell them about the various other sauces they can create from the tarin sauce. How to make barbeque sauce by adding simple sweet ingredients; cream sauces; and a bicki sauce, which I believe would taste like vodka sauce. I explain that the possibilities are endless. The wheels in their heads turn as they come up with other creations. If Ciara were here, she would show them how to roll out fresh pasta and make ravioli fillings. They could learn so much from each other. I wish Ciara was here. I wish they all were.
When the cooks finally open the oven door, it releases the most heavenly aroma, intensifying my cravings. Each pie is cooked to perfection. Golden round crusts each contain a heaping amount of bubbly, melted cheese. They honestly couldn’t have turned out any better if we were back on Earth at an actual pizzeria. I show the cooks how to the cut the pie the right way, into triangle slices. They repeat, and soon, all the pizza slices are divided between us.
The gooey cheese oozes as I sink my teeth in and tear apart the golden brown crust. I love it when the pepperoni is crispy, giving the meat a slight crunch. The cooks comment on ideas and combinations of flavors they want to try. Manadhon even smiles between stuffing bites of pizza into his mouth. He seems to like the meat lover’s pizza, reaching for seconds, then thirds. Apparently, Manadhon loves spicy foods, commenting that he would enjoy a spicy pizza with extra hot peppers and extra spicy meat. I’m sure he would love Tabasco sauce and Buffalo wings. We laugh, talking like friends. I only wish we had beers or rum and Cokes to wash down the pizza.
Afterward, the cooks clear the table and clean the messy kitchen. I try to help them tidy up, but they refuse, saying a princess in the kitchen was breaking enough rules. Even though they forbid me from lifting a finger, the look they give me is one of respect, appreciative of the equal treatment instead of the normal hostile conduct they receive.
The cooks are helpful, kind, knowledgeable, and one hundred percent Fae. Since being kidnapped, I have not seen a single human. I thought for sure there would be human slaves, but I haven’t seen one, only Fae. Maybe the king stowed them away, thinking it would further infuriate me, making me feel less welcome.
The stories people tell in Capo about Fae seem fake when living amongst them. However, some must be true. Kilyn and the cooks are normal, good-hearted people. Kilyn is too sweet and innocent to be a murderous human killer. The cooks glowed with new ideas, each passionate about their job. I can’t picture any of them picking up a knife against a human or any other living person, besides to cook them an appetizing dish. They are good people. Good people inhabit both sides. Which is always the case, but no one will acknowledge that during a war. Everyone wants to believe the worst about their enemy. It makes hatred, fighting, and killing easier.
“Did you like the pizza?” I ask Manadhon after we walk into my room. A pink splinter of moonlight catches my eye from the cracked-open window above my bed. I open the door to the balcony and stroll out, letting the sea breeze cool me and the room.
“Yes. But I think it would be better with hot peppers. The pepper sauce you described and spiced meats sounded delicious. Did you eat pizza often?” Manadhon asks.
“About once a week. Everyone has their personal favorites. Some restaurants only serve pizza. Some offer fifty different types, besides a create your own.”
“Those kitchens must be enormous. How many do they serve a day?”
How can I explain without adding more confusion? “A lot.”
“Do you miss your home?”
“Yes. It was mine.” I look up at the three moons that will forever haunt me. “The sky here is beautiful, but it’s a bittersweet reminder I’m not home.”
“Why?”
How can I lie to a human lie detector? “Back home, there is too much light pollution.” His head tilts, not knowing the term. “Overpopulated areas produce too much light, making it hard to see the stars at night. Picture cities that never sleep, built upon cities, creating so much bright light, you can no longer see the night sky. I could see some stars, but not as many as here. The sky is lovely but a constant reminder my home is far away. I may never go home to see the night sky over the ocean I swam in as a child. The ocean wasn’t tropical, but it was what I grew up loving. It’s the simple things. The things I took
for granted. I thought it would always be there, or I would. I don’t know how to feel or think anymore. I’m lost.”
He doesn’t respond, only nods as we both look out over the ocean, watching the waves roll in one after another. It’s low tide. The sand dunes between the shoreline and the big islands are walkable. I would love to stroll in the moonlight from dune to dune, reaching the big islands off the coast. Faint music whispers in the breeze from a distant island. I can barely make it out except for the drums. This really is a tropical paradise—just not mine.
