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Chapter Text

A Note:
It is somewhat traditional, when writing a genre novel about food, to include recipes for the foods discussed. That being said, some of the dishes in this book I haven't personally cooked, and many of the ones I have made have been mostly for my own pleasure, so I can't judge how well a reader might enjoy them. Thus I present to you a novel about chefs without a single recipe, other than my own personal curried chicken salad recipe, which you can find at the end.

After all, why deprive the gentle reader of the chance to explore these dishes for themselves? The joy is in the attempt.

***

PROLOGUE
Content warnings: None.

Many years ago, I was hired to serve as the personal chef to the royal family of Askazer-Shivadlakia, a small nation I did not know well.

I had advertised my services as an elite personal chef, and had many offers, but the Shivadh king swayed me because of what he told me when we met: that he had only a passing interest in gourmet food, and that he was hiring the best chef he could find not as a status symbol or from personal desire, but as a gift for his wife on the occasion of their fifteenth wedding anniversary. I was charmed by such a gesture, explained in the king's excellent French, and pleased that he was interested to hire my brother Hugo as sommelier, a position which had been open for some time.

King Michaelis and his wife Queen Miranda had a little boy of four, and the family had suffered a tragedy which meant they sometimes cared for a young girl the same age, their son's cousin. I knew I had chosen my new job well when, arriving in the kitchen for the first time, two solemn little children were waiting to greet me in prattling French. They had strong Provencal accents from their mothers, who were of the Askazer side of the country, which borders on that region.

"Good morning, chef!" they chorused, and I bid them good morning as well, while I unpacked the pans and the knives I had brought with me. I did not know what the kitchen might already contain, and one likes the tools one is used to.

"Have you come to make croissant for Mama?" Prince Gregory asked.

"I have, but not this morning," I told the young prince. "You will have to wait until tomorrow for your croissant!"

"Oh, I like scones," he said boldly. "Will you also make scones?"

"Yes -- and baguette, and babka if you're very good," I told him. "What does Her Grace like to eat?" I asked little Lady Alanna, who was a trifle shy at the time.

"She likes potatoes," Gregory informed me.

"I asked the duchess," I told him, and that made Alanna laugh, which was a pretty thing.

"I like potatoes but I like baguette with cheese too," she told me.

"Do you like raclette?" I asked, thinking of her uncle the king and the slight Swiss accent in his French.

"What is raclette?" she asked, and I was all astonishment.

"What is raclette! It is very good cheese -- your first meal from my hands shall be raclette with potatoes and cornichons," I told her.

And although it took some hunting, for dinner that night I prepared for the royal family croquettes of potato stuffed with raclette, and also freshly-melted cheese tableside with baguette and quick pickles, the recipes for which I now present to you here -- a raclette feast for the little duchess.

Raclette-Stuffed Potato Croquettes
Quick Pickles
Baguette for Beginners
Tips For Choosing Cheeses

***

CHAPTER ONE
Content warnings: None.

King Gregory III -- much older, with less of a Provencal accent to his French but still willing to use Alanna as an excuse to request raclette and potatoes from the palace kitchen -- finished reading and looked up from the tablet he was holding with a smile.

"I think it's very sweet, Simon," he said, offering the tablet back to him. His newborn daughter Mira, cradled in the crook of his other arm, grunted in protest at being jostled. He made a soft shushing noise to soothe her until she subsided, then looked up again. "Were you worried about my dignity, discussing how I used to be a four-year-old scone-fancier?"

"No, not so," Simon protested. "But if I am to keep this website and discuss the dining habits and personal lives of the royal family, I feel you should be made aware of what is said."

"That's conscientious of you, but I don't think it's necessary on a day-to-day basis. We've trusted your discretion for -- what is it now?"

"Twenty-nine years, sire."

"Three generations," Gregory said, stroking Mira's mostly-bald head affectionately.

"Well, your children are young," Simon protested, smoothing down his own silver hair. Gregory grinned.

"And so are you and I. My point is, I know you understand what not to say, and in any case my life's been very public. If you have concerns, speak to Communications or bring them to me, but you don't need my say-so before every post," he said, rising carefully and carrying Mira to the nursery. Simon followed, leaning in the doorway as Gregory placed her next to her twin brother in the crib. Gregory looked down at the children, barely ten days old and born early to boot, but healthy and beautiful for all that -- and then smiled to himself and turned, joining Simon again in the living room.

"In any case, maybe check in if you're going to say anything about the kids," he continued, "but Joan doesn't shrink from the public eye, and Mira and Zach won't be interesting to anyone but family for a few years anyway."

He glanced over in time to see Simon smile. "I hope to help cater your daughter's coronation as I did yours," Simon said.

"She has a ways to go and she'll have to be elected, just as I was. But she's coming up on thirteen, and I'm sure we'll want your help for the Bat Mitzvah." Gregory settled on the sofa again, studying him. "You're happy here, aren't you?"

"Of course, sire."

"Not thinking of leaving or retiring? Thirty years of service is not inconsiderable. You could open a restaurant in Fons-Askaz. Or anywhere, really, these days," he added with a grin. "Your fans would flock."

"His Majesty Gregory is pleased to make fun," Simon said, mock-serious.

"His Majesty Gregory would miss the hell out of you, Simon. I don't want you to leave. I just want to make sure you're still pleased to be here."

"Very much. The work suits me. And His Majesty Eddie is...a stimulating challenge," Simon added. Gregory's husband, who had become king only after a previous career as television chef and foodie celebrity, was fond of Simon, Gregory knew. He was glad to know Simon was fond of Eddie as well. Nobody should be elbowed out of their job by the boss's new spouse, but particularly not Simon, who had been an indulgent occasional babysitter when he was a child, and a rock when Gregory's mother had been sick. He'd essentially become a third parent after she passed, when Gregory's father retreated into politics for a while.

"That's fine, then. I'm excited for future recipes," Gregory said. "What's for dinner tonight, by the way?"

"I have had requests for the mushroom soup, with the addition of traditional noodles," Simon said.

"Father?" Gregory asked knowingly.

"Princeps Joan made the request, but I suspect your father's influence, yes. He says he'll be at dinner this evening with Ser Deimos and your stepbrother."

"Could you do some -- "

"Twist bread and hummus, yes, sire."

"I won't keep you, then. Looking forward to it."

Simon gave him a bow and left, looking cheerful. Gregory grinned. He remembered Simon's arrival, if a little differently than the account Simon had given; for one thing, he was pretty sure Alanna had hid under one of the prep tables and Simon had spent half an hour coaxing her out with the promise of watching him make ice cream. Gregory had insisted you didn't make ice cream, it came in cartons, and been shocked to watch it come into existence under Simon's hand. He was pretty sure the raclette had been some other day. Still, it was a good story and not untrue in any particular, just...edited slightly.

Then again, Eddie told him most of those annoying essays on recipe websites were made up whole-cloth to expand the page so there was more room for advertising, and Simon, who had access to the palace's web hosting and didn't need to put ads on his site, seemed more inclined to earnestly explain the emotional resonance behind each recipe. Gregory knew Eddie silently approved; he'd been the one pushing for Simon to start the blog to begin with.

What a busy life it was becoming. He was grateful for Simon and equally grateful that Parliament wasn't in session at the moment. Technically the job of king didn't come with days off, but people were mostly going easy on Gregory, aware that he was trying to spend as much time with the new babies as possible. Eddie was covering for him a little, checking in on Communications and Operations, but today he should be back before Mira and Zach woke again. Their newly-adopted eldest, Joan, was spending mornings with her grandfather and grandem and afternoons with her tutor, but she'd be back with Eddie when he returned. Even knowing he'd see her in an hour or two, he missed her; he couldn't fathom how his parents must have felt, sending him off to boarding school, though he'd loved school and benefited greatly from his education.

Well, a concern for some other time. If Simon wanted to share little anecdotes of the king's childhood, it had been a great childhood; retelling it really could only be good PR. He'd have to ask Alanna and see if she remembered the ice cream incident or the raclette first.

***

Alanna was sitting in the kitchen when Simon returned to it. She was on a stool in the corner, working on a computer cradled precariously on her lap. Simon considered himself a gentleman and in any case she looked very uncomfortable; he entered without her noticing and went to the supply closet, fetching out the extra-tall wheeled bar cart and rolling it over. She didn't even look up until he took the computer off her lap and placed it on the cart, and then she raised her head and beamed at him.

"Not good for the posture, to hunch over like that," he said gently.

"Thank you, Simon, you're a life saver," she said. "I didn't want to get my grungy laptop on your nice clean counter."

"Worse has been on it before, and will again," he informed her. "That is why they are steel, madam. Always welcome, but why are you at work in my kitchen? Waiting for a snack?"

"Oh! No -- it's just, word got out that we brought Serafina into the office today," she said. "Everyone wants to come say hi to the baby, and I couldn't get any work done."

"Have you hidden her in a cookpot?"

Alanna laughed. "No, Gerald took her, but people kept coming, so..."

"Ah. Her admirers are more trouble than the little one," Simon nodded sagely. Serafina, Alanna and Gerald's daughter, was well worth admiring; a pretty infant, and well-behaved considering she was barely three months old. Simon was not a man who wanted his own children, but he felt proprietary about the Palace children, and now the children's children.

"Little bit that," Alanna agreed. "But Gerald's got less time-sensitive work than I do, and he loves showing her off."

Simon was opening his mouth to speak when they were interrupted; Gregory's husband Eddie came into the kitchen as he usually did, like a whirlwind.

"I've been told to avert my eyes," he announced, shading them with one hand to block out Alanna, who laughed. "Gerald says Al's here but I'm not supposed to perceive her. I'm just here to pick up a snack for Joan."

"Ah! Yes, I have this," Simon said, going to the covered basket on the table, where half a dozen meat pasties were slowly cooling. He plucked out one of the plumpest, wrapped it in a twist of paper, and presented it to him, then gave him a blank look when Eddie turned pleading eyes on him. He waited just long enough for Eddie's look to turn sad, then grinned and offered him a second, smaller one, which Eddie promptly tried to eat in two bites.

"You're a cruel man, Simon," Eddie told him, around a mouthful of warm pasty. "Hey, did you get your website up yet?"

"Oh! Yeah, how's the recipe site coming?" Alanna asked.

"Did you hear something?" Eddie asked Simon.

"Only the wind," Simon told him. "The site has been put up, but not yet the recipes. His Majesty only just approved the first recipe, and as Lady Alanna has also given permission, now I am to post."

"Oh! Oh, let me -- " Eddie stuffed the rest of the pasty into his face and fumbled for his phone. "Film it for Photogram," he said, swallowing.

"What for, filming it for the Photogram?" Simon asked, still mystified by the American habit of sharing every minute of one's life with the internet.

"Your adoring public!" Eddie said, holding up his phone, clearly filming. "Okay. I'm here in the royal kitchen with Chef Simon LeFevre who's about to post his first recipe on his new lifestyle and food website. Simon?"

Simon rolled his eyes a little, but he picked up the tablet and unlocked it, turning it to show the website-editing screen he'd left it on. Eddie began singing the theme to 2001: A Space Odyssey as Simon hovered his finger over the "post" button and pressed it with appropriate ceremony. The screen was replaced with a banner reading "YOUR PAGE HAS BEEN POSTED" and Eddie let out a cheer, hitting the button to switch to the selfie camera.

"Remember, friends and fans, hit up ChefSimon on Photogram for up-to-the-minute info, and follow the link in his bio to his all-new website!" he said, and stopped the recording.

"This was all your idea," Simon told him, which was true; Eddie had made him a minor social media star when the influencer first arrived in Askazer-Shivadlakia. He even had a fan club, though he understood it was quite small. Still, ever since, Eddie had been pestering him to put up a website with recipes and anecdotes of Palace life. Now that he had finally caved, it appeared Eddie was going to continue to be his loudest supporter and most irritating friend. He did like Eddie, very much, but his enthusiasm could be a trifle overwhelming.

"I'm gonna spike your fame with or without your approval," Eddie told Simon, proving his point.

"I'm taking a restraining order," Simon informed him.

"Man, now I can't perceive either of the people in this kitchen?" Eddie asked, laughing. "I'll post this up as soon as I grab Joan from her tutor. Speaking of which, I'm out. Bye, Invisible Simon, bye Invisible Alanna!"

When he was gone Simon took a third pasty, laid it on a plate at Alanna's elbow, and went about preparing dinner, taking the twist bread dough out of the proofing box, setting out the fixings for the mushroom soup, and considering whether he wanted to make cookies or prepare a pie. A pie, he decided; he would use up the last of the fresh spring fruit, and buy some more on Wednesday, when he went to pick up the supplies he'd ordered for the Shavuot evening meal that coming Thursday, the twenty-fifth of May.

Perhaps, Simon thought, he ought to do his next post for the website about Shavuot, a holiday involving a significant amount of dairy, sometimes difficult to cook with. He would curate a few recipes and post them close enough to the holiday that it would be difficult for anyone to copy his recipes and steal his glory. If they wanted to make use of his wisdom they would have the dedication to wait a full year.

Pleased with himself, he hummed as he simmered broth for the soup, prepared the pie crust and put it in to parbake before changing it out for the twist-bread in the oven while he cooked the fruit filling for the pie on the stove. He finished the meal just as Gerald arrived with Serafina to fetch Alanna.

"Thanks again. See you in the dining room," Alanna said to Simon, hugging his shoulders from behind.

"Smells great as always, Simon!" Gerald called. Through the open kitchen door, Simon saw Joan run past and then heard her call a greeting to Gerald and Alanna, technically her father's cousins though she called them uncle and aunt. It had been many years since the palace was so full, he thought fondly; not since Queen Miranda passed. He loaded the serving trolley with a light heart and made sure he had plates for everyone, then pushed it through the door and down to the family dining room, where cheerful chaos reigned.

Once the family was served, his job was more or less complete for the night. He usually cleaned the kitchen while they ate, brought in the dessert and coffee when he judged enough time had passed, and then closed up for the night. That evening, he came back from collecting the dinner plates and serving dessert to find his brother Hugo in the kitchen, checking his stock of wine for cooking.

"Anything missing?" he asked, and Hugo looked up from the rack near the stove, smiling.

"All in order. Although you seem to be using more red wine these days, no?" he asked, turning to lean on the counter. He was a few years younger than Simon, but his hair was beginning to show the same silver threads Simon's had.

"The king emeritus," Simon said, and Hugo nodded gravely. A recent health scare for Gregory's father had turned out to merely be anemia, but Simon had taken it very personally. Iron-rich foods, cooked in cast iron, and fortified wine; these were the ticket. And since His Grace Michaelis did not drink red wine for preference, it had to go in the food -- the sauces, the marinades, the ragout. Hugo, though worried, was of course still very smug; he'd been trying to convince His Grace to drink more reds for years.

"Well, I'll find you something special for him," Hugo promised. "Sweet, fruity, rich. Perhaps you could modify your dressings."

"Perhaps. We must be subtle. You know he can be stubborn," Simon said.

"You should speak to Ser Deimos -- "

"I have! We're in collusion. You mind the wine, let me mind the food," Simon reminded him.

"All right, all right. Are you finished? I can drive us home, if so," Hugo replied.

"Just so," Simon agreed, giving the kitchen a last sweeping look. Clean, tidy, with pans either put up to dry or soaking to be washed in the morning. He would collect the dessert dishes from the dining room before breakfast tomorrow, if Eddie didn't bring them back personally, as he sometimes did. Simon shed his white jacket, dropping it in the laundry bin with the towels to be washed by the cleaning staff, and fetched his satchel from the pantry, following Hugo out into the little lot behind the kitchen garden.

Home was not far; early in their employment they'd lived in the palace, but after Hugo married they'd pooled their money with his wife, Gwen, and bought a pretty plot of land east of the palace, close enough to walk to work if they chose and near enough to the main street of Fons-Askaz to provide easy access to the various markets and shops. They'd intended to build two houses, but it became quickly apparent that it would be an expensive waste. Instead they put up a single large building with a shared common room for entertaining, and Simon had the west end of the building, with the nicer kitchen, while Hugo and Gwen had the east wing, with the wine cellar. Claude, Hugo and Gwen's son, considered the entire establishment his, except for when Simon locked the door to his side for 'private' entertaining, which was generally after Claude's bedtime in any case.

"A quiet day for you?" Hugo asked, as they pulled out of the lot.

"Yes, more or less. His Majesty Gregory approved my essay, so I've posted it to the website; His Majesty Eddie seemed pleased. The young princeps suggested noodles in the mushroom soup, and I saw no reason to object. I may see about some sort of small dumpling. The broth would impart a nice flavor."

"And the little ones?"

"Well, I think. I saw little Mira briefly. I think we need have no worries about their health. You?"

"More inquiries about some of the wine from the lodge cellar," Hugo sighed. He'd been thrilled at the discovery of a lost wine cellar on the palace grounds, but significantly less thrilled at how many people he had to talk to about the bottles he was selling. Hugo was not a man who enjoyed conversation with strangers.

"Well, perhaps His Majesty should grant you an agent, someone to handle the sales," Simon replied. "What do they call it? An intern."

"In my wine cellar? No," Hugo shook his head. "I'll suffer along."

"Well, if you need help, I'm busy," Simon told him. Hugo shot him a brief curious look before realizing he was joking, and only then did he laugh.

Gwen and Claude were out in the front garden when they arrived, with Claude's telescope; the ten-year-old had inherited Hugo's intensity of fixation, but on the stars instead of on wine. Simon waved at them but didn't linger. Erreur and Desolee would be waiting for him.

When he let himself in, they came running -- Erreur a black void yelling at the top of her lungs, Desolee a grey patch of fluff half the size of her sister, silent but with a strong vertical leap. Simon bent enough for Desolee to get purchase on his shoulder without clawing, caught Erreur in his other hand, and carried both cats into the kitchen, where he set them on the one table where they were allowed and went about fixing their food as well. When they were finally hunched over their dinner, eating noisily, he poured himself a glass of wine and contemplated matters.

It was a Tuesday night, generally quiet, although in the tourist season 'quiet' was always relative. He did have a pick-up to make from his grocer in the morning, so if he went out, he couldn't stay out too late; he could, of course, stay in, but there was really no reason to, and he felt as though he would enjoy some company that was not either the royal family or his brother. In any case, he should celebrate the website's first official recipe post somehow.

He unlatched the kitchen window and leaned out, calling, "Hugo!"

"Yes!"

"I'd like the car tonight -- is that fine?"

"Oh yes, we won't need it," Hugo answered, glancing at Gwen for confirmation.

"Seeing one of your harem, Simon?" Gwen teased.

"I hope," Simon replied with a smile. "Asking first, just in case."

"Well, have fun."

"If you end up at the Promenade, Portia at Fine's owes us both a drink," Hugo added.

Simon nodded and leaned back, closing the window so the cats wouldn't try to escape. He went to his bag and took out a small notebook, worn and sauce-stained, the latest of many such, and flicked it open.

The notebook held both his professional life and his personal; it was equal parts address book, diary, lab notebook, and shopping list. There were more names in the back (where he always moved the married women) than the front, these days, but his list of contacts still offered plenty of choice. He studied the page, nodded, and decided to call Laurie, who he hadn't seen in a while and was usually game for dinner and an evening strolling the Promenade.

She answered already sounding amused, usually a good sign. "Simon, you old devil."

"Nothing but an angel," he protested. "Here to carry you away to dinner, if you're free this evening."

"Last minute as always," she sighed.

"One must keep life exciting," he said gravely.

"Celebrating your new website, I take it? Shivadh Photogram is all abuzz."

"Yes! And I thought of you first," he said, which was after all true.

