Page 12 of The Chef

“Now that I’m done cleaning up your mess, that’s when you show up?” she snapped, scowling at Fen.

“Hey, Z. Glad you made it.” Fen’s reply was nonchalant and his grin at her mischievous as if he wanted to induce her to deepen her scowl—which she did, growling at him. A man wearing brown breeches and a light green tunic with the healer’s college insignia on the breast pocket walked up to Fen and, without asking, placed one hand over Fen’s cheek. The hand glowed green and when the healer pulled away, the swelling had gone down significantly. Fen was still bruised, but at least the damage was fixed.

“Took us less than five minutes from the time your second blew the horn, even in these conditions. If my soldiers don’t get a commendation, it’ll be your head.” Captain Zain—she had to be the captain Jensen had mentioned earlier—snorted. “Not a single couch potato among them.”

“My potatoes!” Char gasped out, reminded of the lunch he had been in the midst of preparing. He dashed off, heading back to his cooking fire.

“Who’s that?” Captain Zain asked.

“We picked him up along the way. He’s my chef,” Fen replied. “Now, tell me what else needs to be done before we can pack up and head home.”

Char traveled out of earshot, but he was glad to have had an excuse to leave. Besides the fact that Captain Zain was extremely intimidating, seeing someone else touch Fen so gently—even if it had just been a healer—had made something ugly and sour erupt inside Char. Worse than sucking on a lemon. And yet, that ugly feeling fought with the butterflies that erupted when Fen said “my chef” in that almost proprietary tone. Char found it far easier to focus on the potential of burnt or trampled potatoesthan to try figuring out what the heck was wrong with him. He hurried back to camp and to his fire where he could pretend life was simple again.

Chapter Seven

THE FIRE HADremained unscathed during the fighting. Char’s potatoes needed a few hours to bake, and since the wood or ashes from the fire weren’t scattered, he felt safe assuming the potatoes were safe. He did reach into the embers to check one, squeezing gently, which told him the potato was only starting to soften and hadn’t been stepped on.

Assured lunch was okay, Char refocused on the rest of his supplies, which hadn’t fared as well.

The packs containing the food looked like they had been kicked multiple times. The tops had been forced open and the smaller bags inside tossed about and trampled. One of the bags of dried peas had been opened and scattered everywhere. A bag of dried meat had a muddy footprint on it and looked squashed, but the insides could still be salvaged. The bags of dishes had fared worse, many of the plates broken, the enameled wood not able to hold up to the trampling of booted feet. Silverware was as scattered as the peas, but at least it wasn’t broken. Char gathered the food first, checking every bag and making two piles. One for everything that could still be used, and the second for what needed to be thrown away. Once the food was checked, Char moved over to the dishes. Everything not broken that had spilled out he put in a pile to be washed, everything broken he put in apile to throw out, and he checked through everything still in the bags to make sure he didn’t miss anything.

A glance around the camp showed he was alone. The rest of the group were probably still dealing with the aftermath of the fighting. Char had no idea what that entailed, but his assigned kitchen crew was not around. He had gotten used to not having to wash dishes, but he kept his grumbling internal as he gathered the dirty dishes and dumped them into a pot to carry them, found some soap, and headed down to the lake.

But as he started down the hill, he realized he wasn’t alone. Three people were near the water’s edge, and Char swallowed hard when he realized two were kneeling over the one lying prone in a pool of blood. The two kneeling were healers, their hands glowing green over the body. As he drew closer, Char recognized Clarise. One healer had his hands pressed to her abdomen, the other had one hand on her upper thigh and the other on Clarise’s arm.

“Can I—?” Char coughed to clear his throat, his gaze caught on Clarise’s pale, clammy skin, so different to the rosy shade of her usual light-brown complexion. “What can I do to help?”

The healer working on her abdomen opened his eyes and glanced over. “Tea, if you have it.” He sounded exhausted, his voice thin and reedy, but the green magic coating his hands was strong and even.