Manadhon turns to face me. He squints, studying me. A slow smile spreads across his lips and then he reaches for my hand. It confuses me for a moment until my feet sink into wet sand. A cool, misty breeze trickles across my skin.
I gasp. One second ago, I overlooked the beach, listening to the distant drums and lights, now I stand less than a hundred feet away from a drum circle. The waves crash in front of me. Cool water runs over my feet, soaking my dress and cooling my legs. The bass drums vibrate through the air in time with the rhythmic chanting. I turn to Manadhon, who has a big grin on his face while I stand with my mouth hanging open. I didn’t think he was this much of a rule breaker.
“How much trouble will we be in?”
“Not much. Especially if we’re not caught.” He winks, then slips out of his boots and dips his toes into the water. He looks happy. It’s odd to see a smile take place of his normal scowl. A happy stomach equals a happy person.
I kneel into the wet sand where the gentle waves break. The water washes around my legs. The ocean spray mists my face. I don’t care how wet I become. For the first time since we were transported here, I feel free. Not that I wasn’t free living in Capo, but I can’t explain it. It’s as if the waves refresh me, bringing me peace no other sound or smell can. It’s the reason my condo had to have a large Jacuzzi tub to soak in for hours and coconut-scented candles. On Earth, the bathtub was my happy place since my childhood beach became tarnished by the guilt of my alcoholic Mom and dead Dad.
I get up to spy on the music that calls my name, enticing me to dance.
“Best to stay away if we don’t want to be seen.”
“Is it a festival or a party?”
“The fishermen of the nearby village hold a gathering at the beginning of each month. It’s to honor the Gods, asking them for a bountiful catch next month and to continue blessing their families. It’s a once a month party to pay homage to the Gods. An excuse to get drunk and feast.”
“Sounds like fun. The music reminds me of a place my family traveled to before my father faked his death: Hawai’i. That’s probably why my father wanted to go. We had lived in a house on the beach, but it looked nothing like this. It had more pebbles and rocks instead of fine sand, but we could hear the waves from our backyard. Hawai’i looks more like here. They even play similar music. I remember dancing at a luau. It was a lot of fun. I still remember the way the dance goes. We danced on the beach together.” I point to the party. “Just like they are.”
I dance, swinging my hips to the far-off beats of drums. The rhythm sounds like the ocean. It mimics the waves, flowing in and out with the beats from various drums. People sing, not in the common tongue, but it reminds me of seagulls and the swooshing of water. With my eyes closed, their melody hypnotizes me, making me feel one with the ocean. It causes me to dance and sway more in the misty breeze. The music captivates me till I realize Manadhon is watching me dance, making me blush. It’s easy to get lost in the music, becoming one with the water’s rhythm.
“Your family danced like that. You, your mother, and father? I can picture you and your mother, but the king? It sounds preposterous. Not a lie, but with everything I know about him, it seems impossible.”
I laugh. “It was a sight to see. You would laugh your ass off. I wouldn’t call what he did dancing, but he tried. Not only were we dancing like this, but we also wore grass skirts. They were woven from palm leaves into a skirt.” I use my hands to help describe what exactly the king wore. “And to top it off, we had on coconut cup bikinis. You know what a bikini is?” Manadhon nods. “Okay so picture a bikini made from a melon that looks like wood. It’s chopped right down the center, hollowed and strung up to wear. My father was so drunk. My mom and father wobble danced. It made me and…” Thank God I stopped. I almost mentioned Chelsea. “We laughed so hard. My father has two left feet. He tripped, stumbling into my mother, who caused a waiter to knock over a tray of drinks. It was hysterical. They soaked everyone with fruit cocktails.”
“That really happened?” Manadhon laughs, shaking his head.
I sit back down and dig a hole, one big enough for my feet so, when the water comes, I have a mini pool before the water seeps into the sand, returning to the ocean. The music changes to a different faster beat. The party rages. Tiki torches glow in the distance, illuminating the happy partygoers, the smiling families.
“Manadhon, is my father as bad as rumored? He was so different. Kind, loving, as a human being. The person I called Dad would never condone slavery. He would never kill, and he taught me all life is precious. I don’t know who my father is, nor do I think he is the same person. Do you think the man that danced around in a grass skirt is in there? Do you think he’s gone?” Silence. “I’m sorry. There are too many things to think about. Too many questions without answers.”