"And I'm just fond enough of you to believe that, but I think I'd better not," she said. "New man in my life, can't scare him off by being photographed with you."

"Only a fool would be scared of a woman having dinner with another man," he pointed out.

"Well, you aren't wrong, but he's too pretty a fool to let go of just yet, and he's got marriage on his mind," she said. "Have to pass, I'm afraid, but don't put me on the disqualified list just yet."

"I will be pleased to dance at your wedding."

"I'll send you an invite if it gets that far, or flowers if it doesn't," she said. "Ciao, my dear."

Mathilde was his next call; a long shot, but her company was worth taking the time. She already had a date for the evening, but wished him luck. He pondered who else to call, or if he should simply treat himself to a nice dinner and perhaps find a tourist to entertain himself with after. Considering and discarding the idea as too much effort, he found the number for the kitchen of the Daskaz estate, and called up to it. The estate didn't get very good mobile reception and the current Duchess, Irene, didn't care for mobile phones in any case, so it was often easier to call one of the land lines and try to locate someone from there.

He was in luck; Chloe, the sous chef, answered.

"Chloe my dear, it's Simon," he said, giving Desolee a cheek-rub as he spoke. Chloe laughed.

"Good timing," she replied, over water and clattering noises in the background. "We're just cleaning up, I was leaving in another ten minutes. Business or pleasure? Need to borrow an egg?"

"Oh, pleasure. Are you free for dinner and perhaps drinks?" he asked.

"You're in luck! I am free for the evening and ready to let you pay for everything," she told him.

"Ah, bon! Would you like escort from the estate as well?"

"No, I'll meet you in town -- say an hour?"

"I'll hold a table at Fine's," he told her. "Portia owes me a drink."

"Already making me jealous, I see how it is," she said. "I'll catch up to you there."

"In an hour, then," he said, and hung up. Chloe was young, but she also had a splendid sense of fun, and was easy to talk to. She was usually good about letting him pay, as well. He never insisted, but it did make things less awkward, when one person was willing to give way graciously -- and in any case, the chef to the royal family made a good deal more than the Daskaz kitchen's junior sous chef.

He made a note that perhaps he should consider Chloe as a first option more often, especially if Laurie was now on an earnest hunt for a spouse. It wasn't that Simon didn't care for marriage -- indeed, he loved a wedding -- but he had yet to find that rare combination of someone who appealed to his tastes, was interested in marrying, and would understand and tolerate his work hours (Laurie, for example, would not -- at least not on a regular basis). He'd given up that search some time previous and contented himself with casually wooing those who crossed his path for entertainment, little more.

Although, as he grew older, he did occasionally see the young people he'd known as children finding their lifemates -- not to mention the king emeritus, lucky in a second love -- and wonder if perhaps he ought to have kept on a little longer.

Still, no use in worrying about such things, especially with the delightful prospect of an evening out with Chloe. He went off to wash, dress, and drive into town with a smile.

***

As with many of the restaurants dotted around the main entertainment and shopping district of Fons-Askaz, known as the Promenade, Fine's catered mainly to the tourist crowd. It was first and foremost a cocktail bar, but they'd been lucky enough to land a decent chef, so when he was in town Simon often went there for dinner before it filled up with late-night drinkers. He was partial to their Yorkshire pudding, stuffed with spiced lamb and lentils, although it was a little heavy and rarely on the menu in the summertime.

Chloe caught up with him before he even made it to the restaurant. He'd parked in the lot reserved for Promenade staff (a perk of having known, and occasionally aided, so many of its chefs) and was just walking into the east entrance when she arrived from the other direction.

"Ah, you look charming this evening," he said, kissing her hand. Between him in a tailored navy suit and her in her deep orange cocktail dress, with a choker of thick coral beads and vivid lipstick to match, they could have been foreign holidaymakers going out for a nice evening. True, they did look like a man escorting his trophy wife, but if Chloe liked his company and he liked hers, he saw no reason to be ashamed.

"Thank you," she said, taking his offered arm as they walked on towards Fine's. "I probably still smell like onion -- "

"Onions cooking is one of the greatest perfumes of the world," he told her.

"Onions on my hands all day, meanwhile..." she sighed.

"Well, do you think I mind? A good smell of hard work. What do they say? Earthy," he said, as the big white pub-style sign for Fine's came into view. Or rather, should have; the edges of it were visible, but the rest was currently obscured by a large flag from the storefront next door.

"Is there a new shop going in?" Chloe asked, nodding at the flag. It was the blue of the Shivadh flag but instead of the flag's central orange star, there was orange text, impossible to read as it flapped in the breeze. "That front's been empty since the breakfast place went under at the end of last tourist season."

"No great loss; their coffee was dreadful," Simon remarked.

"Snob. Although I recall their pastries were a little leaden too," Chloe admitted. "I hope it's something fun, you get tired of the same old stores -- "

"It's a restaurant," Simon said, startled. From here he could just see the restaurant permit posted in the window, a largish sheet of neon green paper. He hurried up to study it, Chloe just as curious as his elbow.

"Plate&Press," she read, frowning. The same text, he now saw, was on the flag.

"Coffee press no doubt -- a new cafe. Probably Italian," he said.

"That'd be nice. Who's the owner, does it say?"

"Ylias Lazaar," Simon read. "Do we know him?"

"I don't. If you don't either, he's probably new. Immigrant, maybe."

"Many of those, of late," Simon said approvingly. New blood in Fons-Askaz meant new and different restaurants, money flowing in, and a smile on the king's face. "Well, we will need to try it when it opens."

"Good idea! Now, come buy me a drink," Chloe said invitingly, and Simon nodded and strolled on.

The rest of the evening was light, enjoyable, and easy. They had aperitifs at the outdoor bar at Fine's, chatting with Portia, and then went in to dine. The new summer menu was full of cold pasta dishes and light fresh vegetables, just the thing for the warm mediterranean nights to come. After, strolling down the Promenade towards the harbor overlook, he asked if she'd care to come home with him; he had an early morning, but then so did she, and there was no reason he couldn't take her home to change in the morning on his way into town to pick up his grocery order.

"Throw in breakfast and I'll consider it," she told him, smiling, and he chuckled.

"Anything else making you hesitate?" he asked, patting her hand where it rested in the crook of his arm.

"Not really. You know how people are, the gossips talk."

"Do they?" he asked, a little more seriously. "Surely you are not harmed by associating with me?"

"No, but people seem to think your reputation doesn't precede you, and that I needed to be warned. I've had a few concerned questions, making sure I know you're not serious when we go out."

"Ah," he nodded. Most people had expected him to settle down long ago, and when he hadn't, he'd gained a reputation of his own for avoiding relationships. It wasn't true, not really, but it was true that he wasn't interested in more with Chloe than the occasional nice night out (and in). "Chloe, if you have concerns -- "

" -- I wouldn't have gone to dinner with you tonight," she interrupted. "I like going out with you, and I have no expectations. I'm sorry, Simon, it really was just me teasing."

"I am not hurt," he told her, smiling. "I know people will talk. And I try not to give false impressions."

"You know what you're getting with Simon LeFevre," she agreed. "And yes, I'd love to take you up on your invitation. Although let's walk a little longer -- the night's so nice."

"Indeed. No reason to hurry pleasure," he said, and they strolled for a while longer.

In the morning, after the promised though very early breakfast, he dropped her off at her apartment with a kiss on the hand and an invitation to future dinners -- perhaps once the new cafe had opened they could try the menu? -- before turning his car back towards town and the grocery order, which had special fresh ingredients in it for the family's Shavuot party the following evening.

Which was when plans started to go awry.

Chapter Text

The first Ylias Lazaar knew that anything was wrong was someone running down the street after her, calling, "Sir! Sir! M'seur!"

It wasn't unusual to be mistaken for a man; her hair, now more gray than black, was worn in a short masculine cut with a fade on the sides, and most of her clothes, even the chef's coat, came from the men's department. Her chest, never particularly ample, was more or less flat when she wore a sports bra, and anyway white Europeans tended to read African women as more masculine simply by habit. It bothered her only in the abstract; she didn't mind being called sir, and enjoyed both the assumption of masculinity and the occasional confusion when someone assumed and then realized they'd assumed.

When it was obvious the man was in fact calling her, and given the M'seur was probably French, she leaned back from where she'd been loading her early-morning grocery pickup into her car, and turned to him.

"Yes? Can I help you?" she asked in French, as he skidded up to her. He blinked, startled, and then replied, also in French.

"Apologies, Madam," he said, managing to put on a charming smile without seeming overly startled. She narrowed her eyes slightly. "I think you have my cheese."

She tilted her head, glancing into the car. "Your cheese?"

"I came from the grocer," he explained, catching his breath. "They neglected to put the ricotta I ordered in my crate for pickup. When I said so, they told me you took the last package."

"Ah," she nodded. "I did buy the last package of ricotta, but I'm afraid I can't part with it."

"But you see, it was meant for my crate -- "

"But it wasn't in your crate, and I bought it," she answered.

"Oh yes -- I wouldn't take it without paying! And a fee for your pains," he added, reaching for a wallet. She put up a hand.

"But you see, I need it for Shavuot tomorrow," she said.

"As do I," he replied.

"Then it's a shame I have it," she said. "It's not for sale."

He looked faintly offended, and she fought down a grin.

"Madam, do you know me?" he asked.

She eyed him, because perhaps she should; if he'd ordered a crate from the grocer he probably worked in food service. She was new to Fons-Askaz, but she didn't recognize him from any of the get-togethers she'd had with fellow chefs, and she thought she at least knew every restaurant owner in town by sight. He was no taller than her, relatively slim, in what she always thought of as Shivadh Peasant clothing -- a loose cream-colored workman's shirt, plain trousers (though nicely fitted, to assets he certainly had to show off) and leather shoes. You could always tell a tourist by their shoes -- they all wore trainers or sandals. He also had tidy silver hair and enough scars on his hands that if he wasn't a professional, he was definitely an enthusiastic home chef.

But she had hoped to make her mother some ricotta crostata, and knew that the entire town was pretty much sold out not only of ricotta but of the milk to make it. Such was Fons-Askaz on the eve of Shavuot. And she had also promised herself, many years ago, never to back down to a man.

"I don't know who you are," she said simply. "And even if I did, you can't have my ricotta."

He gaped at her, apparently either offended she didn't know him or shocked at her bluntness. She circled the car and opened the driver's side door, leaning on it.

"I wish you luck finding some," she told him, and at least he was silent as she climbed in and drove away. She checked the rearview, just in case, but he was simply standing there, one hand on the back of his head, looking perplexed and bereft. It was one of her favorite ways to leave people, so she smiled and drove on, already planning out her cooking for the day.

***

"My apologies, your majesties, your highnesses, your graces," Simon announced on Wednesday morning, arriving with breakfast just as the royal family was about to mount a rescue mission to see where he'd gone. "A late start to the meal. An inexcusable lapse."

Eddie, who as an American liked to dine promptly but was adjusting to the European attitude of both late and leisurely meals, winked at him. "We'll dock your pay, Simon."

"You will dock it further when I share with you the news," Simon said darkly, and there were various expressions of alarm from around the table.

"That was a joke," Eddie pointed out. "What the heck happened, Chef?"

"Shavuot is ruined," Simon declared, then seemed to realize he was being dramatic. "I beg your pardon -- not ruined, of course. There will be a good meal. And of course the meal is not the point."

"It might not be the point, but we always look forward to it, you know that," Gregory said. "I'm sure it'll be fine, Simon."

"There will be no crostata ricotta e visciole, however," Simon continued wrathfully. "And it was to be a special treat for Her Highness!"

He gestured at Joan, who blinked at him.

"You make me special treats like...every day," she pointed out.

"What happened to the cheesecake?" Eddie asked. "Did it get dropped or something? I mean, I don't generally like eating off the floor but you keep a clean kitchen and I don't know if you're familiar with the five second rule..."

There were various reactions to that from around the table, ranging from thoughtful (Noah, Joan, Jes) to mild horror (Michaelis) and perplexity (Gregory, Alanna). Eddie's siblings, Monday and Ephraim, seemed unfazed; Gerald offered his fist for a bump and Eddie bumped it.

"It has not even been made," Simon said, setting dishes out on the table with slightly more emphatic action than usual. Michaelis tugged a platter of kippers towards himself protectively, before it could get upset by something else landing too close to it. "There is no ricotta."

"Like...in the world?" Monday asked curiously.

"Certainly none in the country! I have called up and down the coast to see. Even all the milk for tomorrow's deliveries is spoken for, and the milk we have in the palace kitchen is set aside for the rest of the meal. If I were to cross the highlands to Galia for some, there is even no guarantee," Simon said. "My ricotta was not in the grocery order and I could not purchase any for cash money! Stolen out from under me by an honorless chef!"

He burst into passionate French, which Eddie didn't follow, but to judge from Gregory's sudden poker face was at the very least obscene. As the last of the dishes was set down, he stopped for breath.

"And so I cannot make the cheesecake properly," he finished. Silence fell for a handful of seconds.

"Uh," Eddie said. Everyone looked at him. "I mean, not to take the wind out of your entertainingly angry sails, Simon, but I have a pint of ricotta in the fridge upstairs. It's not super fresh but it's got a week left before the expiration date."

Simon looked like he might cry, so Eddie hastily continued.

"I like to put it in scrambled eggs, you know, makes 'em richer," he said. "Used to be I fried the eggs in bacon fat but honestly I kinda like the ricotta flavor, and it's kosher and using oil's better for you anyhow -- "

"May I go and fetch it?" Simon asked, straightening and tugging on his jacket.

"Yeah, knock yourself out, it's next to the OJ," Eddie said.

"You are a gracious employer," Simon told him, and departed without waiting for a response. The rest of the family exchanged looks around the table.

"Is it a chef thing?" Jes asked Eddie at last. "Do all your colleagues get that emotional about ricotta?"

"I suspect it's much more about Joan," Michaelis said. Joan frowned at her grandfather. "Well, you did say you particularly wanted to try it."

"So did Noah, I mostly just said it 'cause Noah did," Joan replied.

"I said it 'cause Ephraim was interested," Noah added. Ephraim nodded. "I mean I did want to try it, but I wasn't going to be heartbroken or anything."

"It sounded cool," Ephraim said quietly.

"All perhaps true, but Simon has always liked to fill special requests, and he's taken a shine to you," Michaelis told Joan.

"It's because she eats everything he cooks," Gregory said fondly.

"And kinda like a horse. Not that I'm complaining, it's good to see you eat," Eddie added to her, ruffling her hair.

"But a chef likes to see his food appreciated, and Joan's the newest one to please," Michaelis said. "Well, crisis averted in any case. It's very good -- I do think you'll like it," he added to Ephraim.

"I wonder," Eddie said, eyes on the door where Simon had departed, as they passed around the various dishes. "That seemed like a lot even for him. Although I guess if I'd spent the morning trying to find ricotta in Fons-Askaz I'd be irritated too. I'm already mad at every American tourist I run into and I'm practically still one of them."

"You're responsible for most of them, too," Gregory pointed out.

"My regrets are few but profound," Eddie told him, and got to the fruit salad before Gerald could take all the melon.

Simon seemed in a much better mood when he came in to check on them at the end of the meal, and a little sheepish about his outburst in front of the family.

Eddie -- not to mention his sister Monday and brother Ephraim -- had grown up in a family so informal that food fights at dinner were only frowned upon because they wasted food, but he knew that the staff of the palace were expected to be more formal with the royal family. Simon's outburst wasn't particularly rude, given he was on closer terms than most, but it was a little unusual. Eddie sent Greg and Joan off to the residence with the twins after the meal was done and lurked his way into the kitchen as Simon was finishing tidying.

"Find the ricotta all right?" he asked, and Simon nodded, looking relieved.

"I also took the sweet potatoes. They were going soft," Simon informed him. Eddie smiled internally. Gratitude had its place, but he was on much firmer ground with Simon when he was also being gently scolded.

"Well, make good use of 'em. I was gonna make fries but with the twins being born I'm run off my feet -- barely managing to cook when I have to, let alone when I want to," he said.

"I will glaze them in a sweet sauce," Simon declared.

"More red wine?" Eddie guessed.

"His Grace needs the iron and Hugo is pressing it upon me," Simon sighed.

"Well, I'm not tired of your sauces yet," Eddie said. "Listen, I know you really just want to make sure we eat good food, but the whole palace..." he gestured around himself, a little hapless. "There's two new babies, three if you count Serafina, and Joan too. Everyone's stressed. Cut yourself some slack. Maybe keep it simple for a few weeks."

"After Shavuot," Simon promised. "I will have diversions in any case. I am to sit on the planning board for the Reclamation Day festival this year," he added, a little proudly.

"Oh shit, that'll be fun! Keep me posted. Okay, I'm gonna let you do your thing. Looking forward to tomorrow night!" Eddie added, and left Simon to finish up. He'd wanted to get involved in the festival himself, but between the business of ruling the country and looking after Joan and the twins, he suspected it was just as well Simon was doing it.

***

DISCARDED DRAFT:

For many years, the kings of Askazer-Shivadlakia have observed the holiday of Shavuot with a party. The tradition of Shavuot is that one stays up all night to study Torah; the closer tradition to me, however, is that one eats dairy while doing so. A royal gala for Shavuot has often meant the production of endless cheesecakes, gallons of gelato, or on one occasion, numerous trileçe when King Michaelis hosted guests from Turkey.

This year, with the royal children so young and His Majesty Gregory III and His Majesty Theophile unwilling to leave them for too long, it was decided that the gala should be put off until next year; instead, the royal family requested of me a simple, quiet family affair, which I was pleased to provide. It is easier to prepare a small feast of dairy for the royal family than for an army of politicians and dignitaries, but care must be taken to provide only the finest of delights. This, too, can be a challenge, especially when there are yearly shortages of milk and cheese.

Askazer-Shivadlakia is a great producer of dairy, with fine herds grazed in good Shivadh pastures; our fromagers come from a long tradition that incorporates French, Italian, and Welsh influences among others. Indeed, some Shivadh cheeses are finer even than their French counterparts. But with such demand at this time of year, even if one takes care to order well in advance, there are some who will stoop low and stop at nothing to acquire the last pint of milk, or the last package of ricotta. In addition to the recipes I provide below, I must caution chefs to have a good stock of ingredients on hand, and to be resourceful when they must. Otherwise one might run afoul of those who are no better than thieves and find themselves bereft of Ricotta.

DRAFT DELETED.

***

The holiday of Shavuot is dear to the heart of a Jewish chef, I think.

For many years, the kings of Askazer-Shivadlakia have observed the holiday with a party, the tradition being that one stays up all night to study Torah. The closer tradition to me, however, is that one eats dairy while doing so. A royal gala for Shavuot has often meant the production of endless cheesecakes, gallons of gelato, or on one occasion, numerous trileçe when King Michaelis hosted a guest from Turkey.

This year, with the royal children so young and His Majesty Gregory III and His Majesty Theophile unwilling to leave them for too long, it was decided that the gala should be put off until next year; instead, the royal family requested of me a simple, quiet family affair, which I was pleased to provide.

Still, it is no small feat. It has been many years since the palace was so busy, but I am pleased to serve a large family and still growing: His Grace Michaelis, Ser Jes Deimos, and Prince Noah; King Gregory and King Theophile, their children the princepses Joan, Miranda, and Zach; King Theophile's sister Lady Monday and brother Lord Ephraim; the royal cousins Duke Gerald and Lady Alanna, and little Lady Serafina. What wealth for any country!

