The look on Cherbry’s stupid, insipid face starts a fire in me that sets my blood to boiling. The doubt and fear and desperation that’d been gnawing at my insides vanishes like so much smoke into the air, burned away.

I feel like myself again. Like I can do anything.

Thank Aijur for fury. Thank Lutra for spite.

Already, a strategy is forming in my mind.

“Let us welcome all of our talented Gourmands,” announces the Voice of the King from somewhere out of sight. I glance up, but neither he nor the sovereign himself is standing with the crowd at the rails. Of course he isn’t. A shame. I’d hoped a glimpse of the face I hate most in the world might give me an extra boost of motivation.

“And let us pray they can work their magic with the ingredients provided from the bounty of your very own homelands. A sacrificial post awaits all chefs who fail to see you matched by tonight’s end. So let’s give a round of encouraging applause to your culinary matchmakers!”

A sudden uproar of cheers and clapping crashes over us. My ears ring as Cedro and I leave my station behind, joining the surge towards the central station, where already other chefs are jostling and elbowing for supremacy.

One of them catches my eye, a pale-eyed woman with a button nose and a haughty look on her face. Isabette Bonfluer, minor noble and granddaughter of a former head chef to the king. Her vitei is tongue-stingingly bitter as usual, and somehow her expression is even more so. Shoving a smaller Gourmand out of her way, she throws herself at the case of sugar cones, turning to go with the entire thing hefted in her arms.

It’s the exact same tactic I’d been considering—though my plan was to target the flour. Hoard up all of one of the ubiquitous ingredients, something several other chefs are sure to need. Then trade up for more specialized components.

But seeing this sour-faced woman shove aside another Gourmand—a cool-skinned one like me, probably here in a genuine effort to lift themselves and their families up out of the mire—I just can’t bring myself to do it.

Rapidly I rework my plan, scowling a bit at my own soft-heartedness as I snatch up spices, herbs, a tiny flask of red wine and some flour—but no more than I can use. I’ll need sugar, of course, and since I’m trashing the original plan, I’ll have nothing good to offer in exchange.

Threats will just have to do.

I take a deep breathe, reminding myself that I should only have one, perhaps two more trials after this before I’m free of the threat of sacrifice. Assuming I don’t get outed as a fraud, of course. Powerful Sensari make better sacrifices, but there are only so many talented Gourmands the crown is willing to lose. My father’s trials had been an outlier, though. They didn’t stop making sacrifices until five of the seven challenges in.

Carrying my new ingredients in the roomy pockets of my chef’s robes, I turn just in time to follow Isabette back to her station. Noticing my Shield and I stalking up behind her, she lets her supplies drop on the countertop, throws me a glance over her shoulder and scoffs.

“Don’t bother. You’ll have nothing of interest to me.”

“Oh? So you’re not interested in, say, your own personal safety? What about your family’s? Your grandfather’s still alive, isn’t he? That’s impressive. Didn’t he teach you everything you know?”

Already, other Gourmands are shuffling up behind me, arms full of ingredients to offer in trade.

Isabette’s head snaps up, her spine going ram-rod straight as she squares her shoulders. She doesn’t look at me.

“There’s nothing you can—“

“I’m the wife of the Heir. There’s everything I can do, and you know it.”

“What do you want?” She grates, still not turning to face me.

“Hm, an onion, two handfuls each of mushrooms and blackberries…you have those, yes? And all of your sugar. “

The other Gourmand whirls around, snarling.

“You’re not getting all of my sugar. I don’t care how many empty threats you make.”

I examine my nails. “Yes you do, because you know perfectly well these threats are plenty full. Sugar. All of it. Blackberries. Mushrooms. Onions.” extending one hand, I make the “pay-up” sign. “Now.”

The woman drags in an angry breath and lets it out between her teeth, all while giving me a look that could curdle milk. She shoves the case of sugar across the counter at me, then digs through her bounty of client-supplied ingredients. Her hands emerge moments later with my other requests clenched in their spidery grip. She chucks them at me, mushrooms and berries bouncing off my chest as I scramble to catch them. But with one deft blur of a hand Cedro plucks each from the air and deposits them gently into my hands.

“This is it for you, Lowlander.”

“Hm?” Shoving my new acquisitions into my pockets, I look up at her.

“This will be your last trial. I swear it.”

Cedro bristles, but I bat the threat away with one cheery flap of the hand.

“Sure, sure,” I chirp, hefting up the sack of sugar only for my guard to whisk it out of my arms an instant later. “I’ll be returning most of this to the central station now, and I’d better not see you going back for it.”

“You’ll be dead by noon tomorrow,” she hisses after me as I turn, skirting around the gathered Gourmands.

“Thanks for your business,” I call back to her, my focus already drawn back to the recipe still coming together in my mind. A familiar swell of excitement rises up at my core, ready and eager to meet the challenge ahead. With the crate of sugar returned one cone lighter, I flounce back to my own cook station.

Gods, it’s good to feel like myself again. I can’t believe I let that trussed-up milksop of a noble get to me. But that trussed-up milksop is dead-set on seeing me fail, her own prospects be damned. 

Which means this whole trial comes down to fragrance.

“Be with me, Rajvid,” I pray under my breath as I set to work, taking up a mortar and pestle to grind my spices. From that moment on, my focus is riveted on the flow of tasks. The steady rhythms of mixing and kneading dough, the rapid staccato of chopping meat and onions. The soothing, circular dance of stirring spiced berries in wine over the stovetop. The warm, glowing sensation of power and intent flowing from my soul into the food.

The aromatic heat of the stewing berries washes over me, and a shiver runs down my spine as my teeth bare in a grin. Oh, sweet Lutra, that’s so good. I’m so good.

