Page 28 of The Gambler's Prize
Prevana smiles at him. “Yes. Lots of people think it’s—”
“Too bitter,” he says, with an even bigger smile. “But the trick is to—”
“Soak it overnight first,” Prevana finishes. “You know cooking.”
“I love cooking,” Florian says. “When I lived in Rhennes, my family had a cook and I got her to teach me as many recipes as I could remember.”
“I’m sure Grimes is very grateful to have someone so skilled in the culinary arts living with him,” Breta says, with a big smile for Florian and a scowl for me. So far, she’s pointedly refused to refer to him as my servant. Apparently we all have to act asthough he’s a long-lost friend who just happens to be staying with me.
“I don’t know if Boss likes my cooking that much,” Florian says, glancing at me.
“You know I do,” I protest, as the women at the table all fix me with evil stares. Even the little kids. It’s scary, especially coming from the six-year-old.
“Do I? All you ever say is that it’sall right,” Florian says, his pretty mouth turning stubborn.
“That’s a compliment where I come from,” I mutter.
Mercifully, the conversation reverts to the rice, which I find about as interesting as a muddy pond. But at least the focus is off me. Until Florian drags me in again.
“Do you know why they call this flying rice, Boss?” he says.
“No idea.”
“Because if it gets too ripe, and the farmers wait too long to pick it, it gets thrown violently off the plants and lands on the ground, and then it’s ruined.” He looks entranced by this mundane fact.
“So flying rice isn’t really the right word, then,” I say.
“Sure it is. Why not?” he says.
“Because if the stuff that flies away is wasted and never makes it to food, why are we callingthisstuff”—I gesture into my bowl—“flying rice? This is the stuff that got harvested. This is the stuff thatdidn’tfly.”
Florian looks affronted. The little kids wrinkle their noses, thinking.
“You’re missing the point,” Florian says. “Itcanfly.”
“But this stuff didn’t. It’s a stupid name.”
“We don’t use that word in this house,” the tiniest kid says, looking shocked.
I glance at Breta. She nods. For fuck’s sake. This is why you shouldn’t go visiting a few months after getting out of prison.They’re lucky I didn’t let something much harsher than “stupid” fly. And now I’m thinking about prison again. The guards would let arguments and foul language slide most of the time, but if things got out of hand or if they were bored and in the mood for sport…
“Boss, are you all right?” Florian’s light touch on my arm brings me back. His eyes are full of concern. Everyone is staring at me.
“Fine. Sorry for my poor word choice,” I mumble.
“No problem,” Prevana says brightly, and then someone says something about dessert, and the awkward moment is over. Though Florian keeps shooting little glances at me. I wish he’d stop it. I don’t need him checking on me. I concentrate on eating quietly for a while, determined not to make any more faux pas. There follows a long conversation about the provenance of every single ingredient in the soup, all of which flies over my head. Food is food, isn’t it? Who cares where it comes from?
After dinner, the little kids show Florian and me their paintings. As usual they’re terrible, as all kids’ paintings are, but you’re not allowed to say that. So I make vague impressed noises while Florian leads the conversation with his usual flair, oohing and aahing like we’re in the presence of genius.
After a while, Prevana looks out the window. Light pinks and fiery orange spill from the sky like liquid, and the sun is a molten orange orb at the horizon. The sentinel cacti look more solemn than ever at this hour of the evening, as though guarding deep secrets. A feeling of stark peace takes over the sky. Sunsets are nothing like this in Rhennes.
“What a beautiful evening,” Prevana says. “Would you like to take a turn about the garden with me, Florian?”
He leaps to his feet with gleeful haste and holds his arm out to her like a knight with a fine lady.
“Love to,” he says.
Is that a look of triumph he throws at me as the two of them leave the room? Before I have time to get angry, Breta is pinning me with a hard, questioning stare.