Certainly it is easier to prepare a small feast of dairy for these than for an army of politicians, but care must be taken to provide only the finest of delights. The menu being left to me, I decided upon a first course of Pastel de Tentúgal -- a particular favorite of Lady Monday -- followed by a cream soup of potatoes and leeks with sauteed garlic mushrooms to garnish, and then a selection of cheeses with traditional twist-bread and a crostata ricotta e visciole to finish.

The ricotta and sour-cherry cheesecake is not known well outside of Rome, but His Grace Michaelis is partial, and young Princeps Joan and Prince Noah were eager to taste it. Securing the ingredients when there is a yearly shortage of dairy during Shavuot is no small effort, but the results I feel were worth it. Princeps Joan is a young woman with a palate to please any chef, and Lord Ephraim ate two helpings, which is compliment in itself. Prince Noah finds some traditional delicacies to be an 'acquired taste' but I believe his opinion of the sour cherries will alter with time and maturity.

For next Shavuot, there will be a gala and new delights to prepare. Next year the reader may enjoy attempting these recipes for their own families:

Trileçe or "three milk" cake
Pastel de Tentúgal
Rustic English Potato-Leek Soup
Golden oyster mushroom saute
Crostata Ricotta e Visciole

***

It had never, in Simon's opinion, made much sense for him to take Saturday off, as most of the palace staff did.

On the one hand, it was Shabbos; on the other, the family still had to eat, and while they could cook for themselves or arrange for food to be brought in, he didn't see why they should. He had never been particularly observant of Shabbos as a young man. The deal he had struck with King Michaelis, and which King Gregory had graciously honored, was that he would provide a late brunch on Saturday, leaving him time beforehand to attend synagogue, and a hot dinner. In return, his Sundays off would be untouchable, not to be infringed upon unless there was a dire emergency. It had happened less than a dozen times in thirty years.

So on Saturday morning, with the pastries for brunch cooling and the savory rice pudding in its cooker, he changed out of his chef's whites and walked into town, catching a lift on the trolley that ran up and down the main street. Like many of its Saturday morning occupants, he got out at the stop for the Grand Synagogue, one of several temples in Fons-Askaz but to his mind the prettiest, a stone-and-stained-glass building at the western edge of town. It was always pleasant to greet friends and chat with colleagues on the journey, and then stroll up the gentle incline to the entryway.

It was cool inside but warmly lit, sunlight through the stained glass bright and welcoming. Easy to settle in and relax, to enjoy the ritual of the moment and let the concerns of the past week slip away, to immerse himself in traditions thousands of years old, many the same here as they had been in France when he was a boy.

It was a jolt, therefore, once the service was done and as people were filing out, to turn and see an unfamiliar face -- not that he knew everyone in Fons-Askaz, but he knew most of the Grand Synagogue's congregation. And not so unfamiliar, if it came to that, since he'd marked her striking features when they'd met on the street during the Ricotta Incident.

Why she was here -- well, evidently she was here for the service, but who she was and what she was doing settling so thoroughly into Fons-Askaz was a mystery. He hung back a little, but he did have to return to the palace, and he also wanted a word with Ori Brukewich, the head of the planning committee for Reclamation Day --

Who, he discovered as he passed the threshold into the lobby, was chatting with the mystery woman, smiling, unaware he was in the company of someone no better than a cheese thief.

"Ah! Simon!" Ori called, as Simon tried to slip past them without being seen. "Come here -- I know you can't linger but I wanted to introduce you."

"Bonjour, Le Gros Fromage," the woman said, as Simon reluctantly approached. "We've met," she said to Ori, who blinked. Simon bowed stiffly, and very shallow, not giving her more respect than her due.

"Well, that's good!" Ori said, though he was clearly a little confused.

"Very briefly," Simon added, voice dry. "I don't believe we exchanged names."

"Though you did ask if I knew who you were," she replied, clearly amused.

"Ah, yes, Simon's a fixture around here," Ori said, forcing joviality. "Ylias, this is Chef Simon LeFevre, he's chef to the royal family at the palace. Simon, may I properly introduce Chef Ylias Lazaar, our newest restauranteur. She's to be chef de cuisine at -- "

"Plate&Press," Simon said, realization hitting. He could see she was, also, realizing who he was, and took a little pleasure that his identity was the more shocking one. "Near Fine's, with the blue flag in front."

"That's the one," she said, her previous bravado having melted somewhat. "We open in two weeks."

"It's good I can introduce you to each other. Simon recently filled one of the vacancies on the planning committee," Ori said to Ylias, then turned to Simon. "Ylias here has filled the other. You two will be in charge, jointly, of all the edible considerations. Approval of food cart vendors and food stalls and where they ought to go, official catering for the VIP stage, and of course the organizing of the cooking contest. A very good balance though I say it myself -- Simon here is familiar with all the paperwork and most of the participants, and Ylias will be working closely with the town organizers, so between the two of you it should go off without too many hitches. Knock wood, of course," he added conscientiously.

"Yes -- I suspect some luck will be involved," Ylias said.

"Undoubtedly," Simon agreed, because he couldn't think of a single other thing to say, and was unsettled to find himself amused by her remark. "We'll speak soon, I'm sure. Ori, forgive, I have duties -- "

"Yes, of course. The royal family calls. Stop in next time you're in town, I'm working on a new spice mixture for the lamb sausages and I'd like your thoughts."

"Of course. Pleasure," Simon said, gave them both another bow, and hurried away as fast as he could.

He was so scattered by the entire encounter that he barely remembered bringing brunch in to the family, and completely forgot the strawberry sauce he'd made for the pastries until the meal was over.

***

When Simon was gone, Ylias grasped Ori's sleeve and looked at him urgently. "That's the royal family's chef? That's Simon?"

"Indeed. He seemed a little frosty to you," Ori said, frowning at her. "And you seem less than calm about him, if I may say."

"Ah." Ylias rubbed her eyes with her other hand. "I may have fucked myself. Everyone said I should meet him, everyone said he has all this power -- "

"Well, yes and no. He's been here forever, very well-respected -- everyone wants his opinion on their food, including me," he replied. "He has a fine palate, often knows how to adjust a recipe when something's not quite right. He does have a fair bit of social credit. But you seem to think he's some kind of petit dictator. He's really a very pleasant man."

"I may not have been very pleasant to him," Ylias said. "You remember I was telling you about the guy who tried to buy my ricotta?"

Ori's eyes widened. "Oh, Ylias, that wasn't -- that's why you called him Le Gros Fromage?"

Ylias nodded, horrified.

Ori burst into laughter.

"It's not funny, Ori, I'm opening a restaurant here in two weeks and the functional king of all chefs in Fons-Askaz is angry with me!" she insisted.

"Only you," Ori said, still smiling. "You really do know how to put your foot in it, Ylias. I know it's only because you're stubborn and refuse to bend the knee and truly I love that about you, but it does hobble you once in a while."

"What am I going to do?"

"Nothing," Ori told her. "Look, Simon's got a temper but he's not vengeful. He's always on about more and better dining in town, and he's clearly already noticed Plate&Press. He won't do anything -- he's not going to tank your entire restaurant just because you lipped off to him, and frankly it sounds like he deserved it. Accosting people on the street to try and buy their ricotta. Had I known it was him I'd have given him a talking to."

"Well, it makes a little more sense now. The king -- "

"The king got his crostata ricotta e visciole, according to his husband's Photogram, so clearly he made do," Ori assured her gently. "Even if he hadn't, Simon isn't a grudge-holder either. He spoke to you, he behaved himself -- you'll be fine."

"I still have to work with him. Can't you split duties between us? Give him the VIP catering and the food stall approval, give me the rest, something like that?"

"Absolutely not. For one thing, when the left hand and the right hand aren't talking to each other, something's bound to go wrong. The committee has learned through trial and error that the food planning has to be run by two people and they have to do it together. You'll understand once you've been through one of these as a committee member. And secondly, I won't have my newest protege -- "

She gave him an outraged look. "Protege, my ass, Ori."

"I'm taking credit for you," he teased.

"You got me a food permit, you didn't send me to Cordon Blu."

"Fine. Well, I won't have my newest local restauranteur in conflict with the palace chef. There's enough drama around here as it is without people taking sides between Palace and Town. Now, if you like I will have a word with him about behaving himself -- "

"No," Ylias said hastily. She could imagine how she'd react if Ori told her she had to play nicely with someone she didn't particularly like; it wasn't that she didn't want to keep the peace, but being told she had to, like a child, would be irritating. "Let me sort it out with him. If he can be civil, I can."

"That's the spirit. Give him a chance and let him do the same for you. I think you'll like him if you can get over first impressions."

"First impression was that he was a demanding, pompous ass," Ylias reminded him.

"I can only imagine what he made of you," Ori answered drily. Which wasn't entirely fair, but also wasn't entirely unwarranted, she could admit that. "Come along, I'll introduce you to some people you haven't enraged yet."

"Better keep a tally, apparently I'm getting good at it," she sighed, but let him lead her over to where a knot of people had gathered near the doorway and were vocally debating whether matzoh and horseradish eaten at the Passover seder properly constituted a sandwich by 'hot dog sandwich discourse' definitions. At least when it came to arguing about food she was on firmer ground, and she got several approving looks for suggesting that the dish should be considered a taco, which helped balm her pride a little.

Chapter Text

Well, I am pleased to see so many people have so many thoughts upon my recipes! Perhaps following leeks and mushrooms with a dish containing sour cherries may seem a strong combination of flavors, but readers must bear in mind the cream soup and the ricotta. Dairy fat, while not cleansing to the palate, can often dampen a strong flavor that lingers in the mouth. I assure you I had no complaints upon the day, even from young Prince Noah.

I understand there is some controversy amongst readers, particularly with regards to one who had no ricotta (as I nearly did!) and substituted cottage cheese. While suitable on some occasions, I cannot recommend the use of cottage cheese, even when passed through a food processor, in crostata ricotta; as our experimenter discovered, it makes for a wet result.

However, today I write not to compare ricotta and cottage cheese but to answer the many questions I have had about my training and position. I was born in France, in a small village in the Grand Est region. I thus, naturally, speak French as my mother tongue. Not everyone can be so privileged to speak the most beautiful of all the Romance languages, so some level of envy is of course understandable when asking how my English is so polished, when it must necessarily be my second language. In fact, it is my third; I knew Hebrew before I studied English.

However, to follow French and Hebrew, English is not a particularly difficult language to learn. The rules of English are not perhaps so rigid as one could wish; it is a language of quirks and oddities, but for one accustomed to irregular verbs and a written language in which vowels are considered an adornment rather than a necessity, not so difficult to master. Those who have heard me speak in His Majesty Theophile's Photogram videos know that my grammar is not perfect when spoken, but the advantage of this blog is that there is time to be thoughtful about such things. I would speak to you in French if more of you could master it, so no talk of my mastery of English henceforth, if you please.

With Shavuot concluded, the next festive holiday is some time off, but in the palace there is always a reason for some special dish or other to be prepared. Our prince Noah departs soon for his 'gap year' and afterward to California for University, so we must both celebrate his completion of his schooling and mourn his coming departure, after which we may not see him for more than a few weeks in a year for some time to come. Indeed, the dishes for his graduation party must be exceptional, to remind him that Shivadh fare is the finest in the world, and to sustain him when he must eventually survive on American food.

With this in mind, I present to you several dishes that I will suggest to His Highness for his farewell and graduation gala. These ought to tempt the sophisticated palate and also delight the youth, who yet need training in the delicate art of discerning flavor. Still, the decision will ultimately reside with our eldest prince.

Miniature lamb sausage rolls with sweet or savory jam
Traditional Askazer pulled noodles in horseradish cream sauce
Stuffed buns of brisket and dill potatoes
Standard pastry dough for an assortment of desserts, with suggestions for flavored cream fillings

***

"I saw your post about the menu suggestions," Noah said, practically bouncing in his seat as Simon settled himself nearby in the palace conference room. When he returned after university, Simon thought, Noah would probably be given an office in the palace whether or not he served an official purpose, the way Gerald had been at first. That was several years off, but the thought filled him with warm pleasure, that he would get to see the prince grow into his duties. He hoped California would not lure Noah away from Askazer-Shivadlakia forever, and had already resolved to do his best to make sure of it with food.

"Good," Simon nodded. "A starting place, although of course those are simply the second options."

"Second options?" Gerald asked, pouring himself a glass of water at the sideboard. "Why not the good stuff, Simon?"

"Ah, the public cannot have some of my recipes, you know," Simon told him.

"The potato salad?" Gerald guessed. Simon grinned at him. Queen Miranda had been fond of a specific potato salad recipe, which Simon had learned years ago from her family's old chef. They had served it at King Gregory's coronation, to great acclaim and many requests for the recipe. He had guarded it very close, only teaching it to Eddie, whose discretion he trusted and who had earned the right to it by choosing King Gregory for a partner and thus demonstrating excellent taste.

"Oh, yeah, can we serve that?" Noah asked. "We weren't in country when they had the coronation and I know I've had it since but it's different when it's for a party, Simon."

"Of course. But in this case perhaps just as one offering -- for the coronation it was the dish around which the meal was built, and one hates not to be original," Simon replied. "Did you think of a picnic for it, as His Majesty had for the coronation?"

"Honestly, I've been so tied up with getting ready for graduation I didn't think a ton about it. I mean, I went over the guest list with Boss and Michaelis and we picked the date and all, but I haven't had a party like this since my Bar Mitzvah and that was, uh," Noah said, trailing off. "I wasn't at my best when I was thirteen so Boss did most of the planning and I mostly complained. This'll be a lot less complaining."

"You remember mine?" Gerald asked Simon, who winced dramatically. "A couple of my school friends and I stole a bunch of the liquor from the bar and I spent my first night of manhood puking," he told Noah.

"You do know how to make a guy feel better about his life choices," Noah said.

"Trying to be a cautionary tale rather than a bad example," Gerald agreed. "Okay, so, Simon, what are the first choices?"

"I'm here, I'm here," Alanna announced, arriving in the room with Serafina in a sling on her chest, wailing. "Sorry, she ate late and now she's all pissed about it, and I'm not thrilled either," she added, as Gerald got out of his chair. "Noah, I'm so sorry, this really is important to me -- "

Simon watched the negotiations that followed, always pleased to be considered both a family member and a discreet servant who could witness such things, as Noah assured Alanna that it was fine, Alanna protested that his graduation party was important, and Gerald neatly solved the problem by carrying Serafina away to be soothed, promising to send in someone else to offer their professional opinion on how to throw a great party.

"Thanks for your patience, Simon, I'm sure you have a million things to do," Alanna said, as they settled down again.

"Part of the job. No part more important than another," Simon told her. "Now shall we begin with the possible menu or with the, ah, the theme?"

"Fire away," Noah said. "I don't think we need to like, buy superhero paper plates or anything. I kinda thought it'd probably be like the Friday night galas Greg does. Let's do food first."

"In addition to what you have seen of my suggestions -- lamb rolls, spiced noodles, stuffed brisket buns, the usual desserts..." Simon flipped through his notebook to the page where he had jotted out several possible menus, at varying levels of formality, and put a little star next to the potato salad. "We begin, confirming the potato salad, which can be served either a la russe, at table, or a la francaise, for personal service -- buffet style," he added. Noah chuckled. He'd heard the story, multiple times at this point, about Michaelis dismissing Eddie's early attempts at a coronation menu as "a Las Vegas buffet".

"Well, it's not a coronation and technically it's political but let's be real, this is for my friends, who are all savages with no table manners like me," he said. "Let's assume a buffet. We're going to want to be running around and stuff. Maybe, uh, what does Eddie call it, passed apps, then chafing dishes, then desserts?"

"What is..." Simon waggled his fingers, then held them up, miming holding something in his hand. "I know this word..." he sighed. "Food without cutlery?"

"Finger food," Alanna suggested.

"Yes! For appetizers. I think...have you heard His Majesty -- he says people love things in small jars," Simon said. "May I suggest the miniature lamb rolls, with small cups of jam for sweet and savory. Brisket buns with dill sauce -- the potato salad will supply enough potato. Hm. Noodles, no good for appetizer -- not truly good for a main, too messy to eat...although His Grace is fond..."

"Yeah, maybe make them easier to eat with just a fork? Chop up the usual pulled noodles, mix it with dressing, like lo mein. With some of that marinated tofu you do?" Noah asked.

"Love that tofu," Alanna murmured, and Simon preened.

"Considering His Grace's fondness, perhaps also mushrooms," he suggested.

"What about some kinda meat dish, I'm not thinking steaks or like whole chicken breasts or anything, but..." Noah considered.

"For this, I have not so much," Simon looked at his menus, pondering. "A tribute to your nautical training, perhaps? I have not studied the foodways of tall ships."

"I can't really recommend it, it's mostly salted meat and a lot of stews," Noah said. "Stuff that'd keep on a voyage doesn't tend to be stuff you want to serve at a party. Although if you wanted to do some kind of stunt dessert that looks like hardtack with weevils in it..."

Alanna made a strangled, disgusted noise.

"Lemme tell you sometime about making Dirt Cake for Halloween with pudding and Oreos and gummy worms," Noah told her.

"Please do not," Alanna replied. Simon made a note to look up Dirt Cake, or at least ask Eddie about it.

As if summoned, there was a rap on the half-open door and Eddie put his head in. "Ger says Serafina has dedicated her life to weeping, so he's sitting the twins as well and sending me to be the Party Arbiter," he said. "Services needed?"

"Yeah, come in. Actually we were just trying to finish off the menu," Noah said. "Simon?"

"Ah, for appetizer, passed, miniature lamb rolls and brisket-stuffed buns with appropriate sauces," Simon read from his notes. "For heartier fare, potato salad -- "

"Can't beat that with a stick," Eddie put in.

"And chopped pulled noodles in a horseradish dressing with marinated tofu and mushrooms."

"There's Michaelis's influence," Eddie nodded. "Huh, okay, so are we doing like a salad theme?"

"How do you mean?" Noah asked.

"Oh, just, you've got a potato salad and a pasta salad. I'd suggest a jello salad for dessert but..." Eddie broke off at Alanna's renewed horrified look. "That is what you will see on everyone's face," he said to Noah, pointing at Alanna.

"Not so, I could do an aspic," Simon protested. "Sweet or savory, very traditional -- not this nonsense from American cookbooks from sixty years ago."

"American nonsense is kinda my brand," Noah pointed out. "Uh, I don't think we realized we were building a giant salad course but I am into that, actually. What other kindsa salads are there? I mean, lettuce aside."

"I think somewhere in my online archive there's a caesar salad wrap thing, you toss parm and breadcrumbs and anchovy filets in a sauce and stuff it in a lettuce wrap. I don't remember it being awesome but it wasn't my recipe to start with," Eddie said. "Or -- you remember that thing you made with the leftovers from that dinner we had for what's his butt?"

Simon looked at him, mystified. Leftovers from a dinner were not uncommon, and he tried to always make use of all the food he cooked; they had state dinners on a fairly regular basis, and "what's his butt" did not particularly help him identify the occasion.

"The guy on the junket, from Germany," Eddie said. "Where half the party was vegetarian and didn't mark it on the dietary restriction form."

"Oh yes -- all the leftover roast chicken," Simon said. He actually didn't recall who the German had been either, the knowledge wiped away by his and Eddie's mutual irritation that they hadn't been told the delegation was mostly vegetarian. Never a problem to create vegetarian food on the fly, of course, and several of the dishes were already without meat, but he'd been left with three half-carved chicken carcasses and no graceful way to remove the meat without making it evident where it had come from. Eddie had very much appreciated the leftovers. "The curried chicken salad. Diced roast chicken in a creamy curry sauce," Simon said to Noah. "Notes of apricot and onion, a little garlic. Sweet curry, not too hot. Usually served cold in a sandwich, but hot over rice is also very good."

