Char ducked his head, hoping they wouldn’t notice his blush despite the heat radiating from his cheeks. Fen had done that for him? Char could believe it, considering the way Fen had smiled when he saw Char in the courtyard outside the palace.Also considering their conversation before Fen had left on his mission. But Char wasn’t thinking about that right now. Since he was done eating and the dinner rush had passed, he ought to be plotting how to catch the food thief.
They cleared their plates and returned to work. Char removed his last dish of pot pie from the oven and turned it off. They wouldn’t need to make any more tonight. His helpers focused on washing dishes as the last few stragglers came in to eat. Char turned his focus to making bread dough to rise overnight, mixing his flour, salt, sugar, oil, and yeast from one of his starters he kept in the fridge. For the brioche, he added milk and butter without the oil, mixing until he had a dough formed, then started to knead. Karl wandered over from the sink, his apron and shirt plastered to his chest with water, and stood nearby to watch as Char pressed out the dough, turned it, and pressed again, forming the elasticity needed for the bread to rise properly in the oven. He made three separate batches, which he put into three different bowls. He set those aside to rise. The rolls were a very similar recipe with milk and butter but omitted eggs.
“Are your hands dry?” Char asked Karl when he was done kneading the last batch. By then, the first batch had risen for long enough.
Karl held out his hands and nodded. “Yeah. Why?”
Char pulled over the round pans he used to bake the rolls. “Take a chunk of dough about this size,” Char explained, showing Karl. “move it gently between your palms, like this, until it forms a ball. Then place it in the pan, nicely spread out so they have room to grow.”
He left Karl to it, keeping half an eye on him, but moved on to cinnamon roll dough next as the main component for the morning’s breakfast.
The dough itself was similar to the rest, just with different proportions of everything. He made six triple batches, hoping that would be enough, and set the dough aside for the first rise.
By then the brioche was done rising. Char slotted the bowls into the cold box and marked them with the tag so the servants who started mopping at four in the morning knew to take them out and put them onto the counters or racks to give the bread time to come to room temperature before Char baked them in the morning.
He made his cinnamon sugar recipe next, at which point the cinnamon roll dough had rested enough. He rolled out the first batch until it reached the correct thickness, then dotted it liberally with butter and coated it with cinnamon sugar. He rolled it up into a log and cut the log into slices using some sewing thread. A knife would squish the dough, making them oblong rather than round. He placed them in a baking dish, covered it, slotted it into the cold box, tagged it, and then returned to roll out more dough.
This might be mindless, fairly monotonous work, but he enjoyed the slowdown at the end of the day, without the rush and bustle. Arnold came over to wipe down the countertops when Char took the last batch to the cold box, Karl following behind with his rolls. They had to dodge around Naomi and Stan, who were fitting the leftovers into the cold box as well. Sheryl was turning off the lights in the dining area. Pretty soon the kitchen was dim and quiet, as if all the appliances were children settled under the covers in bed, drifting off into dreamland.
Speaking of children and bedtimes... “Karl, head on to bed,” Char called.
Karl’s immediate scowl was cut off by a wide yawn. He scuffed his feet a few times on the way, but he went. The restof Char’s helpers headed off to their own evening activities soon after. Char made himself a cup of tea—plain chamomile for this time of night—turned off the rest of the lights, and settled into a chair at one of the tables where he was out of the direct line of sight from the doors.
Only twenty minutes later, the set of double doors leading to the dorm where Char lived slid open. Char tensed, freezing in place and straining his ears in the dark for the slightest sound. A moment later, Fen stepped into a beam of moonlight shining through the courtyard windows.
Chapter Fourteen
CHAR FROZE INplace and sucked in a shocked breath, feeling a bit like a bunny staring down the throat of a hungry wolf. Yet at the same time, this was Fen and Char wasn’t frightened; he just didn’t know how to react or what to say.
Fen looked around for a few moments, squinting in the dark, but when he finally caught sight of Char a happy smile broke out, brightening his eyes as they reflected the moonlight.
“I heard you were having some difficulty with unwanted visitors,” he said, his voice soft so it didn’t echo in the empty room and alert Char’s prey that he was lying in wait. Fen walked over and took the seat across the table from Char, the length of wood between them a welcome shield of separation. “I volunteered to be your guard this evening,” he added, his smile still bright and happy.
Char struggled with what he wanted to say, but emotion beat out logic in the words that popped out. “You have to be exhausted. You’ve barely been back after your trip!”
Fen stifled a laugh behind one hand, his grin widening. The way his eyes twinkled said he thought Char was being cute, which wasn’t Char’s intention.
“That’s why I don’t have stacks of paperwork with me right now,” Fen explained. “Or any aides circling me like hungry sharks, demanding I sign things. I’m going to relax here with you, have a pleasant chat, and hopefully take ten minutes to subdue whoever might show up. Jensen can handle logistics for one more night,” he added with a wink.
Char ducked his head, blushing again. Fen reached across the table, his fingertips brushing under Char’s chin, as he gently lifted Char’s head. He kept the contact even as their eyes caught, trailing his touch along Char’s jaw and up to his cheek before slowly pulling back. Char couldn’t blink; couldn’t look away. Staring into Fen’s hazel eyes, the warmth and welcoming drew Char in until his body started to lean forward, crossing the short distance of a few feet of wood. Fen met him halfway, their lips touching in a gentle busk at first and then more firmly.
An initial blast slammed into Char, like biting into a chili and the heady thrill of drinking straight brandy combined with the sweet anticipation that arose the moment before a spoon cracked through the hard sugar coating of a crème brûlée followed by the ease of delicate savory custard. Char didn’t know when his eyes slid closed, but he tilted his head, wanting more. Closer. To feel and taste and wonder.
Char let out an involuntary mewl when Fen pulled away. Fen gave a sheepish shrug, his cheeks flushed and his eyes burning, and he pointed at the doors leading into their barracks. One of them was popped open a bare inch, as if someone was on the other side, listening for any noise in the kitchen. Char froze in place, suppressing his panting breaths, and then slowly eased himself back into his seat.
The door slid open another inch, and then a bit farther, until it was wide enough for someone small to scuttle through. In the darkness, all Char could make out was a slim form a little overthree feet tall making a beeline to the pantry. Char waited for the child to get inside the shelved space before he got up and walked into the kitchen. He flicked the switch to turn on the mage lights, and the child let out a shocked squeal.
The little girl was maybe six years old. She stood in the middle of the pantry, her eyes wide with surprise as they darted between Char and Fen. She was already holding a green apple in one hand, the other outstretched and frozen, about to grab a second. Her hair was brown and her eyes a familiar golden brown—the same exact shade as Karl’s. One of the regulation white shirts hung off her shoulders like an oversized dress, belted at the waist with a length of tatty rope.
“How are you related to Karl?” Char asked, keeping his voice gentle and polite. He reached over her head to grab an orange out of the basket on a higher shelf and slid a fingernail beneath the skin to start peeling. He made a small pile on a nearby counter with the rind and split the flesh in half. Char peeled one slice off and popped it into his mouth, chewing slowly to give her time to answer. When she didn’t, he peeled off a second slice and held it out for her to take. She didn’t hesitate, snatching it from his hand and stuffing it in her mouth as if afraid if she waited he would rescind the offer.
“How are you related to Karl?” Char repeated. He held out a third slice, which she grabbed and jammed into her already full mouth.
“M’ sister,” she mumbled, a line of juice running down her chin. She wiped the goop off with the back of her hand before holding it out to ask for another slice.
Char obliged, giving her two.
“Why are you here?” Char added.