“On it,” Char replied. He dumped the dishes on the ground—well out of the way of the blood—and took the pot to the lake. Char walked out into the water, away from the churned-up silt on the bank. He gave the pot a quick rinse and then dunked it deep into the water where anything on the surface wouldn’t get inside. He also checked he didn’t accidentally catch a fish as he pulled the pot out. Then he hurried back to the fire. The pot went into the hottest spot on the grill, and Char tossed on a couplemore logs to make the fire burn hotter. Since a watched potneverboiled, Char left it to do its thing and returned to his pile of dishes. He found two cups and the diffuser, located where the soap had gotten buried, and returned to the lake to wash them. By the time he returned to the fire, the pot was starting to steam.

The teapot was one of the items that had remained safely packed. Char unearthed it, slipped the diffuser into the slot, and then went digging for the bags of dried tea leaves. At the very bottom of the pack he found the ginseng, which was the best tea for restoring energy. He assumed Fen’s group had packed it for exactly that purpose, although in the evenings Char had been serving his own blend of rose and chamomile instead. Char measured the leaves into the diffuser, by which point the water had reached a full boil. He pulled the pot off the heat and left it to cool, keeping an eye on the bubbles and the steam until he was certain he wouldn’t burn the leaves. Without a thermometer he couldn’t be exact and ensure the tea would retain the health benefits that were best preserved at a precise temperature, but he knew he could get a fairly close estimation. When the water was ready, he filled the teapot, made sure the diffuser was fully immersed, and brought it and the cups over to the healers.

When Char smelled the earthy, slightly bitter notes, and the tea had reached the right shade of tan, he removed the diffuser and poured.

“Here,” he told them. The healers each freed a hand to take a steaming cup, both downing the contents immediately despite the heat. Char offered a refill, glad when the healers sipped this time.

“Thanks, that helps,” the healer who had requested the tea said. He sounded better, and he smiled slightly.

“How is she?” Char asked. He topped off their cups.

“We got to her in time,” the second healer said between sips. “Right now it’s mostly meticulous work, tiny internal stitches that take a lot of power and finesse, and attempting to replenish her lost blood. Another twenty minutes and she’ll be safe to be moved, which is largely thanks to our boost from the tea. It’s delicious.”

“I’ll have to find out who made the blend and let them know,” Char replied. “It’s ginseng and honey crystals.”

“Ginseng for the energy boost and honey for some sugar, which also helps refuel the body.”

“The honey eases the bitter taste of the ginseng too,” Char added, shrugging. He knew about the various health benefits of foods and how to best craft a meal for anyone experiencing certain illnesses or difficulties, but that was the end of the overlap between chef’s training and a healer’s.

They finished the tea and set their mugs aside, waving Char off when he offered another refill. They got back to work, so Char left the teapot nearby and returned to his abandoned pile of dishes.

“There you are!” Ralph called an indeterminant amount of time later. Char looked up from the fork that had a particularly stubborn spot of mud on one tine, and realized he had completely zoned out his surroundings. Sometimes—actually far more often than Char really wanted to admit—the repetitive motions of washing or chopping, or even stirring, sent him to a happy place in his head where swirling thoughts and anxious worries faded away. The soothing abandonment of the world definitely helped him get through difficult times, but it was still abandonment.

Still, there were too many things Char didn’t want to think about right now. Clarise, lying in a pool of blood, hurt sobadly her healers had parched themselves dry of energy. Fen, his face bruised and swollen, yet still smiling at him as if it didn’t hurt. Those damned butterflies that erupted inside Char’s stomach every time he thought about Fen’s smile shouldn’t be anywhere close to the same list, and yet the extreme confusion they caused had Char shying away. And that was besides the fact that Fen was a prince who had no business smiling like that at a lowly chef, even if Char was an Oba-Musen. What Fen hadn’t elaborated on was that there was a hierarchy even within the Musen family. Only those who could manifest the passive skill of neutralizing poisonandwere rated tier one after graduation received the Oba prefix, which meant “elder” in the old tongue. However, that designation only meant Char was a really good cook. He wasn’t anywhere close to equal to a prince or a commander, and Char therefore shouldn’t let the darn butterflies manifest at all.

Yet every time Fen smiled: whoosh and butterflies. Every. Darned. Time.

“I heard you saved our captain,” Ralph said as he joined Char at the water’s edge. He picked up another fork and started scrubbing. “We really appreciate it, you know.”

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