Even at this ridiculous hour, The Height's vast, gleaming cookery is occupied. A handful of bakers go quietly about their business, only glancing once our way before turning their attention back to their work. Choosing an appropriate cooking station, I convince Chiara to wait there with her guards as Cedro and I gather my ingredients.

Leaving the pantries and ice cellars behind with everything bound up in a swath of cheesecloth, I return to find my wife trembling and hugging herself, leaning against a guard as he awkwardly pats her back.

Brushing past her, I stoke a fire beneath a broad cast-iron cooktop.

"What are you making?" sniffs Chiara, pulling away from her guard a bit to look over my shoulder.

"Never you mind," I say, grabbing a ceramic bowl from a shelf of dishes. "Cedro, go over there and help her pull herself together. I'll survive your being another few paces away."

My Shield hesitates before giving a curt nod and taking the other's place as the latter silently mouths "thank you" over the Heir's glossy head. That handled, I turn my attention back to my work, combining flour, sugar, salt, lime juice, vanilla, cream and eggs.

"Are you making...griddlecakes?" Asks Chiara, leaning back from Cedro just a bit.

"I'm certainly making something," I say, stepping over to the more modern stovetop to begin heating a pot of oil. Then, returning to the scarred wooden countertop where I'd left my ingredients, I withdraw my parcel of shrimp to begin shelling.

"Pancakes and...shrimp?" She winces as another clash of thunder sets her back to shaking like a leaf in the wind.

I wave off the inquiry.

"Why don't you tell me about a happy memory or two? What about that time you stuffed me down a laundry chute?"

The Heir Premier prickles, her vitei picking up some spice.

"You think I did all of that because it made me happy?"

"Well, yes. Why else would you?" Snatching down another few bowls, I crack two eggs into the first before setting to work on a shredded coconut and breadcrumb mixture.

"I didn't do it for fun, peasant. I did it for revenge."

"Revenge?" I twist around to stare back at her, brows climbing higher by the heartbeat. "What in Lutra's name did I ever do to you?"

"It's not what you did, it's what you had," Chiara throws back, her volume rising.

"What I had? What do you—"

"I was jealous of you, you absolute imbecile!" The words blaze out of her like fire. "You had everything. A loving father. A Blessing that isn't a curse. The freedom to choose your own way." Angry tears stream from her eyes as her tirade burns itself out, and her chest heaves as hard as if she'd just run here from the other side of the palace.

For a moment, I'm astounded to silence.

"Maybe you're right," I admit a moment later, voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe I had everything. But I lost all of it. Your father saw to that."

"I—I know," Chiara responds, her voice reduced to a choked whisper. She buries her face against Cedro's chest, and his arms wrap around her.

There's another crash of thunder, but though my wife's shoulders hitch with dry, broken sobs, all signs of trembling are gone.

Distraction accomplished. Though at a cost I'd never have predicted.

Shaking my head as though that'll clear it of the ridiculous guilt that suddenly nags at me, I get to work on my cream sauce.

"What in the gods' names are you even making?" Presses Chiara as I leave the sauce to simmer, spicing some candied walnuts and popping them into the oven to roast.

"You'll see when it's done," I say as I finish adding the last few ingredients to the sauce pot. While I wait for that it simmer, I get to battering the shrimp. Then, setting those aside, I start peeling and slicing my plantains. Next I pop the shrimp in to fry and set to caramelizing my plantains in some salted butter. With all that in the works, I get myself over to the cast iron and start pouring dollops of batter.

Fresh thunder heralds another barrage of lightning, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Chiara jump and huddle closer to Cedro.

"Why don't you tell me everything you know about Cheribry and all the other unmatchables? If you're not going to let me sleep, I may as well get something out of my time tonight."

"Oh," she sniffles and a bit, and as I look over at the pair, Cedro hands her a handkerchief. By the time she's finished blowing her nose, her expression has transformed entirely. "I'd be happy to."

