Page 12 of Arctic Panda's Secret Mate
Duty drove him up instead, and he dressed rapidly. He wanted to be in the kitchen before Chef so he could unload the dishwasher. There was no staff at the chalet to rely on, and he would have to pull his weight, no matter how chilly the room was. He crumpled up the note by the thermostat and set it several degrees higher.
The number on the dial wasn’t actually that low, but apparently he’d gotten soft in his time at Shifting Sands.
Something made him stoop and pick up the wadded-up note. He smoothed it out and put it with the others before he left, not bothering to lock his door.
The chalet was no warmer outside his room than inside, and the whole grand building was silent and still.Reallysilent.
There was a window at the second floor landing and Tristan looked out over the chalet grounds in awe.
The clouds had lifted and thinned, with patches of pale sunrise orange shining through, but they had clearly been busy overnight; the trees and mountains were gentle with snow. There was no sign of the paths that Tristan and Graham and Alice had shoveled the night before, or evidence that the snow had been mussed by any play. Snow had drifted halfway up the doors of the outbuildings. Tristan came down to the great room and looked out the front window, finding that the rental van was nothing more than a soft lump in the driveway.
The fire had died to a few ash-buried embers, but Tristan was able to coax a new fire to life with a small pile of tinder and kindling. He picked out a few likely looking pieces of wood. He could use a paring knife in a pinch to carve, if he had to.
Once the flames were going strong enough to feed larger logs to, he went to the kitchen to unload the dishwasher. He wasn’t quite fast enough to beat Chef, who was already there setting out the ingredients for breakfast.
“You’re up early,” Chef observed with a booming laugh. “You know you could have slept in longer. You’re a guest here.”
“I want to pull my weight,” Tristan said, trying not to feel grumpy. He didn’t mind being up early, but he didmind people who werecheerfulthis early. It was unnatural. “Idle hands don’t suit me.” He went to find that the dishwasher had already been emptied.
Chef cast him a tolerant look. “Bring me the block of parmesan. It’s in the front of the drawer on the third shelf of the fridge.”
Tristan opened the drawer to find a collection of similar looking cheese blocks. He took the front brick.
When he put it down on the island in front of Chef, he received a quizzical look. “The front block?”
“Yes?”
“This is Gruyère, not parmesan.” Chef went to the fridge with the block as if he expected that Tristan didn’t understand front from back, and frowned into the drawer.
We know front and back, Tristan’s bear said, puzzled.
“Hmm,” Chef said thoughtfully. “Someone has been meddling with the cheese.”
“I don’t believe that any of the others are mouse shifters,” Tristan said, glad that at least the empty space in the drawer proved he’d followed Chef’s directions, “or I’m sure we’d be able to find the culprit.”
To his relief, Chef found that funny, and roared with laughter, slapping Tristan on the shoulders. “Mouse shifter! Ha!”
He went singing back to the counter with the correct cheese.
“Good morning, Chef!” Darla came dancing into the kitchen singing her words in a counterpart to Chef’s music. She stood on tiptoe to lay a kiss on his cheek and sashayed to the bank of ovens to peek under the towels covering a lumpy tray. “Did you make dough last night?”
“There were several loaves in the refrigerator with baking instructions,” Chef said, bumping her with his hip. “They’ve had about an hour to proof and should be ready to bake by the time the ovens get hot.”
“They look good,” Darla said, giving them a knowledgeable poke. “Whole wheat?”
“Most of them. The ones on the end are gluten-free.”
“Oh, they’ve risen so nicely,” Darla said with delight. She let the towel fall back over them. “I wish I knew the secret. It’s hard to get gluten-free with that kind of loft.”
“All of the secrets are revealed!” Chef crowed. “This kitchen’s former monarch left a recipe binder like I’ve never seen before.” He handed it reverently to Darla. “Fully notated for food allergies and sensitivities, with ingredient tables for various numbers of guests and suggested pairings. It’s brilliantly organized. I would love to speak with the cook about some of their choices. There’s a creme brule that uses birch syrup! A beanless chili with pickle juice! Bread is in the back, the purple tab.”
Tristan left them to rhapsodize over the recipe binder and talk yeasts and yields and went to set the table.
He’d been the one to clear the placemats, so he was surprised to find that the drawer was not quite as he’d left it.
The top placemats had been moved just to the side so that he could see something beneath them, and the tantalizing shape of a tool handle tempted him down the layers of linen to an unrolled leather pouch full of carving tools. It had a full set of sharp chisels, a curved spoon knife, and several varieties of short blades for carving and etching. The handles looked hand-made, with comfortable thumbholds, and the blades showed wear, but no hint of rust.
This was a well-loved set.