"Oh, that's cool -- echoing the coronation without copying it," Eddie said. "Curried chicken tea sandwiches with those two salads'd be a nice meal. Reminds everyone you're a prince without stepping on the king's toes."

"You're getting good at this politics thing," Alanna said.

"I have no recipe for it," Simon mused, paging through his notebook. "An English dish, with my own twist -- I made that one, the one you ate, for you and myself and my family, from what I had," he said to Eddie. "Still, there is time. I could create a recipe for amounts needed for a party. Some experiments necessary."

"Be still my heart," Eddie said. They both looked at Noah.

"Didn't you make me some sandwiches from that?" Noah asked. Simon nodded. "Okay, yeah, that was great. Tea sandwiches, huh?"

"Someday I'm going to get to do a sandwich bar at a Palace event," Eddie announced. "If I can't shove a real hot sandwich bar into an existing holiday I'm going to invent one. Hot Sandwich Bar Day."

"In the meanwhile," Simon reminded them, tapping his notebook. "Desserts. And anything else His Highness has considered," he added.

"I'd actually like to revisit the Jello Salad," Noah said, and Eddie crowed delightedly while Alanna blanched, so Simon had to mediate a good-natured but extensive debate about gelatin in sweet dessert salads.

It was an education; when he showed Hugo and Gwen what Americans thought ambrosia salad was, later, their horror was gratifying. It was a fitting prelude to his next exhibit, the Graveyard Dirt Cake, which made Hugo pretend to faint but -- even better -- fascinated Claude so much that he insisted he wanted one for his next birthday.

"He'll forget by the time the birthday arrives," Simon assured Hugo. "And if he doesn't, I can elevate this. A light coffee mousse with chocolate biscuits -- drizzle with a sweet wine reduction -- jellied candy flavored with dragonfruit and blackcurrant."

"Can we put candy bones in the dirt?" Claude asked, already exploring his terrible American dessert options on his tablet.

"Not human," Gwen said hurriedly. "That's a bridge too far for a birthday party, my darling," she told Claude.

"Dinosaur bones?" Claude asked hopefully. Gwen and Hugo both looked at Simon.

"Meringue, or marzipan," Simon pronounced. "Yes, that could be done. Well, my little gravedigger, we will see," he told Claude, patting his shoulder. "I should leave you to your evening," he added to Hugo and Gwen.

"Going out?" Gwen asked.

"No, I have work to do -- testing the curried chicken recipe," Simon said. "And an early morning tomorrow. The first planning meeting for Reclamation Day is at nine, so breakfast must be prepared early."

"Looking forward to it?" Gwen asked.

"Yes and no," Simon replied, thinking of Lazaar's dry tone and stubborn demeanor. "I think it may be a challenge. I used to claim I liked a challenge, when I was young, but youth are full of energy. What I think I liked was conquest."

Gwen laughed. "Well, the slowest mountaineer still reaches the summit eventually."

"An apt metaphor. Goodnight," Simon added, kissing the crown of Claude's bent head. "I will have a full report tomorrow."

***

The first meeting of the Reclamation Day planning committee was always the last Tuesday in May, according to Ori.

Ylias had been fortunate to meet Ori on her first scouting trip to Fons-Askaz for the restaurant; he knew everyone and had his fingers in every pie, and he liked helping newcomers with big ideas, so he'd taken a shine to her.

That said, she did suspect he was also a little bit married to tradition. Very much a man who knew how things had always been done and wished them to continue that way. He seemed reasonable about adapting when something clearly wasn't working, but Ori was not a fan of innovation; if it wasn't broken, he didn't wish to fix it. She understood. Much of her family was that way as well, but they were also used to her constantly suggesting new ways to do things, and she'd had to remember to restrain that impulse around Ori.

In any case, the planning committee began meeting in late May because, per Ori, any earlier and they would forget to do certain things; any later and there wouldn't be time. He was less sanguine about certain developments this year, but his partner Sola, who ran the coffee cart outside Ori's bakery, was a little more cheerful about it.

"We're fortunate this year," she said, as they walked towards the grand front entrance of the palace, set back from the main street by shallow rolling hills full of hedges and decorative flowers, the prettiest public park in the country. Even having grown up in dairy country, Ylias felt a swell of pride for the beauty of Fons-Askaz, as if she were personally responsible for it. "Now that Simon's involved, he offered us a conference room in the palace so the meeting doesn't have to float around between random restaurant back-rooms."

"It always worked for us before," Ori grumbled, although it sounded at least good-natured.

"Barely," Sola told Ylias. "It was always a struggle finding a place to meet each week, and then someone would need the space for prep, or it would get booked for a party, and we'd end up in a corner of someone's kitchen. Or worse, in the alley."

"Fons-Askaz has very clean and tidy alleys," Ori said.

"I still don't want to have a meeting in one," Sola replied. "Just think, for the rest of the summer we'll always know where we're meeting," she added, and Ori did brighten up at that, nodding his thanks to Ylias as she held open the entry door to the palace. On the one hand, the horror stories about planning meetings in alleys, clean or otherwise, made her glad they had a stable meeting room; on the other, they were on Simon LeFevre's turf now, and she wasn't terribly excited about that. Although she supposed he probably considered the whole town his property.

The entry lobby of the palace was a wide circular room with a grand staircase across from the entry; to the left was a large arching hallway that led towards the Parliament chambers, and next to it a second hallway that led to some other wing of the palace. To the right was one single wide hallway lined in doors, most of them closed and unmarked. A sinuous white marble sculpture in the middle of the room was protected only by a low fence around the top of the plinth on which it sat.

"Now, we're in the ground floor conference room, small, which Simon said was to the right after entering -- " Ori began, but he was interrupted by a blur of black and gold. A slight young girl in the royal uniform, an orange messenger bag banging loosely on her hip, rushed past, dodging around them at the last minute with a yelp. Ylias was opening her mouth to ask what that was all about when the king himself, Gregory III, by the will of the people ruler of Askazer-Shivadlakia, came hurrying down the hallway.

"Joan, I told you not to -- oh," he said, skidding to a stop in front of them. "Sorry, did she run into any of you? I've been trying to train her out of running in the palace..."

"No, Your Majesty, all correct," Sola said smoothly. Ori smiled, but he looked a little perturbed. Ylias tried not to stare.

"Glad to hear it. It's Ori and Sola, isn't it?" the king asked.

"Good of you to remember," Ori managed.

"Hard to forget. My father's very partial to your sausage rolls. Noah loves the panda...croissant things you do," the king said. He gave Ylias a curious look.

"Ah, Your Majesty, may I present Chef Ylias Lazaar, she's the newest member of the planning committee for Reclamation Day," Sola said. "Ylias, King Gregory III."

"A little less dignified than I usually try to be," he confessed, giving her a bow. "Very much a pleasure. I'm so sorry, I have to corral the princeps before she accidentally kills a Minister of Parliament. If you're looking for Simon, he's down that way -- kitchen door's on the left, it's open and hard to miss."

"Busy man, the king," Sola remarked, as he hurried towards Parliament and they turned to walk down the hall in the opposite direction. "Especially now, with three little ones."

"And that eldest enough trouble for three together," Ori said. "A sweet girl, but a little wild."

"Youthful high spirits," Sola said. "She'll calm in time. Like young Prince Noah."

"Now there's a lad with good manners, for having been raised in America," Ori agreed. "Ah, and here we are," he finished, as LeFevre stepped out of what was obviously the kitchen, carrying an enormous coffee service. "Good morning, Simon!"

"Good morning!" LeFevre called. "This way -- Ori, would you -- "

"Oh, yes," Ori said, pulling open the door Simon nodded at. "In you go. And I see we're not the first here," he added, as they followed LeFevre inside. Ylias felt a brief stab of relief; being trapped into small talk would have been difficult. Instead, she could find a seat near Ike Salomon, the friendly proprietor of the local department store, Provisioners, and let Ori take over the social aspect of the meeting.

"Good to see you again," Ike said, giving her a smile in greeting. His eyes drifted to her shirt, which she'd bought at Provisioners and which he'd altered himself, as resident tailor. "How's it wearing?"

"Beautifully, thank you," she answered. The men's shirts at Prov were a little boxy and, while she liked the cut in general, she preferred a more tapered silhouette. He'd been very good to take in the waist slightly on half a dozen of them, and on two chef's coats as well. "Business going well, I hope?"

"In the tourist season, always," he said, then added in a slightly querelous American accent, "Look, a real old-timey department store! I haven't seen one of these in ages."

Ylias laughed. "A hat for himself and a pair of flip-flops for the wife?" she asked.

"I shouldn't make fun. Their money's good, and at least they aren't next-day shipping it from some big online shop. That's the secret, you know. When people go on holiday they want to spend money. If you're in Fons-Askaz for a week there's no reason you can't order off the internet, but it simply feels wrong. In any case, June is nearly on us, and soon it'll be handsome young people in rainbows, looking for club wear and sunglasses."

"Putting out your Pride collection this week?"

"Well, there are a few flag-themed items here and there," he allowed. "I leave the cheap tat to the beach stores. I did, however, take the liberty of altering a few dozen shirts similar to yours, since it seems as though it might be a popular option for women of a certain persuasion. If you receive any compliments from any beguiling butches, do send them my way."

"Send them my way first," said Maya, settling in on his other side. Maya owned a bar and fry shack on the beach, popular with the topless-sunbathing crowd, but she'd confided to Ylias that she didn't especially like the food side of the planning committee. She seemed pleased to have been reassigned to helping coordinate the evening events surrounding Reclamation Day. "If I get to them first, by the time a beguiling butch reaches you, they'll need a fresh shirt and new underwear."

"Local custom, another fine old tradition," Ike said with a roll of his eyes.

Ylias, who had been keeping an eye on the coffee, saw Simon leave the room, giving her a clear path to the caffeine, and got out of her chair. "I'm getting a coffee -- can I fetch anything for you ladies?" she asked, and Ike chuckled.

"Sugar and a dash of cream, if you would," he said.

"Black for me, thank you," Maya added. "And when Simon inevitably returns with his almond batons, one of those."

"Oh yes, two for me," Ike agreed.

Ylias poured three coffees as quickly as she could; she almost got away with it, but just as she was setting the creamer down, a plate of little biscuits was laid at her elbow. LeFevre gave her a brisk nod as he sidled around her.

She took four of the biscuits -- each about the length and thickness of her thumb, a deep cream color, and barely edged with chocolate on the underside. She put two on Ike's saucer, two on Maya's, and then snuck one off Maya's saucer and onto her own after she returned to her seat. She wasn't going to give LeFevre the satisfaction of seeing her enjoy his biscuit, but she wasn't about to let the opportunity pass to sample a signature pastry by the royal chef. He might be an imperious bastard who already didn't like her, but that didn't mean he wasn't a good chef. Half the chefs Ylias had known in her life were imperious bastards who didn't like her.

Ori called the meeting to order, then, and it went about as Ylias had expected. There was a lot of introductory talk and then a checklist of issues they'd need to address and chores that needed doing, some of it incomprehensible to Ylias as a newcomer. She took notes, nodded in the appropriate places, and started a list of questions to hit someone with later. About halfway through, she subtly snapped the biscuit in two and snuck half of it into her mouth while LeFevre was offering an opinion on the color scheme for the year's festivities.

She had to admit it was good. The biscuit was shortbread with a delicate almond flavor, smooth except for little shreds of lemon zest that highlighted the almond. The chocolate had a bite to it that she recognized as chili, a nice change from the cinnamon that most chefs used. When she sipped her coffee, it tasted nuttier than before. She could see why the royal family had hired him.

She snuck the second half of the biscuit in just before Ori wrapped the meeting up with action items for next time. Hers included discussing with LeFevre whether they ought to adjust the criteria for food stalls this year, after one of last year's participants had given a handful of people food poisoning and had their actual restaurant shut down for health code violations when an investigation was launched. She made a note to get the tea on that from Sola later.

And, honestly, though she'd been dreading it, she knew it was time to clear the air. She held back as the others filed out, telling Sola she'd catch up with them later, and waited until the room was empty and LeFevre was collecting up the discarded cups and saucers.

"A productive first meeting," he said, before she could speak. "Something I greatly appreciate about Shivadh culture is that it does generally get quickly to the point. His Majesty disagrees with me, but he deals mostly with politicians."

"Seems like it went well," she said. He glanced up from where he was stacking the cups on the coffee service's tray. "Can I help?"

"Thank you, but no, it's not much work. What can I do for you, Ms. Lazaar?" he asked.

She winced internally, but she said it anyway, because as awkward as it sometimes was, it was better to be forthright. "I prefer Mr. Lazaar, actually."

"Ah? Do you prefer 'she' as well, or was that Ori's slip?"

"No, I prefer she, as well. Kind of you to ask," she offered. He seemed to take it graciously.

"Well, common courtesy. I was very new to this sort of thing when I came here, but then, it was very new when I came here as well. Easy enough to learn. The younger people now, they all introduce themselves -- my name is Simon, I use he/him," he said, smiling down at the coffee cups. "There is a new tradition of respect. I like it."

It was a little disarming, the frankness of it; she found it irritating and encouraging in equal parts. Irritating because she'd expected him to be more hostile. Encouraging that he wasn't.

"I agree," she said. "And, in that spirit -- look, I know we didn't get off on the right foot, the whole ricotta...thing was really awkward."

"Indeed," he said, and left it at that. All right, well, perhaps not as disarming as he could be.

"But I'm sure we both, um, regret that, and Ori says we need to work together, we can't just avoid each other and expect to do a good job for the festival. So I wanted to, you know, talk about that. I could give a big speech about putting our differences aside and bullshit like that, if you want, but I think it would bore both of us."

He glanced up, then, and seemed to be considering her.

"Are you sorry for it?" he asked. She blinked. "For keeping the cheese?"

"No. I bought the cheese for a crostata ricotta for my mother. I was lucky to get it, and it's my right not to sell it," she said. She braced internally for the fight -- but it didn't come.

"Good. At least if you were rude, you were rude to purpose and consistent," he said.

"I think we were both rude. You're not mad at everyone else who wouldn't sell you cheese, are you?" she pointed out.

"I don't mind rudeness, Mr. Lazaar, I'm French," he said, then reconsidered. "Well, I may call myself French-Shivadh. I won't insult you with a request for a fresh start, but we may proceed from here."

He held out his hand, eyes on her face; she considered it and then took it with a firm grip. She could feel a knife callus in the same place she had one, just at the base of the index finger. Before she could think about it, he'd bowed over the handshake -- but a particularly Shivadh bow, right at the perfect depth to acknowledge an equal. Between the color of her skin and the attitude she often took with men, it wasn't something she experienced much. When he straightened, she bowed back, then let his hand go.

"Now, I must carry these away to the kitchen and you, I am sure, have work to attend," he said, lifting the service tray. "I will come to Plate&Press tomorrow, yes? We can speak about our various duties. Or Thursday? Only I am in Fons-Askaz on Wednesdays for the grocery order."

"I'll be there tomorrow from early morning on. Come to the kitchen door, the front's blocked by equipment right now," she said. He nodded and left without another word, and also without picking up one of the saucers; odd, since it must have been right next to the tray. Then she looked down and realized it had two more biscuits on it, clearly set aside and left for her, intentionally.

What a peculiar man.

She popped one of the biscuits into her mouth, and wrapped the other one carefully in an unused napkin from the sideboard of the conference room, tucking it in the breast pocket of her shirt. LeFevre didn't seem to notice as she leaned briefly into his kitchen to deposit the saucer on a counter just inside the door.

***

The day went quickly, after the planning meeting. Most days had, lately -- the restaurant was in good shape to open on time, and all of the recipes were tested and set and many of the seasonal menus, too, always allowing for some variation in what ingredients were cheap and available on any given day. She'd hired an experienced manager for the waitstaff, and had left the training of the staff to him. But the interior of the restaurant still wasn't finished to her satisfaction, and the kitchen was requiring some last-minute rearrangements, so she was often there every daylight hour and many that weren't during daylight, even as the sun stayed up later. There was always one more fixture to replace, or a bit of grout on the tile that needed a touch-up, or the pans needed to be shifted to be closer to both the dish sink and the stove, in order to keep them out of the way when they weren't in use.

It was enjoyable work; she'd always liked building things with her hands, but never had as much time for it as she wanted when she was cooking in other peoples' kitchens. She wouldn't have the time for much longer, either, once the restaurant opened. But until it did, she would enjoy it while she could. And if the restaurant did well, eventually she could hire more staff, train them, perhaps take shifts off at times. Spend her hours woodworking, or strolling the Promenade and discovering new flavors to play with.

She was, at least, able to leave that day while the sun was still out, and she stopped at the little market at the very edge of the Promenade where they'd come to know her -- it would never do to buy supplies for the restaurant there, but the market was between the restaurant and home, so it was convenient for picking up dinner, or a little treat. She bought basil, mackerel filets, and after consideration, a little container of cherry tomatoes, and went on her way with a smile for the cashier and a light heart.

The walk from the market to home was short but hilly, the cottage cheap because it was halfway down the steep incline that led from the main street of Fons-Askaz to the water. To go anywhere from there was a hike, either up or down, and the buildings were old, but they were at least sturdy. She let herself in through the yard currently planted with seedlings, and pushed open the kitchen door.

"Maman!" she called, setting the net bag with the groceries on the neatly-scrubbed butcher-block kitchen counter. "I'm home!"

"Just finishing up!" her mother called back from the front room of the cottage. "I put the lentils on about ten minutes ago!"

Ylias leaned over the stove and lifted the lid, giving them a brief stir. The smell of mustard and pepper drifted up. She got the cast iron frying pan down from its hook and set it on the burner next to the lentils to heat while she washed her hands. Her mother came into the kitchen while she was drying them on the tea-towel and made pleased noises over the basil.

"I'll make the pesto," she announced, as Ylias unwrapped the mackerel and inspected it for bones. "You want more garlic than last time?"

"I think so, but we both have to eat it and then live with each other, so it's up to you," Ylias replied, pulling the tomatoes off their vine and rinsing them, then poking them gently into the lentils to cook. She fetched a lemon from the wire basket of fruit hanging near the kitchen window and began zesting it over the mackerel, then pinched out some red pepper flakes to sprinkle on as well. Her mother took down the electric food processor and began stripping the basil into it, pausing every so often to add a dollop of roasted garlic, or newly grated parmesan, or a sprinkle of salt. Ylias leaned over at one point and zested some of the lemon peel in as well. The kitchen began to fill with bright, sharp scents, although when she laid the filets in the pan, the frying fish nearly drowned it all out.

They worked in silence, or rather they worked without speaking -- the crackle of fish in oil and the roar of the food processor as her mother drizzled olive oil into the pesto would have made it difficult anyway. It wasn't until Ylias had scooped two golden mounds of lentils into bowls, topped each with a filet, and passed them to her mother to drizzle with pesto that they could really speak.

"You had that meeting this morning," her mother said, carrying her meal to the table in the corner, which caught the best evening light and was adorned with a brightly-patterned tablecloth from Ylias's last trip to Morocco.

"For Reclamation Day, yeah," Ylias agreed, settling in across from her. "Went all right."

"How'd that chef treat you?"

Ylias smiled. "You'll have to narrow that down."

"You know the one I mean."

"It was fine. We're in some kind of detente. He seemed to approve of the fact that I'm not going to apologize for making you a cheesecake with 'his' ricotta," Ylias said.

"All that anxiety for nothing," her mother replied.