While Chiara delves into the deepest and most intimate not-so-secret secrets of her less fortunate peers, I dart from cooktop to cooktop—flipping griddlecakes, whipping cream, stirring sauce, patting dry my fried coconut shrimp and mixing more eggs for rolled omelets. She's still deep into it, eyes flashing and almost entirely her usual self by the time I withdraw my last few ingredients. Crystalized honeysuckle blossoms and skyfish roe. But as I begin plating, her monologue slows and she watches with growing incredulity as I stack pancakes and drizzle them with sauce, topping them with savory whipped cream, fried plantains, coconut shrimp, candied walnuts and slices of sweet rolled omelette. I finish off by garnishing each dish with inordinate amounts of blossoms and a dollop each of roe like glossy pink gemstones.

Chiara lapses at last into full silence. I look past her and to her guards, lingering unobtrusively in the background.

"Get over here, you two. There's enough for everyone."

"Enough what?" Demands Chiara as one of the Shields comes up to claim his share. The other two watch him uneasily, as though expecting him to gag or drop dead at any moment. But as he chews he actually moans with pleasure, proceeding to shovel the rest down with concerning rapidity.

"Er, please don't choke. That'd look really bad for me."

He mumbles something around his mouth of food and gets right back to inhaling.

"Under the eyes of Lutra, I've never seen such a ludicrous dish in all my life," declares the Heir, stepping up to the island countertop to stare spitefully down at my creation.

"And you'll never taste anything as delicious," I say, shoving a plate and fork in her direction.

Wrinkling her nose, Chiara plucks the fork from my grasp, looking from the dish and back up to me. "Whatever you're getting at with this, it better not be some sort of horrible joke or—"

"It's not. You wanted comfort? This is my comfort. Don't want it? Leave me alone so I can get some Aijur-damned sleep."

Grimacing, she sets her fork to work, carving away a chunk of my haphazard masterpiece. Then she pops it into her mouth as artfully as she can manage, given how ungainly the whole mess is.

Her eyes go wide, her eyebrows fly up, and she meets my smug look with an expression of absolute incredulity. She chews. Swallows. Opens her mouth to say something, closes it. Opens it again.

"This is...it's—"

"Otherworldly? Like heavenly ambrosia? The best thing you've ever put in your mouth?"

"I...I don't...how?"

"I used to ask myself that all the time, back when I was little and still terrified of storms. The first time my father told me he was going to whip up some stormcakes to make it all better, I had no idea what to expect—but it definitely didn't involve grilled eel or duck's eggs or fried lotus roots or garlic ice cream."

Chiara pulls a face as she chews on her third or fourth bite.

"But it had all of those things and more, and it was amazing. The next time he made stormcakes, though, they were completely different. It still had griddlecakes at the base, and it was still ridiculous and still one of the best things I'd ever eaten. Every time he made them, the recipe changed. I think he was trying to one-up himself. To see just how insane a dish he could create while still keeping it delicious."

With the first guard still alive and well, Cedro and the other take up plates of their own.

"And it must have been a nice break for him, too," I go on. "because none of those dishes were ever imbued with any kind of magic. But it didn't matter. Because you know what? It worked anyway. Any time there was a storm, I was too busy anticipating whatever nonsense he'd cook up next to even consider being scared."

Her fork already loaded and lifted for the next bite, Chiara stops short.

"No magic? So I suppose this...?"

"That's right," I confirm. "It's just regular cooking."

Emitting something between a scoff and a scowl, my wife practically drops her plate back down on the countertop.

"What a waste of time. You could have cooked me something that makes me, I don't know...actually not afraid anymore."

"Cook away your childhood trauma? I suppose I could, I am amazing. But it would take far more time and effort than I can afford right now. Besides, this was nice for me. I've always wanted to try my hand at stormcakes."

For a moment she just glares at me, lip curling.