The scent grows richer and gains depth within minutes of popping my creations into the oven, nearly bringing me to my knees with satisfaction. By the time I pull them out to baste in herb butter, I’m practically whooping with triumph. A few more minutes in the oven, and they’re done. Fresh waves of fragrance embrace me as I take them from the heat for the last time and lay them out on the counter to cool. My eyes close as I breathe it in, and I whisper a prayer to Lutra in thanks for my own brilliance.

“Smells good,” says a familiar and extremely unwelcome voice from behind me. I look over my shoulder to see Isabette, her arms crossed as she leans against the entrance to my cook station, the position awkward and unnatural on her rigid form.

“I know.”

“Not good enough to save your skin, though. I heard tell your client despises you.”

“Go away,” I respond amicably, my attention already returning to the food.

Behind me, I hear Isabette take a rapid step closer, followed immediately by a rush of air as Cedro places himself between us. This time, I turn fully to face her—but she’s already backing off, muttering something poisonous under her breath. A few moments later, she reappears with a tray of steaming food, throwing a haughty look my way as she marches past us and towards the stair leading up to the main floor.

She’s the first to finish, but other Gourmands quickly follow suit. With my dish now adequately cooled, I plate it, cover it, and join the others streaming upward, unable to stop myself from smiling.

But when Cedro and I reach the top of the stairs and scan the crowd, my lips twist into a scowl.

Cheribry is closing her palm around a small, shiny thing Isabette just handed her, a gloating smile on her pinched face and a wicked glint in her eye. As the other Gourmand brushes past, she graces me with a pompous smirk I wish I could tear straight off of her.

“What did she just give you?” I demand, bearing down on my client.

“Everything I need,” says Cheribry. “Without ever having to lay so much as an eye on your horrid food. Now, if you’d please, be off. I have a match to make.”

I balk at her, catching a glimpse of shimmering liquid gold between her fingers.

“Is that Lover’s Luck?” I hiss, fighting not to drop my platter and strangle her. The stuff is rare—I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s the same vial I reported on my first day back at the palace. Whoever confiscated it must have turned around and sold it back out again. Bastard. “You can’t use that.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” huffs the noblewoman, pressing the vial into her cleavage.

“Are you insane? Yes, certainly, a handful of people will want to bend you over the nearest railing at the first whiff of you, but everyone else will know exactly what’s going on. It’s illegal, Allacosta. No one will want anything to do with you. You’ll be a spinster for life. A pariah. Let me guess…she said you could use just a drop for a more subtle effect? She was lying.”

Cheribry’s brows bunch up, her lip trembling as she considers.

“As I said, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Dear Isabette gave me a personal token of affection and respect, nothing more.”

“Don’t take it. You will regret it.”

For a moment, Cheribry’s expression is troubled. “No,” she sniffs after a moment, her expression settling back into its normal lines of smugness. “You’ll regret it if either of you decides to bring your insidious claims to any kind of authority. Do not forget that no match for me means death for you, peasant. Oh,” she pauses to giggle artificially.  “I meant Your Highness.”

Fresh rage bubbles in my blood, and at last I whip off the cover of my serving tray. It makes a satisfying clanging sound as I toss it to the stone at her feet, and she jumps back with a tiny yelp. Then the fragrance of my dish breathes into the air, and her eyes go wide as her pupils expand. Unknowingly, I think, she takes a few steps forward,

“Oh, what’s wrong? Does that smell good?” I wonder tauntingly, sniffing at the air. “Surely you can’t be enticed by my horrid peasant food.”

Cheribry shakes her head as if trying to clear it. “I—I’m just hungry. I’ve hardly eaten yet today.”

“Of course, of course. Well, since you aren’t planning on eating these, I may as well help myself.” Handing the tray to Cedro, I pluck up one of the pillowy golden buns from its plate, squeezing it between my fingers and letting it bounce back. Cheribry takes another unwitting step closer, eyes riveted on the food in my hands, lips gaping open just a bit. Then I pull the bun apart, and she takes a stumbling step backwards as an explosion of aroma billows between us. The scents of fresh-baked buttery bread, of juicy meat infused with berry relish. Of onions, chives and mushrooms, rosemary, pepper and power.

“Wha—what will it do to me if I eat some?” Hedges Cheribry, slurring a bit as though she’s struggling to talk around the saliva pooling in her mouth.

“Ever heard of self-awareness?”

The noblewoman wrinkles her nose. “Of course. I—“

“This’ll give it to you. Help you see yourself as others see you. Help you empathize with and understand other human beings. Maybe even help the bits of you that are good—the very, very deeply hidden bits—shine through. Does that sound so bad?”

“It sounds unnecessary,” says Cheribry, licking and biting into her lower lip. “I already do all of those things. I’m already one of the best prospects here.”

“Then what’s the harm?” Trading the opened bun for the plate with the undisturbed one, I hold it out before her—right at nose level. Her hand is jerky as she reaches for it, as though even now she’s fighting herself.

I yank the platter away half a heartbeat before her fingertips come to rest on the bun.

“Not so fast. First you must swear to me now, on your life, your name, and your honor, that you will give the dish ten minutes to settle in before so much as a drop of the Luck touches your skin. Just ten minutes. Then, if you’re still set on it…go ahead and use your vile potion. I’ll be happy to watch you crash and burn right along with me.”

Her pouty lower lip trembles again, a trait I already find deeply annoying, as if I’ve known and hated her for years rather than days.

“F-fine. I swear it,” she concedes at last, reaching out again for the food. This time I let her take it, doing my best to hide my relief. She pulls the meat bun apart, her face lighting up as the warmth and fragrance blooms up around it. Then she takes a bite, and her expression transforms completely.