"I wasn't anxious. I was just concerned. I'm trying to build a professional network here. I keep telling myself if I'd known who he was I would have handled it differently, but the truth is I should probably have handled it differently anyway. Regardless of who someone is in this town, if I don't know them, they're all potential..." she waved a hand. "Potential Simon LeFevres."

"Well, perhaps, but you've never done anything in this life to avoid annoying someone, I don't see why you'd start now," Maman replied. "French, isn't he? He's always ready to be annoyed, I don't doubt."

"He calls himself French-Shivadh. I can't imagine he'd have lasted very long in the palace if he didn't fit in at least a little," Ylias said, around a mouthful of lentils and mackerel. "Oh, that's very nice with the extra garlic."

"Thank you. Well, I'm glad it was fine, for your sake."

"Me too. He's coming by the restaurant tomorrow to talk about what we'll have to do for the festival. Should go smoothly if we can keep our tempers."

"No guarantee," her mother drawled. Ylias chuckled.

"How was your day? Life of leisure boring you yet?" she asked.

"Leisure, ha! I have two full professors to hire and fifty graduate level applications to go through for the five we're going to take. And apparently I'm in charge of writing the template rejection letter for the ones we can't because I'm 'better with words'," her mother said, rolling her eyes. "Truth is I don't think anyone else wants to spend the time on a page of prose that's just about how the person it's addressed to isn't adequate for our program."

"I hope you'll be better with words than that implies," Ylias said.

"Oh, I'll come up with something. That's the problem with building a program like this from the ground, you have to do it all yourself sooner or later. Well, if Royal Shivadh University goes under, it won't be because I slacked."

"I think it'd take more than you not pulling your weight in the chemistry program to bring down the entire university," Ylias said.

"You never know. The Archchancellor's going hard in on STEM. Chemistry is a keystone program."

"Well, when they set up the Hospitality program I'll come teach food science, but until then you're on your own to keep it afloat."

"Someday, maybe," her mother said, taking the joke seriously as she generally did. Heading the chemistry program at the newly-built Royal Shivadh University would be a feat of work for a few years, but Anet Lazaar was not a woman who took her duties lightly, and she might be seventy but she was an energetic seventy. Ylias occasionally wished she was slightly less energetic, but if it took an entire university to keep her mother occupied and out of Ylias's hair, so be it. "That's the king's goal, you know."

"How's that?"

"I haven't had it from His Majesty, but word around the campus is that the reason we're spending so much time on the sciences and engineering is that it's where the money is. We build up the STEM program enough, it can help fund the humanities programs. And eventually perhaps hospitality. After all, there's already a lot of money coming into this country from tourism. Apparently right now we send everyone to that casino in Galia for their training, and that's hardly the best place to learn how to run a beach hotel."

"How do you feel about it, though? That your program might fund the English department because English can't fund itself?"

Her mother shrugged. "Money's got to go somewhere. English has its uses. If I'd raised you on chemistry and never fed you any good food, would you be a chef? Would you be happy?"

"Probably not," Ylias agreed. "Still."

"If I had my way, we'd fund a few things before we got around to English, but it's not as though people look more kindly on History or Anthropology. These trash Photogram pragmatists who think if you can't use it as a tool it hasn't got any use, they'll look down on it regardless of what it is. And the class snobs say hospitality's low-brow. I forgot how awful university politics are," she added, with a level of relish that indicated she had also forgotten how much she enjoyed awful university politics. Ylias smiled over her meal and let her mother unload the day, content with a front-row seat to the drama.

Chapter Text

Prince Noah was, for the most part, a frank and forthright young man. From the first, Simon had appreciated his enthusiasm, if not always the tumult that came with it. But he wasn't devious, as far as Simon saw, and not deceptive either, so it was a little funny watching him try to be.

Generally speaking, the morning hours after breakfast and before Parliament recessed for lunch were the quietest; the children were in school, the adults were at work, and Simon could go about his prep mostly undisturbed. Something Noah was aware of when he slunk into the kitchen that morning after the planning meeting.

"Your Highness," Simon said, not looking up from his sautee. "Two minutes and I will be at your service."

"Take your time," Noah said, but he was twitchy and uneasy as he sat on a stool at the prep counter, toying with a bowl of aubergines. Simon, sensing one of youth's little dilemmas, finished the sautee and set it aside to cool, then wiped his hands on the tea towel hanging from his apron and turned to the boy.

"You look very serious this morning," he observed, gently taking the bowl of aubergines from Noah before he could fidget it right off the counter. "A dilemma not meant for the ears of parents, perhaps?"

"Guilty, I guess," Noah said. "I had a question about something Monday told me. But it's kinda...you know how there's like, moments when you're not quite a grownup but not a kid anymore?"

"Ah, oui, I remember being young," Simon nodded. "And I remember too His Majesty's youth. There is always a little struggle, I think."

"Yeah. So like...I have a grownup question to ask but if Boss finds out they're going to tell me I'm not enough of a grownup to be asking it."

Simon grinned. "You wish to swear me to secrecy?"

"I mean, would you?"

"I don't know. It hinges on the question. You are not the kind to make harm for others, though, so..." Simon shrugged. "As long as there is no real danger. I kept many secrets for your elders, in their time."

"You did?"

"Of course. Sometimes a youth needs an ally. And for His Grace your stepfather, too, at times."

Noah seemed to brighten at this. "So...if I were to, say, mention that the graduation party you're catering is going to be the social event of the year but...also that there's an afterparty..."

Simon laughed. "Do you want catering for that, too?"

"No, not exactly. But uh. It's going to be down on the beach out past Maritime where nobody ever really goes, and we're gonna have a bonfire but also a lot of the kids are bringing alcohol."

Simon nodded thoughtfully. The drinking age in most of Europe was lower than America, and Noah had grown up in New York. Most of his classmates had probably been drinking table wine since they were fourteen or fifteen, but a beach party was, it was true, a different beast.

"So like, I don't need wine from the cellar or anything like that, I have uh, sources, but...Monday said you make really good hangover cures," Noah said in a rush.

Simon laughed, boomingly. Noah looked concerned.

"May all youthful sins be so kind," he said, catching Noah by the back of the neck and smiling at him before letting him go. "You came in all this state to ask for comfort for your friends?"

"Probably for me, too, I'm bringing Davzda -- "

"The real kind?"

Noah nodded.

"Well, resourceful," Simon said, not entirely disapproving. Davzda was not a good drink, and nothing could make it a good drink, but it was very traditional, and mistakes with Davzda were, as he understood it, a rite of passage for young Shivadh. "How many friends?" he asked.

"Probably about twenty. Not more than thirty."

"Hm. Yes, good. Ginger lemonade and rosemary sables," he said. Noah nodded, but looked slightly mystified. "I suppose the service is catch-as-can?"

"Huh?"

"Your friends will not be able to select what they bring -- it will be, ah, improvisational?"

Noah blinked at him. "Are you saying you could suggest pairings for the hangover cure?"

"Certainly. Hm, so, I will make up a carton which I will leave in the refrigerator at the lodge on the night of the party. If you were to take it, who would know you took it? Or that I made it for you? A simple thing -- before bed one drinks the lemonade, and on waking, one eats the sable cookies. If your friends wish to appear particularly grown up and pair their drinks, they will bring aromatic or fruity white wines, whiskey, mead, or pale sweet beers. I will also," he added, a little more sternly, "include a quantity of water which you are to make available at the party. There is no better cure for morning regret than caution the night before."

"Thank you, Simon, really," Noah said.

"Easily done. Do not cause me trouble with the king emeritus or Ser Deimos, however."

"Promise," Noah said. He was turning to go when he paused, a thoughtful look on his face. "Did you ever do this kind of thing for Gregory?"

"For Gerald, on occasion. His Majesty rarely indulged, even as a younger man, or if he did it was discreet."

"Guess that makes sense. Anyway, thanks," Noah said, and was gone. Simon smiled over the sink as he rinsed out a bowl, then went to see if the lemons he had would be suitable for the ginger lemonade. He would pick up some extra butter for the sables when he was in town tomorrow, after meeting with Mr. Lazaar.

***

Ylias was not one of nature's morning people, but she had learned to rise early, working in food service, and there was a certain appeal to being up around dawn, when the only people out in the world were her and people like her. One morning a few weeks ago, while sitting in her garden with a cup of fortifying spiced coffee, she'd seen the Duke of Shivadlakia go bounding past on a morning run. Still, by and large it was the fishermen, the morning deliverymen, and the chefs.

She lingered a little over her coffee, but still arrived at Plate&Press fairly early that morning. She wanted to test the electrical breakers in the kitchen; having once lived in a flat where the coffee maker and microwave couldn't run at the same time without cutting power to the whole kitchen, she'd learned a vital lesson about stress-testing old wiring. She intended to turn on every appliance in the kitchen and crank it up to its highest power-draw for a couple of minutes, just to be absolutely sure she wouldn't short out her own restaurant at the worst possible time someday. (Opening night, for example.) She wasn't wholly keen on having other people around while she did it, because it did look a little mad, on the surface.

Of course, LeFevre arrived right as she was starting the timer to make sure she left everything on for at least five minutes.

"Ah, you said you would be here early," he said, arriving in the open kitchen doorway. "Preparing a new kitchen must -- "

He paused, peering cautiously around. Ylias opened her mouth to explain, but he nodded.

"Testing the electrics," he said knowingly. "After last year, a good idea."

"What happened last year?" Ylias asked, perplexed.

"The king was forced to fund several new building projects. There was a sudden rain and a building..." he tilted his hand and made a whooshing noise. "A bad collapse. Very nearly killed the king emeritus. Since then, with more vigorous inspection, several other buildings required repair."

"I just wanted to make sure I didn't lose power if I cranked up the heat on the pasta station."

He came properly into the kitchen, but slowly, clearly not wanting to disturb anything. He had a small bag slung over one shoulder, and was back in fairly plain, comfortable-looking clothing. "You'll serve pasta?"

"You sound surprised," she said.

"I assumed it was to be a cafe. It was a cafe before it closed last year. Although in its time I have seen it be many things," he said, considering the ovens and ranges, the prep tables, pasta station, pantry doors. "I thought, plate and press...like a coffee press?" he said, miming french-press coffee.

"Ah, no," she said. "I'm actually not much of a baker, normally. Though I do make great coffee. It's small plates. Tunisian, mainly. Some fusion."

"An oil press, then," he guessed.

"Wrong again," she said cheerfully. He looked a little insulted. "Come through, I'll show you."

She led him into the front of the restaurant, with its windows still papered over and the floor scattered with tools, work lights, and dropcloths. He took in the chaos, but soon enough his eyes drifted to the walls. Most were adorned with literary quotes or framed images of books and libraries; various corners, nooks, and moldings were decorated with machine parts from printing presses. One wall had several rows of indented metal set into it, into which she'd already placed loose typeface slugs.

"Plate like an engraving," she said. "Press like a printing press."

There was a look people got when they realized she was going to cook what they'd consider ethnic food but serve it in a way that was sort of...non-ethnic. A literary-themed restaurant that wasn't a cafe or a bar confused them as much as a Tunisian restaurant without Moroccan decor. LeFevre had just started to make the face when her alarm went off.

"I'm going to go turn everything off now that I've made my assault on the power grid," she said, ducking back into the kitchen. He followed, but he didn't ask any of the obvious (or even the non-obvious) questions.

"The decor is very nice," was all he said, as she powered down the flat top griddle. "So -- do we discuss what is needed to be done for Reclamation Day and which of us is to do it?"

He took a notebook out of his bag as he did so, tapping a pen against it. She nodded, consulting the notes she'd made in her phone.

"Ori wanted us to make sure nobody gets food poisoning this year if possible," she said. "Adjusting the criteria for the food stalls, maybe get a health inspector to be on call and just roam around making sure nobody's leaving the hummus out in the sun for too long."

"I can arrange that, through the Palace. You may set the criteria if you wish, but if you do we ought to blame me anyway; whatever they are they will be unpopular. People must have something to object to."

"I don't really have strong ideas about it, if you want that as well."

"I will take soundings at the next planning meeting. Ah, we oversee food stall layout as well -- and the week before, one of us must get the storage key from Ori and open it so they can fetch out the tents for the workers to assemble."

"Is layout just how they're set out, or is it also who goes where?" Ylias asked, which had been one of the questions she hadn't wanted to take up meeting time with.

LeFevre looked a little pinched, which was all the answer she needed.

"I can see how it'd be a nightmare," Ylias said. "Like doing a seating plan for the wedding of two truly obnoxious people."

"Shivadh are known for their strong personalities," he said.

"I barely even know anyone here yet."

"I know everyone, which does not improve matters."

"Can't we make Ori or Sola do it?" she asked.

"No, I think not, but it can't be done in any case until we have received the applications and approved them," he said.

"A problem for future Lazaar and LeFevre," she said.

"Indeed. Now, also, food cart vendors. Usually these are people with their own carts, already licensed," LeFevre continued. "It is mainly speaking to them about whether they plan to run their cart that day, and making sure we have a list of those who are."

"Let me take that part, I'd like to get to know that whole process better anyway," she said. "Catering for the VIP stage?"

"Usually pushed on me even before now, as I know His Majesty's tastes," LeFevre said.

"Can you do all this..." Ylias gestured at their lists, "for Reclamation Day and also do the catering? Because I feel like we do throw around at least enough weight to make someone else take that over."

"Hm, there is a lot to supervise. A practical consideration, thank you," he said, absently flipping through his own notes. "I will find someone reliable enough to serve His Majesty but also young enough to still be impressed by the request. Which leaves remaining only the cooking competition."

"Not to complain, but this seems like a really random thing to have at Reclamation Day," Ylias said. "It's not a village fete or something."

"It began as a sort of grudge, years ago," he said. "Two chefs had a dispute; they declared to decide for one or the other on Reclamation Day -- in public, with the public's help in settling the matter. It proved very popular, so it became a regular feature."

"So we're supposed to set this up, set the theme, and source the judges," Ylias said.

"Set-up is arranged -- the judging tent is always in the same place and that will not be our concern. Tables will be set too. The chefs have only to bring in their example of the challenge recipe, do any final preparation and plating, and lay it out. Then after they leave, the judges do first-tasting, followed by the public."

"I guess it's a little on the nose for this year's theme to be like...an Eddie Rambler classic recipe."

He smiled. "We may consider it but also, consider: are you aware of..." his voice dropped. "The Trash Tower?"

She nodded.

"Imagine a tent full of examples of Shivadh twists on the Trash Tower," he said.

"It doesn't look like Dante's inferno, but it doesn't not," she said. "Maybe another thing we want to ask about at the next meeting?"

"I think so. For judges, usually a member of the royal family, but also then someone who knows food, and sometimes a famous person if one can get one."

"Can we?"

"I would as soon not," LeFevre replied, which Ylias couldn't argue with. "I think perhaps for the royals, Princeps Joan would like to judge. Or if her fathers would prefer she does not, Duke Gerald. He would pretend it was his little one judging, give her some of everything to try, pretend he knows what she says. Very funny."

"Want me to tap someone with food chops from the town?" Ylias asked.

"Yes, but speak with me before you ask them, just to be sure."

"Yep, I wouldn't mind a road map to all the faux pas I could make," she muttered.

"Ah, well. I wouldn't let anyone cut you; I've already seen you at your worst and it is frankly somewhat mild," he said.

"I think I'm almost more insulted about being considered mediocre than I am that you won't let it go," she replied.

"We all need time to recover our wounds," he said gravely. "Another few years, perhaps, and I will begin to consider healing."

"Man, I didn't know calling you Le Gros Fromage would devastate you so completely. If I'd known who you were I'd have gone with M'seur LeChevre, mind you."

He closed the notebook with a snap, smiling.

"And I must somehow go on despite these insults, and fetch my groceries," he said good-naturedly. "At the planning meeting I will ask about food stall applications, and you will ask about the cooking competition; otherwise it seems all in hand for now."

"Agreed. Good meeting," she added. "Very direct."

"I learned it from Lady Alanna when she was studying for her management exams," he said conspiratorially. "She calls them agile stand-ups. I suppose because you jump from idea to idea while standing still."

"Well, jump your way on out of here, and I'll see you at the planning meeting," she said, and he left, tucking his notebook into his bag as he went.

***

The royal family are not given to indulgence, generally. I am told King Jason had a good palate for wine, but I never met His Majesty. His Grace Michaelis is capable of telling good wine from bad, but has never been what one might call an enthusiast, particularly for reds, which has at times tried the patience of the royal sommelier. His current Majesty, King Gregory, has a very sensible palate for a man of his age, and His Majesty Theophile was raised in California, which produces extremely adequate vintages, but neither go beyond a glass or two with dinner.

There are a handful of exceptions, of course, and one which is annual: Purim, where we are commanded by the mitzvah to drink in celebration. We are fortunately also commanded to give gifts of food, the mishloach manot, and it was not long after arriving that I developed my traditional Purim gift of a hangover cure. It is a good thing not only to share food but to offer comfort to the distressed.

A chef's job is to nourish and delight, so for many years I have given four small things together: ginger lemonade for replacing lost vitamins and rosemary sables for restoring sugar to the body, but also a little fruit cake and a bar of good chocolate whose only purpose is to be delicious. I have found these very welcome to patrons who are somewhat the worse for drink. And one might also gift all of this to children, who are fond of sweets. His Grace the Duke of Shivadlakia has seen fit to refer to the lemonade as a "power drink" which I understand to be a compliment, although I am unfamiliar with other such drinks generally.

Purim is past, but the summer months are a time for celebration and in June there will be Pride, when many young people, who have not yet learned to hydrate properly, arrive on the beach and drink inadvisably. Thus I have decided to present my "hangover box" recipes.

This is my only reason for sharing these recipes.

Ginger Lemonade "Power Drink"
Rosemary Morning After Sables
Fruit Cake Delights
Notes On Judging Good Chocolate And Suggestions For Flavor Pairings

***

June arrived that week, glorious -- sunny, with warm temperatures but a cool breeze always wafting off the harbor. The tourists who had begun to trickle into Fons-Askaz in May were now arriving in droves for Pride, filling the beaches and streets with bodies of all shapes, sizes, shades, ages, and genders.

Ylias had been born and raised in Askazer-Shivadlakia, and her family went back there a few generations, but they'd always lived on the border, closer to Nice where her mother had taught at the university at Sophia Antipolis. Even when Ylias had gone into Fons-Askaz for Pride in her youth, it had been decades ago, when the celebration was ardent but smaller, the parade vibrant but intimate. This was her first time living in Fons-Askaz for it, and her first Pride in-country with King Gregory, already a gay icon, on the throne.

She hoped Reclamation Day wasn't going to be quite as crowded, or they'd already vastly underestimated how many food stalls they'd need.

Still, there was a reason she was opening Plate&Press in June, and as early as reasonable; most of the restaurants in Fons-Askaz made the bulk of their revenue in the summer, and anyone coming in for Pride from nearby countries might return later in the season as repeat customers. It was a time to make one's reputation.

"And it will keep you out of mischief," Ori added, when Ylias explained her reasoning behind opening the restaurant two days before the parade.

"I'm too old for mischief at Pride," she said dismissively, halfway up a ladder in front of the restaurant, hanging a rainbow flag next to the Plate&Press flag. They were going up all over the street, flags and bunting and banners, a riot of color.

"If you walk out of your cottage tomorrow and whistle, you could have your choice of pretty young things," Ori replied, holding the ladder steady. "A well-built gentleman of a certain age, with your confidence? Better hope your patrons don't get a look at you in the kitchen, or you'll have every table booked for a year."

"If I thought I could swing that, I'd cook naked," she said.

"Don't tempt fate," he replied as she climbed down. "I will advise you, however, to keep your menu simple to start and make sure you have twice the food you think you need."