"You know, my dearest, after that little story of yours, I think I'm finally feeling as though I might just be able to sleep. But if I have any trouble, I'll call for you. You can tell it again."

"Wonderful," I breath, taking up my own plate.

Chiara fumes, and for a moment I could swear she's actually going to stamp her foot. But instead she just whirls away from me and starts for the door, her Shields rushing to her side.

"Sweet dreams," I call after her.

"Go hang yourself," she yells back before pausing mid-step to whisper something to one of her guardians. Then she waits, arms crossed, as he shuffles back to retrieve her unfinished meal.

"Her Majesty wishes to feed this to a scrap-hog," he explains.

"Of course she does," I reply, tone dripping sarcasm.

Smirking as he hurries off, I pop a bit of over-garnished coconut shrimp pancake into my mouth and close my eyes as I chew.

Sweet, Lutra, I'm good.

I just hope I'm good enough to survive tomorrow's challenge.

 

~*~

 

The hour of the third challenge arrives. It finds me unrested but well-dressed, freshly massaged, and—thanks to Rajvid—smelling of fir needles and winter berries. With each fresh inhale, my confidence is bolstered. But not by much.

"If I fail this because you kept me up half the night, I'm haunting you for the rest of your miserable existence," I warn Chiara.

"Oh, you'd be too busy batting away the flames," she replies, snatching my hand up and planting a hard peck that leaves my skin stinging. "So you had better not fail." Then she leaves me in the darkened staging space beneath the palace's top floor, open-aired ballroom—the mango spice taste of her vitei still lingering on my tongue. It's sweeter than usual, today, but also more acidic. Just behind me and to my left I feel the air shift, and I glance back at Cedro. His hand lifted almost as if to pat my back, he lets it drop and clears his throat.

"You won't fail," he says as his eyes dart away from me, gaze roving across the fidgeting mass of nerve-wracked Gourmands crowded in with us. "Anyone who can manage to make delicious shrimp banana pancakes has got to know what she's doing."

I wring my hands together. "You would think, wouldn't you?"

Finally, Lady Valentry makes her appearance, clapping her hands together to quiet us. As the chatter dies down to a murmur, the Royal Matchmaker's assistant moves through the crowd, handing out small cards.

"Good evening, Gourmands. In a few moments, you shall be let out into the pit, which has been outfitted to suit your needs. For each of you there is a station, and each one is stocked with ingredients provided by your client's family from their own land holdings. There is also a central station, where you will find a few openly available base ingredients and spices."

My heart constricts. Cheribry's family wealth comes from mining, and all their holdings are at such an elevation that barely anything edible grows there.

"You will, however, be permitted to trade amongst yourselves."

Trade what though? Some juniper berries? Flank of mountain goat? My teeth grind together. I like a good challenge, yes—but this is absurd.

Finally making his way around to me, the assistant presses a card into my hands. It's got a dollop of blue wax on it, pressed with a stamp seal bearing an elaborate coat of arms which can only be the Allacosta's. Then Lady Valentry calls for the opening of the doors, unleashing us. The crowd crushes in close as everyone fights to be one of the first ones through, but Cedro defends me from the worst of it.

Out in the pit—which I imagine typically plays stage for a host of decadent entertainments—the air is cold and fresh. An elaborate rail lines the upper edges, where the clients prop themselves to spectate, dressed in their ostentatious best.

I pick Cheribry out from the rest almost immediately. Drenched in cloth-of-gold, she smirks down at me as I seek out my station, comparing the seal on my card to the gilded heraldry at the entrance of each station.

When finally I find it, I open the icebox first.

Sure enough, there's a few different cuts of goat...and nothing else.

The dry box contains three shriveled mountain yams, juniper berries, some turnips, a handful of minuscule radishes, and a bundle of parsnips.

I throw a scowl up at Cheribry, but she only grins wider.

If I make it out of this alive, I swear someday I'll strangle her.