Page 38 of The Chef

Fen let out a soft chuckle and reached out to grip Char’s hand, reminding Char where he was and why he couldn’t run off just yet.

“Now, as my brother said, take some time to rest and recuperate,” Fen added to Zain. “Dismissed.”

Zain saluted before turning and walking to the door, dodging servants pushing carts full of cloche-covered trays into the room as she left. One servant deposited a plate in front of Char, and a second filled his teacup, and when Char looked up again it was to see Fen’s entire family looking at him. Char gulped and looked down again.

The pancakes looked reasonably fluffy, so they hadn’t been overmixed. The fresh fruit in a bowl to the side had evenly cut melon squares, the color distribution was pleasing to the eye, and there was a good balance between tart citrus versus sweet berry. Two small pitchers filled the rest of the plate. The first proved to be syrup and the second a mixed berry compote that, at a glance, had Char’s alarm bells ringing. He took a spoon and dipped it into the compote, carefully licking the liquid off the back of the spoon before it could drip on the tablecloth. He grimaced, suspicions confirmed. Far too much lemon and slightly undercooked, so the natural pectin from the fruit hadn’t had time to properly thicken. A glance around the table identified the sugar bowl. Char might not be able to fix the cooking time, but a quarter teaspoon of sugar would help with the sourness.

He scooped the right amount of sugar into his pitcher, grabbed the one from Fen’s plate and added sugar there too. He stirred both and tasted again, then let out a sigh. The texture wasall wrong, but at least the compote would be palatable on the tongue now.

Char looked up when he realized multiple people were laughing. Queen Trina had her mouth hidden behind one hand, but Prince Ayer and Prince Braxton weren’t bothering to hide their mirth. Char’s cheeks heated, and he ducked his head, looking down at his lap rather than the food.

“Please don’t be embarrassed,” Queen Trina said, her tone gentle and, while still full of laughter, was not chiding. “It’s only, Fen described you to us with perfect accuracy. Here we are, ready to interrogate you as any good family must of their child’s significant other, and then the food arrived, and all your fear vanished. You were more incensed by the poor showing from our kitchen than worried about us. It is quite adorable, you know.”

“Um,” Char mumbled, wishing he could think of something articulate to say.

“Adding a bit of sugar will make this fruit thing edible?” Prince Braxton asked, swirling the pitcher so the much too loose liquid splashed along the edges.

Food Char could talk about without worry, and his response fell out before he thought about what to say. “Compote. And, um, a quarter teaspoon of sugar will add enough sweetness to balance the sour lemon. But I can’t do anything about the texture,” Char added, growling slightly over the last part.

“How would you fix that?” Shairon asked while Braxton stole the sugar bowl from her.

“Cook it longer. A good compote only takes maybe ten minutes to make. I would guess they only spent five on this one.”

“Has cooking always been your main interest?” Queen Trina asked. Once everyone had added sugar to their compote, they began eating.

Char nodded. “It’s a tradition in the Musen family. I’ve been helping in the kitchen since before I could walk.”

They asked him more generalized questions about his family and his hobbies, which Char answered while he ate the passable food. Midway through, Fen’s hand slipped into Char’s, their fingers tangling together. They shared a brief smile, and Char realized any remaining worry about meeting Fen’s family had faded away sometime while they were talking.

Their duties might keep them apart sometimes, but the love Char felt for Fen and the love Char saw gleaming out of Fen’s smile, said whatever the future might bring they would still be happy together.

Interlude

BRAXTON WALKED DOWNthe last of the steps into the dungeons, stepping onto stone-flagged floors that were cheap but easy to mop. Only political prisoners ended up in the palace dungeons; the prison complex for everyone else was about five miles north of the city, heavily fortified with specialty guards. Braxton didn’t like going there, so it was nice Prince Clament was one of their pampered guests here in the palace. Braxton visited every couple days to ask one simple question.

He walked down the hall, which had barred doors for six cells, three on either side, and stopped outside the last door on the right, peering through the bars at the lone person lying on the bed inside. Prince Clament had the blond hair and blue eyes of his entire family, the royal family of Namin. Normally, those brilliant blue eyes were glaring at the door, fierce and powerful and wonderfully defiant even with hair disheveled from months in a cell. This time, Clament was curled into a ball, huddled underneath the thin blanket.

“Are you ready to talk?” Braxton asked, his usual question feeling flat today.

Clament didn’t answer, and Braxton thought he might be shivering.

Braxton turned to one of the guards stationed in this wing. “Summon the healer,” he ordered. The man dashed off, and Braxton turned to a second one. “Open this door.”

The second man produced a key ring and fitted the key into the lock, which groaned as the lock was turned. The door hinges let out a screech as the guard yanked it open. And Clament didn’t twitch.

Braxton hurried inside, his two personal guards following closely, and paused at Clament’s side. He was definitely shivering, his nose curled up to his knees, and clutching at the blanket in clenched fists. Braxton slowly reached out, tentatively resting his palm against Clament’s forehead, then yanked his hand back with a hiss. Clament’s skin was boiling.

“Why the hell am I back here so soon?” someone whined from the hallway. “I just put this bastard back together last night! Can’t you wait a few days before ripping him to pieces?”

Braxton sucked in a sharp breath at the healer’s words, clenching his own hands into fists to keep from lashing out. There was only one reason the healer would be familiar with this particular prisoner, a reason for which his words also implied. Braxton straightened and turned to face the door, catching both prison guards and the healer in his harsh, angry glare.

“Who signed the writ approving torturing this man?” Braxton asked, his voice eerily calm, considering the fury churning inside, absolutely ready to explode like a volcano. “Answer me!” he roared.

“You wanted him to talk,” the guard who had fetched the healer began, his voice a whine that had Braxton clenching his teeth and taking in slow breaths through his nose to keep from screaming again.

“The law is clear,” he said, trying to sound reasonable and logical when all he really wanted to do was grab the guard and shake him until the stupid fell out. “Torture of political prisoners requires a royal writ, signed by the king or crown prince, and sealed by whichever one didn’t sign. Tell me where you got a writ to touch this man?” Braxton prowled closer, and his two personal guards spread out to encircle the three men.

“You want answers, this is how you get them,” the guard continued, still whining but sounding even more desperate as he glanced around the small space.

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