"I've been working in restaurants since I was a kid, Ori, I know how to order for a kitchen, even during a festival."

"Well, if you run out of something, call around. Everyone throws in together during Pride. And you have a little social credit to spend already," he added.

She dusted her hands, perplexed. "How so?"

"You haven't seen? You're in the group chat, I know you are," he said, rummaging in his phone. He held it out to her, with the National Resource App open. The app had a meeting-room function similar to group text messages, and she faintly remembered being added to the Chefs And Restauranteur's meeting room, but she had most of her notifications turned off, and rarely checked it. There was a First Night channel, tagged "for new openings" and under a thread with her name on it were a number of comments.

"Ori, just explain it to me?" she pleaded.

He smiled. "Luddite. I said I was coming to your soft open on Thursday ahead of the Friday night official open. A few others asked if there was a guest list or if they could walk in. Including your nemesis," he added, pointing to where CHEF.SIMON had stated his intention to crash if there was a guest list.

"Well, that's the rudest possible way to ask for an invitation," she said.

"Come on, Ylias, it's a little funny at least," he said. "Besides, I know you don't have a guest list. Are you two still at each others' throats? He hasn't said anything about it."

"No, we had a productive meeting last week," she said, collapsing the ladder and picking it up, heading for the narrow alley that would lead to the kitchen entrance. "He's not...un-fun," she allowed. "I've been thinking of him as a fencing partner. Technically we're on the same side, but we're never going to do anything except take swings at one another."

"Well, so long as you're not actually stabbing one another. In any case you should have a nice crowd on Thursday and I can only imagine how Friday will be -- you'll be the only place not pre-booked for months, so you'll have a lot of very unprepared and hungry people."

"Out ahead of you," she replied, settling the ladder in the little utility closet. "I'm making box dinners -- potato fritters stuffed with chicken or spiced lentils. Table service will not be rushed, so anyone who arrives after everyone's seated can either put down their name and wait, or spring for a banataj box."

"That's clever. Easy to make a lot of them, good drunk food," Ori said approvingly. He considered this while she washed her hands. "Actually, that's insanely clever, Ylias. Can I steal it?"

"What, my banataj recipe?"

"No -- though I'll take that too if it's on offer -- no, the idea of a booked-up box. So sorry we have no seats, but if you care for a take-away..." he mimed offering a carton of food to a patron. "I mean, there are plenty of take-away places to start with but it would help get attention for the sit-down restaurants if we handed out pre-packed food for those who don't want to wait. Not everyone would want to -- "

"Yes, I've had some remarks about watering down the brand," she replied, rolling her eyes.

" -- but it's still quite the concept."

"Well, I don't mind; if what you say is true there'll be enough business for everyone. Only don't drop it in the group chat, eh? Let everyone else see my genius for themselves on the day."

Ori laughed. "Fair enough. I'll leave you to your work. See you on the ninth -- try not to yell at Simon when he arrives."

"No promises," she answered, and at the time she'd found it funny.

Now, about to throw open the doors of Plate&Press for the first time, mainly to fellow chefs and a few local friends, she was less sanguine about....well, any of it.

She knew the food was good, the menu solid, and she was proud of what she'd done with the design of the dining room, the way it offered endless nooks to hide away in, as much seating as she could cram in without getting claustrophobic, and interesting visual touches that she hoped would seem inspirational -- the whole idea was to build a space people could come to eat good food and be creative. But perhaps the concept was hackneyed, and perhaps not all Shivadh would find Tunisian fare palatable --

She shook her head. It would be fine. And if it wasn't fine, it was too late to do anything about it now. Her front of house manager was already on the door, making sure only people who actually knew they were open were coming in. She didn't have a guest list, but she also wanted to keep out random curious tourists, at least for tonight.

The hot bar with chafing dishes was arrayed along one side of the dining room, and the sous chefs were scurrying around the kitchen to make sure the hot dishes stayed fresh and hot, while the cold appetizers were laid out on endless platters, ready for the waitstaff to carry them around. Each table had a bowl of matbucha and one of harissa, with the not-very-Tunisian but very popular Askazer twist-bread for dipping.

She kept busy in the kitchen for the first hour -- occasionally looking up to greet someone leaning in the doorway or answer a question ferried back to her by the waitstaff, but mostly making sure the food got out smoothly. By the time she had a moment to breathe, she could hear a crowd in the dining room, the roar of voices of people at a pretty good party.

"How's it going?" she asked Lia, one of the younger waitstaff.

"Very well," Lia replied. "Come see. Everyone said not to tell you who's here but I think you'll want to know."

"That's ominous," Ylias said, but followed her to the service window, peering out. People were filling the space exactly as she'd imagined, which was surprising and delightful -- some were sitting, having intimate conversations at table, but others were circulating, studying the walls, toying with the typeface racks, devouring the cold appetizers as they were carried around. Looked like the tuna nibbles were the least popular, which was fine. She didn't really love tuna anyway.

"It looks great," she said. Lia gave her a withering look. "What?"

"On the right, below the lamp," she said. Ylias followed her gaze and almost choked.

"Is that -- "

"Yes," Lia said with relish.

"Who told him?"

The king emeritus was in the dining room, holding a glass of the cold mint tea cocktail she'd concocted specially for the opening. He was standing near a wall, speaking with someone, looking pleased; as she watched, he noticed a tray going past, and plucked up a small cup of cucumber salad, gleaming gold with a sprinkling of olive oil. The person he was speaking to took one as well, ducking into the light of the lamp -- the Duke of Shivadlakia.

Who also happened to be Ylias's oil supplier, although she'd never actually met him, just bought from his sales agent.

"Guessing it was him," Lia said. Ylias watched the duke try a bite of cucumber and nod thoughtfully at his uncle.

"No -- I mean, maybe, but how did he know? I doubt he reads every purchase order," Ylias said, ducking away from the service hatch and heading back to the stove. "Is someone keeping an eye on them?"

"I think it's fair to say everyone's keeping an eye on them," Lia replied.

"Good. Don't give them the white glove treatment but...I guess make sure they stay happy," Ylias said. Lia nodded, turning to pass back out into the dining room --

And nearly ran into the Duke of Shivadlakia, who'd ducked his head through the door.

"Sorry!" he gasped, darting through and holding the door for her. Lia gave Ylias a panicked look. Ylias made a shooing motion, so she shooed.

"Close the door, and make a hole if you see someone coming," she called to the duke, who released the door and flattened himself against a wall. "Good man. Can I help you, Your Grace?"

"Chef Lazaar?" the duke asked, sidling around to where she was standing, tucking himself up between the pasta station and a set of pantry shelves. "I guess I don't need to introduce myself."

"Well, I'm technically your client, but we haven't met," she replied. "I'd shake but -- "

"No, I don't want to be a distraction. I came back to ask about that -- it tasted like the oil you were using was from the estate but I don't have enough of a palate yet to always know," he said. "It's my olive oil, isn't it?"

"From your estate, yes."

"Brilliant. It's great on the cucumber. I hope you bought direct? You can get a discount as a restaurant -- "

She laughed. "I'm aware, Your Grace, thank you."

"Ah, good. Sorry, that wasn't a pitch! I just think your food's very good, and it's literally part of my job to make sure new businesses in Fons-Askaz thrive."

"Is that how you found out about the soft open? I was wondering," she asked. He looked startled by the directness of the question.

"No -- that was Simon, the royal chef? He mentioned it to Eddie -- King Theophile, you know -- and Eddie's got twins under a month old so he couldn't come, he asked if I'd check it out. I mean, Simon's out there too if you want to say hi, but it's a crush and you look busy here. Eddie wanted a report from a non-chef. Thus..." he gestured at himself.

"Well, one hopes the report will be glowing, but -- "

"It will. I should leave you to it, anyway," he added, glancing around the kitchen to be sure his path was clear. "Pleasure to meet you, Chef."

"Come back before you leave, I'll send a box home with you," she replied, and he gave her a casual little salute and vanished.

She packed a box with a sampling of as much as she could cram into it without ruining the flavors, and set it in the refrigerator to chill. When he poked his head back into the kitchen about an hour later, she passed it to him with a nod; she'd say this for the duke, that he knew when not to get in the way.

When things began to slow down, late that evening, she left the kitchen in the charge of her sous chefs and changed into a clean coat, stepping out into the dining room to mingle a little. Everyone seemed happy and well fed, and people came up to congratulate her, or thank her for the food, or in one or two instances offer suggestions, which she tried to accept as gracefully as possible. She spotted the king emeritus sitting at one of the tables, again deep in conversation, smiling warmly at someone, arm over their shoulder. She'd heard he'd found a new partner -- like most Shivadh, she still mourned the loss of Queen Miranda, but it was good to see the old king happy.

"Mr. Lazaar," said a familiar voice, and she turned to see LeFevre at her elbow, looking pleased. "A great success for you, I think."

"Seems to have gone all right, yeah," she agreed. "I heard you were going to crash."

"Alas, I could not -- I ended up invited," he said, grinning.

"And you brought guests?"

"Ah, I didn't mean to bring the royal family down on your head so soon," he said, leaning in. "I should have remembered when I told King Theophile that he would likely share the information. Still, His Grace Gerald is pleased you use his oil and His Grace Michaelis enjoyed the matbucha greatly."

"And you? No constructive criticism?" she asked.

"Not tonight. I have never opened a restaurant myself, but I can understand this is your triumph! And in any case they are small quibbles. I will need to dine here more times before I speak," he replied. Someone tapped him on the arm, and he turned, then nodded at the person standing just behind him -- the one who'd been speaking with the old king a moment before. "Mr. Lazaar, may I present Ser Jes Deimos, who came with His Grace Michaelis. This is Mr. Lazaar, the chef of the hour. She/her," he added with a smile.

Deimos looked amused. "They/them," they said, holding out a hand. "We're honored to be able to attend -- I don't think we realized when Gerald told us he was going that it was your soft open."

"It's my pleasure. Not everyone gets to feed the royal family on their first night," she replied, bowing over their hand. "And you're an ornament to any dining room."

Deimos looked delighted. "Thank you, that's kind of you to say. If I'd known the food was going to be this good I'd have scared up a group. I have a lot of friends in from out of country at the moment."

"Well, we open reservations tomorrow morning -- but for the royal family, I can set aside a table," Ylias replied.

"Don't, just yet," Deimos said, looking around. "I'm thinking more of a party. Could we rent the restaurant?"

"The whole restaurant?" Ylias asked, blinking. Simon looked smug.

"If not, that's fine -- we'll take the offer of a table -- but my son's graduating next week, and we were thinking of a group dinner the night before, on Wednesday. Simon here is catering the night of," they added. "It'll be about two dozen people, and some of them have been doubtful that Fons-Askaz could live up to New York, foodwise. Yes, I felt the same," they added, catching Ylias's expression. "The only thing Fons-Askaz can't offer that New York can is the pizza, and only because our Eddie hasn't got the time to open a pizza restaurant."

"I hadn't..." Ylias fumbled slightly. "I'm sorry, we have a catering menu but I hadn't arranged any kind of contract for renting the space. I can send you a quote, but it'd need to be a handshake deal."

"Of course, I threw this at you with no warning. Here," they said, reaching into their pocket for a wallet and pulling out a card. "Email or phone is fine. If you can send me a proposal by Sunday, I can make a deposit on Monday. I'm comfortable with an informal deal as long as we have terms written out over email. If you don't feel ready, just let me know -- we'll definitely be back regardless."

"I'll be in touch," Ylias managed. Deimos gave her a bow and a smile, and retreated to their table. Ylias glanced sidelong at Simon, who held up his hands.

"Not my suggestion. Not a bad idea, though. And I will not have to cook for a mob on Wednesday, when I am already cooking for two mobs on Thursday," he said.

"Can't let New York snobbery beat us," Ylias said thoughtfully.

"Indeed no. I leave you to it," he said with a smile, and stepped aside as another well-wisher came up to pay their respects. Ylias tucked the business card into the pocket of her coat and turned to smile at her latest patron.

Although she did, a few minutes later, catch Simon out of the corner of her eye; he was seated at one of the tables along the wall, hand on the thigh of an elegant-looking (and seemingly somewhat younger) woman, speaking close in her ear. It was irritating for reasons she couldn't quite put her finger on.

She likely would have forgotten it -- the evening had been too gratifying to dwell on minor annoyances -- and she nearly had by the time the waitstaff began shooing the last of the partygoers out of the restaurant. They had already closed up the kitchen and the back-room staff were cleaning it; she had only gone outside to make sure there were no discarded glasses and no rubbish on the front step, and that the bins in the alley hadn't been overfilled.

The alley wasn't especially well-lit, but the Promenade always had good pavement lighting so that the tourists felt safe. In the light from the street she could see figures in the alley, and she was opening her mouth to tell them to move on when she realized who it was -- Simon LeFevre and the woman he'd been with earlier. She was leaning back against the smooth white stucco of the building next door, arms looped over his shoulders, and he was standing close, leaning into her, hands holding her face as they kissed. It was passionate and a little dirty for being in public, even as semi-concealed as they were. It also seemed to Ylias, who had seen (and been in) more than a few alleyway assignations in her time, a little desperate -- like it was more two people seeking out something missing than actually finding each other.

She pulled back from the alley, considering. She could let them know she'd seen them and kick them out, but she was already on rocky ground with LeFevre and he had, after all, brought some business her way. Besides, they weren't in her way or anyone else's, as far as she could tell, and while she wasn't averse to making things awkward when necessary, it wasn't necessary here. Let him make a fool of himself with young women if he wanted.

She didn't bother them, but she did grumble to herself as she sent off the staff and locked up, and spent the walk home consciously thinking of other things so it wouldn't stick in the memory.

***

As they left Plate&Press, full of good food and possibly slightly tipsy, Jes leaned against Michaelis's arm and said, "Holy shit."

He gave them an amused look. "Yes, the food was very good. Nice space, too. I can't remember the last time I had such a pleasant evening out."

"Well, yeah, but I meant the chef," they said. He glanced at them, frowning.

"The Lazaar fellow?"

"Lady, I think. Uncertain, actually. Butch, possibly. She/her but Simon called her Mr. Lazaar."

"I noticed her, but I didn't see anything particularly unusual. Why?"

"I love you to bits but you're hopeless," they said. "You really didn't think she was hot?"

"I don't form opinions about sex appeal, generally," he reminded them. "Present company excepted."

"Well, she is hot in a very specific way -- like you, actually, sort of masculine and chivalrous -- and she called me an ornament to her dining room. I may have had a little moment."

He laughed. "Oh dear, am I going to have to fight a chef for your favors?"

"No, it's just nice to know I still got it."

He kissed the side of their head, affectionate. "You're an ornament wherever you go, but I'll make a note to remind you of it more often. Seems she's making a stir -- Simon likes her also, I think. Sometime soon we're going to have to kick Gregory and Eddie out of the residence for an evening, and I think I'll recommend that place for dinner. Gregory loves Tunisian food and I think Eddie would find a lot to interest him."

"You just want to spend a whole evening cuddling babies," Jes said.

"Joan and the twins all require the benefit of my wisdom on a regular basis," he said. There was a wolf-whistle directed at them from somewhere over their heads; some young wag, out on the second-floor balcony of a small hotel, clearly getting an early start on Pride. She waved a pink-and-blue flag in their direction.

"You can't have him!" Jes called.

"I was whistling at you!" the girl called back.

"I'll take him," her friend offered from the chair next to her.

Michaelis chuckled. "Drink some water, young ladies, or you'll be in no condition for the parade this weekend," he called.

"Vodka's sixty percent water!" someone on another balcony shouted, and someone else yelled for everyone to keep it down, and the discussion went on without them.

"When I retired, I knew it was time, but I was sure I'd miss being king," he said, as they walked on. "I didn't think how nice it might be not to be king. Not really the done thing to exchange innuendo on the street at midnight when you're ruling the country."

"Something of a journey from there to here?" Jes asked.

"I suppose. You know we've always had a fairly vibrant Pride, just because of who we are as a country, but I wasn't always quite so...present for it. Life was busy, I left it to people with more investment than I had. Then Gregory came out..." he shrugged. "I had to rethink priorities. I had to decide whether to politely ignore it as an inconvenience or acknowledge that my son was facing this massive...weight, that I wasn't, and that I wasn't especially helping him to lift."

"But you did."

"Eventually. Miranda had to have a few sharp words with me first. Sometimes I think about what I might have missed if things had gone differently. Every June there's just...such joy." He tightened his hand in theirs.

"Miranda took it better, I guess?" Jes asked carefully. It was still a little fraught, sometimes, when he brought up his wife, but it seemed like when he did talk about her, he was better for it after.

"She understood more than I did. She'd dated girls at school."

Jes turned to him, wide-eyed. "Really."

"She never made a secret of it, but it wasn't much talked about then, and when you're married -- especially as young as we were -- you take on a sort of public sexlessness. Sometime I'll tell you that entire tale, but suffice to say she was able to reframe the situation for me." He was quiet for a while, then added, "I've sometimes asked myself what she would think of me finding someone new. But it's not just someone, it's you, and I keep thinking how much she'd have liked you."

"I'm flattered. I thought she was so cool and fashionable when I was a teenager."

"Not me?" he asked, mocking offense.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but the political leader of any country is almost always super boring to teens," they replied. He laughed.

"I'll take boring. Exciting is the enemy of good politics. Ah, and here's the turn for the lodge -- let me see if I can be less boring and make you forget about that chef."

Chapter Text

Ori hadn't been kidding about Pride.

Ylias had gotten used to the increased crowds and the noise at night, but once she actually opened the restaurant, it became apparent just how close Fons-Askaz was to bursting at the seams. They opened at eleven on Friday and she didn't stop moving until midnight; she considered just sleeping in the kitchen, but eventually dragged herself home and slept for a few hours before returning, predawn to beat the crowds. Saturday was much the same.

Sunday, the day of the parade, was different -- people mostly wanted to camp out at tables near the big open front windows and drink while they waited for the parade to pass, since the route would go directly past Plate&Press's front door. The food orders were manageable, but there came a point where she had to pull the bartender out of the weeds, and they eventually ran out of vodka. Standing in the kitchen, carefully watering down culinary neutral spirits by weight to get it from 96% to 40%, was harrowing, but as a vodka substitute it worked.

The parade was set to step off at two o'clock. About fifteen minutes before, she turned off the burners, set the ovens and pasta station to low, and signaled to the other chefs. They all took the towels off their shoulders or apron straps, shook themselves out, and followed her into the dining room.

"Friends and patrons," she announced in her loudest, most authoritative voice. Everyone looked up at her. "I am Chef Lazaar, owner of Plate&Press. As you all know, the parade is going to pass very soon -- "

She waited tolerantly until the cheers died down.

"And my staff wants to see it as much as all of you do," she continued. "So that everyone here at Plate&Press can enjoy it, from now until the parade finishes passing our front door, the kitchen and bar are officially closed. There is water available in pitchers at the back of the restaurant, and we will resume food service by three o'clock; if you need to pay your check and leave, please do so now. Otherwise please enjoy your drinks and the remainder of your food until we reopen."

The waitstaff and kitchen staff poured out onto the pavement, where there were already crowds; Ylias went back into the kitchen and then into the back alley, where she jumped up and grasped the ladder of the fire escape attached to the building, pulling it down. The building was only two stories and it didn't take long to climb to the roof, which was flat, bare, and ugly, but also afforded an excellent view. The floor above Plate&Press was some kind of accounting office, and they seemed dubious about allowing people to use their internal stairs for roof access, but she was hoping eventually to charm them into letting her open a bar on the roof. In the meantime, it was her domain, and both cool and relatively quiet, with an ideal view of the parade route.