He nods, pushing around wet sand, building a sandcastle. He makes a circular dome shape castle and then drags his finger around it to make a moat. “Most consider him evil. Many want him dead.” He scoops out a center in the dome castle, making a courtyard. “Problem is, who reigns next. Now you are here. You will inherit the throne.” He pokes tiny holes into the castle for windows or arrow slots. “Before, it was Mek. Now there are whispers of you marrying him. You could change things for the better or worse. No one knows anything about you. If you are merciful or merciless.” He crushes the castle he just built with one hand, then looks at me with rose-tinted eyes, the pink moon reflecting off the silver. “As for your father, people change. Sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse, but they can always change again and again. Talk to him; you’ll find out.”
“Hopefully he’ll answer my questions at lunch tomorrow. I don’t want to marry my cousin. I refuse to let Mek and my treacherous aunt rule Paradise Kingdom. They are sinister. I’m unsure if my father or Aunt Meloda is worse.” I cup the sand, letting the grains filter through my fingers and sigh. “I don’t want innocent lives to suffer, but I don’t know what to do. Everything my father, aunts, and cousins stand for is wrong. I want everyone to be free. Everyone. Humans too. All races and people. I want peace for all, but I have never dealt with politics.”
He laughs, swiping away any remains of the sandcastle he built, and then stares at the night sky. “You’re an anomaly.”
“What?”
“You’re the only person in the royal family who cares about anyone besides themselves. You can change things, correct injustices—as long as no one kills you first for your ideology.”
“Well, you better be good at your job.” A cool breeze makes me shiver, forcing me choose to either go for a swim or wash off and go to bed. Swim it is. “Will anything attack me if I wade out?”
He smirks. “No, they’re in deeper waters or back at the castle.”
“When was the last time you went for a swim?” I pull my dress up as far as appropriate to wade through the water. I watch the fish skirt away from my approach.
“Honestly, I can’t remember.” His voice sounds closer now than when he was sitting on the beach. He follows a few feet behind in the waist-deep water.
“Sorry to vent. I needed someone to talk to. I have felt so alone since Capo. You’re the closest thing I have to a friend. Which I know is dangerous. You’re my bodyguard and my potential assassin—if my father requests it.”
“It’s absurd how many roles we play to survive.” He winks before diving below the surface.
Chapter Twenty-Three - Megan
“Has the king canceled?” I ask Manadhon as he strolls into my room. He didn’t use the hallway door, but his private door to my room. It doesn’t matter which one he uses, but he seems to be a creature of habit, his actions deliberate, not arbitrary.
Manadhon listens to orders, but he makes his own decisions. His moral compass operates separately from outside influences. He portrays himself as chivalrous, respectful, quiet, and intelligent. With that combination of personality, I’m uncertain where his allegiance lies. Who knows which agenda he works toward: his, mine, or the king’s? I want to probe, but I’m afraid it will push him away and he’s just becoming friendly.
Last night I relaxed, laughed, and enjoyed myself, something I haven’t done in what feels like forever. The last time I was happy was when I met Blue. The morning after I met him was the Fae blizzard. With the sand between my toes, my belly full of pizza, watching tropical fish scurry as we splashed through the waves, listening to the music and laughter, even if we couldn’t take part, it made me feel alive. I felt normal for a moment. Not a princess trapped in a foreign world with countless unsolvable problems and a growing stack of questions.
The sun peeked over the horizon when we came back to our rooms. We had gone to the kitchen late, spent about three hours cooking and eating before slicing to the beach. Exhausted, I had washed off the sand, leaving the soaked, sand-covered dress on the floor and collapsed into bed. Kilyn had attempted to wake me up early. Too early. I told Kilyn to go back to bed until I needed to get ready for lunch. She rolled her eyes, found the sand trail, the wet dress, then left, taking the dress for cleaning. When she walked out of the room, she promised to be back soon and with cold water. She kept her promise. What a character. Still there are no teams of women to pick out my clothes, fix my hair, and give me lessons on how to act like royalty. I thought the king would have made those arrangements by today. It must not be a priority to him.