She settled into a chair she'd hauled up earlier, put her feet up, and exhaled. She wouldn't mind having someone to watch the parade with, but otherwise this was perfect. Down below, her people were celebrating each other, and her country was showing off for everyone around -- we have always been here and we always will be; you can't shame us, you can't stop us, and we don't give a shit what you think.

When the parade did start to come near, the noise level rose noticeably, like a wave coming towards them. There were marching bands and parade floats, two separate phalanxes of motorcyclists, dance troops, people on horseback decked out like cowboys or fops; every trade union was there from the plumbers to the apiarists. A prize winning dairy cow covered in rainbow flowers strolled leisurely along with an honor guard carrying a banner that read CHEESE IS GAY CULTURE.

The Maritime Academy sailed a float shaped like a tall ship down the route, rainbow sails flapping, with Buck Haverd, the rock star, waving from the crow's nest. It was followed by the incredibly specific Shivadh Yeshiva Queer Jugglers' Corps, who were juggling as they marched.

Ylias leaned forward and whistled shrilly as the Royal Shivadh University float went past -- it was really just a large platform with a bunch of professors on it holding signs, but her mother was down there among them, holding the LESBIANS IN STEM sign and throwing bead necklaces with cheap test-tube pendants on them into the crowd. Her mother looked up, took aim, and slung a bead necklace at her like a bullet, everyone cheering when she caught it.

Finally came the royal family, in a pair of open-topped cars -- first the king emeritus with Ser Deimos, the latter in a vivid rainbow-striped suit with their normally ice-white hair dyed in the colors of the nonbinary flag, yellow-white-purple-black. The old king was less colorfully dressed, but Ylias tilted her head, interested -- his suit was black with broad dove-grey stripes, a purple waistcoat and tie, and a white shirt underneath. Perhaps he was riding in the parade as king, as he had in the past, and the suit was a coincidence, but...well, some people figured out who they were a little later than others. Good for him, in any case.

Following their car was the kings' car, a long open limo draped in rainbow bunting. The king was in his usual black-and-gold, but his jacket was open over an iridescent rainbow net shirt underneath, and he was covered head-to-toe in glitter. His husband, draped in a massive bi pride flag over what looked like a tank top and cargo shorts, was wearing a top hat with the word QUEEN on it in glittering silver letters.

They were sitting on slightly-raised seats, but just behind them was a girl sitting on the back ridge of the limo, sandwiched between their shoulders. She was also in the royal black-and-gold, and furiously waving with both hands. Ylias recognized her as the blur she'd encountered at the palace -- their newly-adopted daughter, Princeps Ioanna, who liked to run. Next to them she looked tiny, and like she might vibrate out of her seat with excitement. She had a number of bead necklaces around her neck and bracelets on her wrists.

Ylias let out another shrill whistle, and saw that the princeps, at least, heard it; she looked up and around, then spotted Ylias on the roof. Ylias gathered up the bead necklace and lofted it underarm into the air. The girl followed it with her eyes, reached out, and caught it just before it would have hit the king in the shoulder. He looked at his daughter, startled, and laughed when she showed it to him. Princeps Ioanna waved it at Ylias and then, just before the car went past, hung it around her neck with the others. Ylias smiled, not immune to the Shivadh love of their royals.

She gave herself five minutes after the parade passed to come down from the excitement. Then she climbed back down the fire escape, pushed the ladder up into position, and went into the kitchen to start cooking again. Two minutes later, the waitstaff started putting in orders, and the kitchen staff trooped back in reluctantly -- but they did set about their work with speed, and spent the rest of the afternoon between yelling orders at each other dissecting the parade, rating the hotness of cowboys vs. bikers, and approving the king's decision to wear the royal uniform and show off his abs at the same time.

***

Ah, June is upon us once again.

It takes time to learn the cycle of a year in any place, but particularly in one so bounded by seasons as Fons-Askaz, our capitol. I arrived in the spring, and had been warned by Queen Miranda (of blessed memory) that the tourist season was fast approaching. It bothered me very little, since at first I spent much of my time in the palace, and when I went into town it was to procure supplies. There are many fine farmer's markets for tourists in the summer, but the market for those who serve the tourists -- you must get up very early in the morning. I had noticed crowds, but I had after all been warned.

I had noticed too that there were many -- I did not have so many words for it at the time, but men who affected feminine ways, women who walked and spoke like men, some women who did not seem to have been born that way -- and so many men who said husband, women who said wife. I was familiar with such matters, being French and having lived in Las Vegas when I was training, but not overly so. It seemed impolite to inquire and not my affair, so I simply attributed it to some inscrutable part of Shivadh culture.

Then came June, when I had been there only two months, and it became evident that this was particular. Now is not the time to discuss the why and how; for this you may consult His Grace's excellent podcast on the history of Askazer-Shivadlakia and how it came to have such open arms. It is enough to say that the Shivadh have a unique attitude of welcome. Still, the royal family did not observe any particular extra celebration of Pride, unless the king and queen were invited to appear; then of course they would, and they occasionally hosted a gala when appropriate. For many years, this was all.

Until His Highness Prince Gregory came out publicly when he was twenty-two, in May, while he was at university in London. I well remember the mad scramble in town to ensure he received a proper celebration that June. He was not yet crown prince, not having been elected, but even then many of us knew it was likely he would stand for high office some day.

Queen Miranda wished to hold a special gala that year, a coming-out ball for her son, and I was requested to create a menu for the dinner, knowing as I did all of the prince's favorite foods. Many of his fashionable friends from school in Zurich, Paris, and London would be in attendance, and we should also show off Shivadh cuisine to exceptional effect.

His Majesty is, like his father, fond of the outdoors and of rustic, hearty food; we thus decided for his coming-out that there was to be a sit-down dinner, and at the ball after we would serve punch and light sweets.

On its own, to produce a feast and a ball is a fearsome feat; to produce a parade and festival, when half of Europe seems to arrive in our little capitol to celebrate with us, requires the cooperation of many. I am still learning how much effort goes into these things, and how many people must work together not just grudgingly but enthusiastically to ensure the thing is done well. Many partnerships are forged in such efforts, and we must rely upon one another. Which I am told is in the spirit of Pride.

Therefore I will now share with you the recipes for the menu for Prince Gregory's Coming-Out Feast, and treats for the Prince's Ball. I direct your attention in particular to the technique for marinated tofu which is unusual and not widely-known before now.

Appetizers:
Askazer "Rainbow" Twist-Bread
Arancini with multicolored filling (gluten-free)
Salad:
Orange-Almond Salad with Sweet and Spicy Dressing
Mains:
Traditional Shivadh Spiced-Beef Pie in Cocottes
Spiced Gemelli Pasta with Marinated Tofu in Cream Sauce (including vegan and gluten-free variants)

For The Ball:
(Including non-alcoholic versions for all recipes)
Pomegranate-Date Punch
Orange Cooler
Fizzy Vodka Lemonade
Green Tea Sour
Blueberry Cordial
Raspberry Gin Rickey

Sweets:
Chocolate-Dipped Tricolor
Earl Grey Shortbread
Welsh Cakes with Rainbow Sprinkles
Chocolate Date Balls (Gluten Free)
Lemon Meringues (Gluten Free; Vegan Variant)

***

It had been a good idea to open on parade weekend, Ylias knew; she got a ton of business, and a lot of people had tagged Plate&Press on Photogram when posting Pride Selfies from her dining room. The buzz would, overall, be a good thing, but it was also stressful in the short term.

Monday after the parade was a very different crowd -- every patron who came in from ten in the morning until four in the afternoon, it seemed like, was hung over. They appreciated the food, but moreso they appreciated the relative quiet, and the big open windows that allowed a cool breeze in. Many were tourists who were leaving that day -- some even had rolling suitcases with them. The train station was nearby and there were regular trains going both west to Nice and east to Ventimiglia, where they could connect to airports or trains home.

She hadn't counted on the fact that there was a turnover on Mondays -- the previous week's guests leaving only for the coming week's guests to arrive, guesthouses emptying out only to fill up again. And everyone who had missed the parade but who still wanted the carnival atmosphere of Fons-Askaz in June had been watching Photogram, and had seen the tags.

"I have good news and bad news," said Martina, her front-of-house manager, on Tuesday morning before opening.

"Is the good news better than this glorious fish I got for the dinner menu?" Ylias asked, holding up a beautiful whole hake for her to admire. Martina eyed it skeptically.

"Well, so, you are fully booked with reservations today," she said. "We kept three tables for walk-ins like you said, and there's the bar of course, but every other table is booked at every seating time available from now through close."

"What's the bad news?"

Martina gestured at the computer. "You are fully booked. On our second week open."

"Ah," Ylias agreed. "High expectations, and anyone booking me for today is the kind of person who gets...a little particular, I'm guessing."

"I would call them high-strung, yes."

"I'm afraid that's more your problem than mine, as long as I keep the food coming. You feel confident you can handle it?"

"Mostly. I'm a lover, not a fighter, so if you hear yelling, you might come see if anyone needs to be put in a wrestling hold," she said.

"I could use the workout. Also, Bill looks like he'd blow over in a strong wind but he's wiry as hell and boxes at my gym, so if he charges in from behind the bar, let him, he knows what he's doing."

"Good to know. Do we have anyone else with hidden depths?"

"Not that I'm aware of but if I think of anything, I'll make a note," Ylias said. "Long day, Martina."

"A few of those in your future, I think," she said, and gave Ylias a dimpled smile as she went off to touch up her makeup before opening.

True to Martina's prediction, Tuesday was full of demanding tourists, and on top of that Ylias was prepping for the Deimos party on Wednesday. Deimos had agreed to her fairly high price point without the expected haggling, and had given her carte blanche on food as long as there were vegetarian options, but she wanted to exceed expectations. Knowing there would be Americans from New York there, who had already expressed doubt about Shivadh restaurants, felt like a challenge. And of course she had lunch seatings on Wednesday before the party, and then the party itself. By the time she dragged herself home on Wednesday night (realistically, Thursday morning) she was questioning why on earth she had ever wanted to open a restaurant in the first place.

But when she let herself into the kitchen at home, it smelled like garlic and rosemary, and was warm enough that the oven must have been on recently. Her mother was sitting at the table, squinting at a laptop.

"Did you stay up?" Ylias asked, appalled.

"Good evening, Maman," her mother said. Ylias rolled her eyes. "No, I'm too old for that nonsense. I went to bed earlier but set an alarm. I thought you might like something fortifying when you got in."

"You wanted to hear how the party went, you mean, and are bribing me," Ylias said, going to the stove, where her mother's old enameled cast-iron roasting pot was radiating heat.

"You want to tell me, and I don't mind hearing," her mother said, as Ylias used a tea towel to lift the slightly-cocked lid. Inside was a gorgeous whole roast chicken, resting on a bed of crisp potatoes gleaming with fat. She didn't even bother carving it, just sliced off a thick wedge of breast and tore one of the thighs away, scooping potatoes out with the knife and carrying it all in a shallow bowl to the table. Her mother set the laptop aside.

"I think it went well -- Ser Deimos seemed pleased, anyway, and added a tip to the bill, which wasn't anticipated," Ylias said.

"I hear they spent a lot of time in America, people always tip over there," Maman replied.

"True. It wasn't the crowd I expected, I have to say."

"How so?"

Ylias considered this as she chewed. "Well, I suppose given they're involved with the king emeritus, I expected the guests to be, I don't know. High society. Not stuffy, exactly, but I expected any dinner party hosted by the former king and his partner to be mostly upper crust."

"I don't think the royals are snobs, though, are they? King Gregory married a man who used to be known mostly for wearing loud shirts."

Ylias laughed. "Good point."

"Did the kings attend?"

"No -- sort of a relief really. Ser Deimos said they can't be away from home too long yet, their little ones are still very small. But it was His Grace and Ser Deimos, and the other fellow from the podcast Ser Deimos does -- the American -- and his husband. Then Prince Noah of course, and two of his friends, and the rest were all guests in from America. Ser Deimos's people."

"What were they like?"

"That's what's so unexpected. I suppose it shouldn't have been. A lot of drag queens, all done up very elegantly -- sequins and glitter, but on cocktail dresses and updos. Elegant camp," Ylias said. Maman nodded approvingly. "Otherwise, a garden of unnatural hair colors, lots of piercings and ink. Very hip."

"Sounds like the crowd I ran with when I was young," Maman replied nostalgically. "Although back then piercing wasn't really the thing yet. Well, with some exceptions, but it's not like now. You had to be a little outrageous to indulge. Nice people, though?"

"Nice in that American way, you know. Very familiar, informal. Of course everyone was happy -- Prince Noah's the man of the hour and they all seemed proprietary about him. He gave a good speech, too. Funny kid. Gave a lot of credit to his parent, then talked about how he used to think "dad" was a collective term for all the people who weren't your birth parent but raised you anyway, and he was happy to have both a collective and a specific Dad at the party. I think he meant the king emeritus. He calls his parent Boss."

"Hah! I like that," Maman said. "Did that chef show up?"

"Who, LeFevre? No, why would he?"

"Seemed to be part of the family."

"Well, perhaps, but I'm sure he's busy, he's catering the graduation party." Ylias took another bite of chicken, then consciously slowed her eating -- her mother's roast chicken was too good to rush through, and now that she wasn't in the kitchen for at least a couple of hours, she didn't need to hurry everything. Maman watched her, not quite impassive but not giving away her thoughts, either.

"You're tired," she said.

"Well, yeah. Comes with opening the restaurant. I've been tireder," Ylias replied, swallowing.

"Perhaps, but as you keep telling me, age requires patience," Maman said. "Don't run yourself ragged."

"No, I won't. Things will settle down. And putting up with a lot of bustle now will pay off later. I'm building repeat business -- even if it's not regulars, like it's all tourists, they'll remember the cute little Tunisian bistro with the literary theme, and they'll come back next year. Now's when everyone makes their money, you know. We'll be lucky to break even most weeks, once the tourists go home."

"Perhaps, but money's no good to you if you're bedridden," Maman replied.

"I'm not going to take to my bed like a Romantic poet," Ylias said, amused.

"My dear, remember that there may come a time when your body won't give you a choice. I know you're strong, but please remember you're also smart."

"I am, but I'm also remembering I'm head chef and they can't do a lot without me. Once June is over I'll start closing on Mondays, that'll help."

Maman looked amused. Ylias sighed.

"What?" she asked.

"You're just such a sprinter," her mother said. "Always betting on the future to pay off the investments you're making now. It's not a bad thing. If you hadn't worked so hard earlier, you wouldn't be your own boss, and I'm very proud of you. Just remember that the future eventually arrives, and you should enjoy it when it does. You've got your restaurant at last -- I would hate to see you unable to enjoy it because you're worried about what'll happen six months from now."

It was irritating to hear, but mostly because it was true, so she just sighed and nodded.

"I promise, Maman, once we get our feet under us and get through tourist season, things will be slower. After Reclamation Day, I'll be able to relax. Maybe even take a break -- I've got some promising young chefs in the kitchen and if they want to try running it for a week, well, a week won't burn everything to the ground."

"I don't think you'd know what to do with a week's vacation if you had one," Maman said.

"Sure. I'd sit here in this kitchen and make you cook every meal for me."

"Oho! Nice try. Once tourist season is over, the University will start up, and you'll be lucky to see me."

"Ten percent discount on the check for professors," Ylias said.

"For your own mother it had better be at least fifteen," Maman replied, closing the laptop and standing. "And now that I've seen you and fed you, I'm going back to bed. Finish your meal and get some sleep," she said, kissing Ylias on the cheek as she passed. "And try to exist in the moment once in a while!" she called from the hallway, heading for her bedroom.

Ylias rolled her eyes again, but she did concentrate on enjoying the rest of her meal. When she went to bed herself, sleep came fairly easily.

***

The Maritime Academy, the newest school in Askazer-Shivadlakia and one designed primarily for unorthodox children, usually tried to hold its graduation in June, as close to the Pride parade as possible, so that family coming in from elsewhere could attend both. There was a high concentration of queer students at the school, and some came to Maritime from quite far away, commuting on the train or boarding with families in town, since both Fons-Askaz and Maritime tended to be friendlier to such students than their local schools.

Graduation was Thursday, the week after the parade, and for many of the students would last well into Friday. Particularly this year, since Prince Noah was throwing a reception for all the students in his year and their families, as well as various local dignitaries. It wouldn't be the most interesting party, because it was in large part political, but his friends would be there, and most of the other students had decided to at least make an appearance.

Noah's day began even earlier than his comrades. There was the welcome breakfast for politicians and VIPs, hosted with Gregory at the palace, then a livestreamed podcast recording with Ephraim and some of his school friends before graduation. Then graduation, and a solemn final sail where the junior Dychev crew took the graduating students out of the harbor to sail back in again as adults. Then preparation for the party, the party itself in the ballroom of the Fishing Lodge, and...the afterparty that his parents did not, officially, know about.

"Oh, we know he's going down to the beach," Jes had said to Gregory, when he asked about post-party concerns. "We aren't expecting him back at any set time -- I'm guessing he won't be home until morning."

"Are you okay with that?" Gregory asked, frowning.

"I need to be. Soon he's leaving for gap year and next year Santa Cruz -- I stopped giving him a curfew last year, but it's past time for me to start learning to let go in earnest. And before we moved here he sometimes had...issues with authority, so showing him now that I trust him, because I know he's done a lot of growth, I think that's important."

"Besides, he's a smart young man," Michaelis said. "He makes good decisions, on the whole. He won't let anyone get hurt if he can help it."

"And Ephraim's going," Jes said.

"And Ephraim is going," Michaelis agreed, smiling. "He'll keep an eye on everyone. Noah won't take risks with him around."

Although once Noah's graduation reception was in full swing, and once he'd done his own duty as host, Michaelis did step away from the party briefly and into the kitchen of the fishing lodge, where Simon was supervising the catering.

"Not too busy, is it?" he asked, leaning on the counter, staying out of the way.

"No, not now," Simon agreed. "The food is all out, or prepared."

"Big hit, too. The curried chicken in particular. Eddie's over the moon."

"He possesses a superior judgment," Simon said with a smile.

"There's something compelling about the man -- he's spent the entire reception somehow finding people who turned up their nose at the food and subtly strongarming them into trying it."

"Enthusiasm," Simon said, taking a knob of ginger out of the ancient lodge refrigerator. "Passion is contagious. I saw that when he first came here. Perhaps I was a little subject to it."

"Oh?"

"Well, when one has fed a family of singular tastes for decades," Simon said, setting out a few prep bowls, "one does develop habits. I was uncertain to have him in my kitchen, even knowing he was a true chef, but it was good for us both. I remembered how to experiment, he learned a few traditions."

"True. I wouldn't have approved of a salad-themed reception, a few years ago."

Simon shot him a sidelong look as he grated the ginger. While Michaelis permitted a lot of informality among the staff, many of them knew he had sore points it was best not to tease him on.

"Go ahead," he said, in a mood to be expansive.

"Being bold," Simon said, "if Eddie had not come, would you be celebrating a loved one's triumph tonight?"

Which did land, it was true, directly in a place he had no armor, but even those weren't as sensitive as they had been, once. If Eddie hadn't burst into their lives, would he have reached out to Jes? Even that first tentative meeting?

"No," he admitted. "Probably not. If I hadn't seen how good he was for Gregory, I wouldn't have even known to want such a thing for myself anymore."

"So. I know there is a love in this country of the intermingling of noble and common," Simon told him. "Good fortune when that balance is reset, perhaps."

"Yes, perhaps," Michaelis agreed. "In any case, job well done. How much longer will you need to stick around? You should have breakfast off tomorrow at least if you're staying until the end."

"Oh, no. Only another hour, to ensure there are no disasters or shortages. Even now..." he shrugged, re-wrapping the ginger. "Not much more for me to do."

"Mm. Except for the lemonade," Michaelis said, indicating a bag of lemons on the counter, and a couple of empty jugs nearby. Simon hesitated.

"Well, one likes a refreshing drink at the end of the night," he said after a moment.

"That's a lot of ginger you have there," Michaelis continued.

"Garnish. Like for sushi?"

Michaelis crossed his arms. "If I look around this kitchen, am I going to find a big box of rosemary sables?"

Simon turned to him. "I will not tattle on His Highness," he said loftily. "I did not tattle on His Majesty when he was a prince, or on His Grace Gerald or Lady Alanna, or ever on you, if memory serves."

Michaelis broke, and felt himself grin through the stern mask he'd tried to put on. "Good man, Simon. Thank you for keeping our secrets. Hangover cures for the graduates?"

"Prince Noah's request," Simon said, looking relieved.

"So that's where two of the six Davzda bottles have gone, probably?"

"Two whole bottles?" Simon asked, looking aghast.

"I assume that's two for the entire party, not for Noah personally. He knows better," Michaelis said. "And in any case I'm not planning to tell him I know -- if I wanted to stop him I would have when I found the bottles missing. He tell you anything about his plans?"

"Not much. A party on the beach. I recommended liquor and beer pairings to go with the lemonade."

"Of course you did."

"Along with the lemonade and the sables I told him I would provide water," Simon continued. "I warned him that indulgence is punished most in those with no foresight."

"And he's heard enough from me about the perils of Davzda. And as Jes has said, we need to let him be his own person, make his own mistakes," Michaelis said, sighing a little. "Like we did with Gregory and his cousins."

"Not easy," Simon said sympathetically.

"No. But I didn't want to be a father because I thought it would be. And the others turned out reasonably well," he added with a smile. "I'll leave you to it. Don't tell him I asked, eh?"

"No, of course," Simon replied, and turned to the task of juicing the lemons as Michaelis returned to the party.

Chapter Text

The next Reclamation Day Planning Committee meeting was on Friday afternoon, the day after Noah's reception, and Simon was kept busy most of the day -- he had staff to wash dishes for him but there were several loads of them to supervise after the reception, and he had his usual meal preparation for the family, plus he had to take stock of the scant leftovers and see what might be done with them. And he was going to have to have a word with the waitstaff about diligence.

"I'm sure they didn't mean to do it," Hugo said, as Simon studied the leftovers arrayed in front of him with narrowed eyes.

"Of course they didn't mean to," Simon replied, "but the point is they did do it. A loaf of bread left out to go stale which now can only be used for crumb, three broken glasses because the dirty dishes were carelessly packed -- glass all over the dishes, endangering the dish-washers -- and also they left an entire pan of the curried chicken salad, which was the toast of the reception, in the palace kitchen fridge."

"You made eight pans of the stuff, Simon."

"Yes, and only seven of them were served, when people were asking if there was more! I'm not going to fire anyone, Hugo, don't give me those big eyes," he said, because Hugo, who didn't truly like most people, did have a streak of empathy a mile wide regardless. Just because he didn't want to talk to them didn't mean he wanted them to suffer, he'd often said. "We will just have to have some kind of discussion of diligence and attention to detail. If the junior servers can't be trusted, then the managers must check their work until they can. If the managers cannot supervise sufficiently then they must be dealt with. A stern talking-to will suffice for now."

"What will you do with the extra?"

"The family likes it, but I hesitate to serve this much of it so soon after the reception. I think..." Simon considered matters, checking his watch. "The planning committee meeting is at two. I was intending on a light tea -- some scones and smoked salmon, and I have madeleines cooling now. Instead of the salmon -- yes," he continued, going to the pantry and scooping rice from one of the bins into a bowl. "Scones, clotted cream, jam, but also cold chicken salad to go with the scones, and warm chicken salad with some roast potatoes, in chafing dishes. Besides, I'm proud of this dish, I'd like to know what the committee thinks."

"And only tea?" Hugo asked.

Simon kept a straight face. "Oh no, coffee too."

"I could pair a wine," Hugo said, grinning. "A dry muscat, or a chardonnay -- "

"No good comes of alcohol served to a committee," Simon told him. "Ever think of expanding into teas? You could be the first master tea sommelier in Askazer-Shivadlakia."

"Good point," Hugo said, surprising him, and then, "How hard can it be, pairing hot water with food? Seems like it goes with everything -- "

Simon flicked a few grains of rice at him, laughing. "Teas have complicated flavor profiles!"

"Sure. Call me when they're so complicated they need fermentation," Hugo replied.

"Go away now, I have work ahead of me here. I'll see you after dinner."

Hugo nodded and left, dusting rice out of his collar, and Simon rinsed the rice and set it to cook before sweeping up the stray grains. He scooped cold chicken salad into a serving bowl, then more into a chafing dish set in the oven to warm gently while the rice cooked.

People began trickling in just as he was putting the chafing dishes in their little electric warmers; the scones were already on the table with their fixings, and Sola helped herself to some as Simon poured them both tea from the carafe marked Darjeeling.

"Is this your curried chicken salad?" she asked, spooning some of it onto a split scone.

"Yes -- a new recipe -- " he began.

"I know! I heard all about it," she said. He turned to her, frowning. "My sister took her daughter to Prince Noah's reception last night. She raved about it, said it was a huge hit."

"The chicken salad?" Ori asked, looking up from where he'd been buried in a cup of tea that seemed like it was all that was keeping him afloat.

"Do you want some?" Sola asked.

"Oh, no, I'll have some of yours," Ori said. Sola gave Simon a long-suffering look and put a second scoop on her plate.

It seemed everyone was aware of the chicken salad -- either from friends-and-family who had been in attendance or from students posting their "plates" to Photogram. Simon tried to stay humble, as a chef, but he did allow himself to bask a little as the other committee members complimented it.

Which Ylias, of course, immediately punctured.

"It's very good," she said, tasting a spoonful of the warm curried chicken thoughtfully, then sipping a little tea and trying the cold. "I can think of improvements, but for a new recipe -- "

"Ylias," Ori said disapprovingly. She raised her eyebrows at him.

"I'm not saying it's bad! I'm just saying, I could do better," she said, giving Simon a grin.

"Yes, but have you?" Simon asked, snorting.

"I wasn't aware the challenge was on the table -- "

"Before you two can start a civil war," Sola said, "why don't we have the meeting we're all here for?"

"Fair," Simon said, seating himself and opening his notebook. He let Ori run through the next-steps checklist from the previous meeting, sitting patiently (if a little irritably) through the sometimes circular debates any event committee could get mired in, and got himself a cup of tea just before the discussion turned to the food.

"Simon, Ylias, you haven't murdered each other yet so I assume things are going smoothly?" Ori asked.

"More or less," Simon said.

"I never murder before the third date," Ylias added.

"We do have some questions for the committee, though," Simon continued. "Food stalls -- I am to arrange for a health inspector to prevent any issues of spoilage, but if we wish to change the criteria from last year, I want the committee's support. I had thought any restaurant with a recent strike against them from Sanitation..."

"How recent?" someone asked, and they were off. Simon more or less let the discussion go on around him, only stepping in to guide it back once or twice when it was seriously derailing; when he had still been learning English he had learned the value of letting people talk amongst themselves, which not only saved one's energy for important battles but often got them, sooner or later, to agree to his way of thinking. The committee, mostly on its own, agreed that anyone applying to a food stall had to show that their last health inspection had a grade above ninety. All meat should be cooked to above rare, anything liable to spoil should be kept in proper refrigeration or rotated out frequently, servers to wear and frequently change their gloves. And all food stalls must present a menu for approval once their application was passed through.

"We sometimes have people who take a stall and then flake out -- I think having them submit menus ahead of time might weed out the slackers," Ori said, making a note on his tablet. "Anything else?"

Simon nodded to Ylias.

"We were wondering what peoples' thoughts were on the theme for the cooking competition," she said. "I took a look at past years, so that we won't choose any of those. We thought maybe something King Theophile might have cooked but there's some...concerns about the popularity of the Trash Tower."

There was a moment of silence as people considered that, nodding agreement.

"I did make a list of suggestions, but I wanted to take soundings first," Ylias continued.

"Well," Sola said thoughtfully, "Why not make it personal?"

"How so?" Ylias asked.

"I mean, you did say you thought you could make a better curried chicken salad than Simon," she continued.

"Sola," Ori said warningly.

"What? The whole town's talking about Simon's, everyone wants to try it. If we announce in the next week or two that the Reclamation Day cooking competition is going to be curried chicken salad, you'll snag the people who were already planning on trying to clone his recipe, plus people will be excited to get to try his."

"Oh, I had not thought to enter -- " Simon began, but the rest of the committee was making approving noises that more or less drowned him out. He looked imploringly at Ylias.

"I think that's a fantastic idea," she said, grinning at him. "I mean, the entries are anonymized anyway, so it'll be a real competition that way. You can make me put my money where my mouth is, and if I don't beat you, I'll concede like a gentleman."

Simon was not a vengeance-minded man, precisely, but the idea of being able to gently torment Ylias for a few weeks over a point of culinary pride was tempting. He hesitated, which doomed him.

"So, done. The cooking competition's theme this year will be curried chicken salad," Ori said. "Ylias, get me a little paragraph about that and I'll put it on all the social things this week."

"By which he means our niece will put it on all the socials," Sola said.

"Why keep a cat and chase mice yourself?" Ori asked.

The meeting ended not long after, and Ylias -- perhaps sensing Simon's mood -- slipped away while he was carrying dishes into the kitchen. She had, very neatly, both served to publicize his triumph and roped him into participating in the cooking competition, which he hadn't done in a long time. On the other hand, she was new to Fons-Askaz, while Ori and Sola had lived there longer than even Simon had, so really they were more to blame for going along with it. He would at some point have to devise a suitable trick to play on them, but Simon was a patient man, and revenge could wait until after the festival.

He would, clearly, have to continue working on the recipe -- it was good, but Ylias was right that it could yet be better. He made a few notes, then got on with the afternoon's work.

He was just starting on a sauteed seaweed salad for dinner when Noah and Ephraim slunk into the kitchen, carrying two large cardboard cartons. Noah looked a little pale but otherwise all right, and Ephraim, while always shy, seemed cheerful.

"The lemonade and sables worked, eh?" he asked Noah.

"Do you know how hard it is to eat a rosemary cookie when you're already hung over?" Noah asked. "I've never been so relieved in my life that it worked. The second all the sugar hits your stomach is -- "

"Apocalyptic," Ephraim supplied.

"But like a minute later..." Noah waggled his fingers. "Phew. I felt so much better. Thank you, Simon. I owe you."

"Ah, bring me back something interesting from Aotearoa," Simon told him, smiling. Noah began unpacking the jugs from the lemonade and water, along with some glasses and reusable containers. "What is this? These aren't the palace's," he said, studying one of the glasses.

"It's all the stuff that was left behind at the beach when we did cleanup," Noah said. "I figure we can run it through the big industrial dishwasher here, and if we can't find the owners, the Fishing Lodge will get some new tableware."

Simon smiled at the boy. "Very good of you to tidy after yourself. And this?" he asked, gesturing at the box Ephraim was setting on the prep counter. Ephraim opened the flaps and began unpacking bottle after bottle -- some empty, but most with some remaining liquid in them. It included two gray-green Davzda bottles, now empty except for soggy mushroom pieces in the bottoms.

"All the leftover booze and the empties. The alcohol's all yours; anything you don't want, dump it and I'll recycle the bottles along with the other empties," Noah said. Ephraim produced an entire six pack of extremely cheap Shivadh beer. "Someone's gonna be mad they forgot that."

Simon pulled one of the beers out of its cardboard carrier and studied it, turning to show him the label. "Not as mad as they would be if they drank it. I believe the English for this is 'piss'."

"Beer bread?" Noah suggested, and Ephraim looked hopeful.

"Too much hops. Mm, although, a strong flavor, Eddie may have use for it. Expensive beer is wasted on bratwurst," Simon admitted.

"Kosher brats and grilled corn on the beach," Noah said to Ephraim, who beamed at the idea. "Okay. We're here for brunch tomorrow morning, I'll get anything you don't want then. Just throw whatever it is in one of the boxes and I'll come grab it?"

"Good, yes," Simon said. Among the other bottles was something clearly stolen from a parent's liquor cabinet -- nearly half a bottle of extremely good smoky scotch that the children couldn't have known the value of. He was paid a good salary and in some ways service could be its own reward, but that scotch was compensation enough for both preparing the hangover cure and risking discovery to do so. Ah, and some nicer beer that the king would appreciate --

"The lemonade was really good," Ephraim said, visibly surprising Noah as well as Simon. He was a very quiet young man, at least around most people, and a sentence longer than two or three words, especially without someone else speaking to him first, was rare. Simon tried not to react too much, and was rewarded with a further sentence: "I didn't drink at the party, but I tried some."

"Thank you," Simon said with a smile. "I spent many years refining it."

"You could sell it. They'd like it in California."

Simon nodded. "I have never wanted to sell such a thing; commerce seems...stressful. But you may have the recipe. And if some day I wish to, I will speak first to a Rambler."

That got a grin from Ephraim.

"And now I must make dinner, so you must go make trouble elsewhere. Off with you," Simon said, waving them away. They'd been gone about two minutes when Eddie arrived.

"Hey, chef, I need to steal some fruit for -- oh, shit, is that Blue Dragon lager?" he asked, picking up the cheap brew. "This is so awful. It's great for brats, though."

"Take it -- it was given to me but I set it aside for you," Simon told him, and left Eddie to raid his fruit stash and abscond with the beer.

***

Reclamation Day: Eight Weeks To Go!

This Week:
Cooking Competition; Retail Ffair and Arts Mall Applications; Pottery Sales Directory Update

The Reclamation Day Planning Commission has announced the theme of this year's cooking competition: Curried Chicken Salad!

Come challenge royal chef Simon LeFevre for the crown - bring your best twist on the dish and see how you measure up to your friends, your neighbors, and even professional chefs. Can you take home the prize for spicy, sweet, creamy chicken salad? Will you serve it over rice, in a tea sandwich, or in some more exotic format? Do you prefer sultanas, dried fruit, or no fruit at all? How hot is too hot?

Remember, in addition to bragging rights, the winner will receive a grand prize of five hundred saorh in credit good at any shop on the Promenade!

For Vendors: Shopper's Ffair and Arts Mall Applications Now Available

Non-food retail vendors can now apply for a stall in the Shopper's Ffair; artisans and handcrafters can also apply for stalls in the Arts Mall...

***

Ylias didn't generally expect visitors to Plate&Press's kitchen, especially early in the day, well before opening. Still, chefs and food-service workers in Fons-Askaz were like they were everywhere -- they knew the best time to pay a social call, or a business visit for that matter, was when the kitchen wasn't open, preferably before prep began or after closing. So she wasn't entirely shocked to be butchering succulent whole chickens for the day's menu when there was a knock on the open door from the alley and Simon LeFevre put his head inside.

"Come in," she called, still working at the chicken. "If you're here to cause trouble, grab a knife and make yourself useful while you do."

"Yet to be seen," he said, coming in and leaning on one of the prep counters, messenger bag on his back and everpresent notebook in one hand. "Have you seen your email recently?"

"I try not to, whenever possible," she said with a grin, tossing another pair of legs into the large bucket of marinade on the counter. "Why?"

"The Reclamation Day weekly update went out. The one you were going to do a little paragraph for?" he said.

Ylias glanced at him, pressed her lips together, and pressed her wrist to her mouth, trying to hide her smile. He pointed at her (rude) and scowled.

"You DID write it," he accused.

"Ah, come on, M'seur LeChevre," she said, giving up and laughing. "Don't you like it? I think you come across very well."

"Come challenge royal chef Simon LeFevre for the crown," he read from his phone, then looked up at her darkly. "You make it sound as if I issued the challenge."

"It'll be good for the festival, bring in a lot of interest," she said. "People like to challenge the gods."

"Well, thank you," he said drily, "but I'd prefer not to be center stage."

"Too late now. Or are you worried you'll lose?"

"I'm above such things," he said loftily, then grinned at her. "Fine. I don't like it but I understand. Still, if we write about this again..."

"Maybe less of that?"

He nodded.

"Well, I admit I wanted to tweak you a little," she said, pulling another chicken over and starting on it. "But you should be used to that by now. It's the Shivadh in me."

"You are still planning to enter, yes?" he asked.

"Sure. Have to put my money where my mouth is."

"Then I suppose we will see," he said, nose in the air. She set the knife down and turned to him, amused.

"Do you think it's going to be you or me?" she asked.

"I think two professional chefs of talent are likely to fight for top, yes," he answered. "It's likely you or I will win."

"What about a bet?" she asked. "You win, I promise never to tease you again. I will take you utterly and completely seriously. And if I win, you owe me a year's worth of cheese."

He narrowed his eyes. "I choose the cheese."

"Fair."

"So be it." He licked a finger and opened his notebook, turning to a clean page and writing in it. When he held it out to her it was in French; he'd outlined the bet briefly and signed it with a flourish. She took the pen from him and signed it as well. He took the book back and flicked back a few pages, studying some notes.

"I have nothing else we need to discuss -- do you?" he asked.

"For the festival? No, can't think of anything. Swing by next week and I might have a name for you for a judge. I have a feeling we won't be doing much until about a week before and then life'll get hectic very quickly."

"Likely," he agreed. "But I will look in next week." He peered at the bucket of marinade. "Is that yuzu?" he asked, sniffing it delicately.

"Good nose. I like it instead of orange juice."

"Kebabs?"

"No -- it's a stewed chicken dish. Although I'll be saving some out to test-recipe my first shot at the chicken salad." She picked up the knife and pointed it at him. "And no, that won't be the secret to my success."

"I wouldn't sully the bet by trying espionage," he said.

"Really? I would. All's fair in love and war, et cetera," she said.

"If you declare it a war in the next newsletter, I can't be held responsible for my actions," he said, tucking the notebook away.

"Well, I'm not going to call it a Chicken Salad Love-In," she said. "I promise, no more tweaking in the newsletter."

"A truce for now, then." He gave her a bow, smiling. "I leave you to it. If you need advice -- "

She boomed out a laugh, fetching up a yuzu rind from nearby and threatening him with it. He ducked and darted out the door, still laughing himself.

It wasn't a bad idea, actually, adding a bit of yuzu into the chicken salad, but she suspected it might cause the sauce to break. Still, she made a mental note to see if dried citrus other than apricot would enhance the dish. If she was going to earn her year's worth of cheese, she'd have to really knock the socks off the judges.

***

Hugo was waiting for Simon in the kitchen when he returned from his early-morning grocery pickup; on Wednesdays he generally got the car for that reason, and Hugo tended to rise later and ride his bicycle in, then meet him to receive any wine he'd ordered.

"Was I supposed to stop at Fine's?" Simon asked, reaching into the back of the car to pull out a box of beautiful plump tomatoes.

"No, I didn't put in an order," Hugo said, leaning into the car to grab the next carton, some choice cuts of beef, and the separate box of eggs and dairy. "I wanted to see about pilfering your pantry."

"Oh?"

"His Majesty wants to do a tasting of some of the cellar wine from the lodge," Hugo said. "Small, intimate -- their majesties, His Grace Michaelis, Lady Alanna, five or six guests."

"I can prepare something..."

"Just a jar of the marinated olives, some cheeses -- gouda?"

"Yes, I have some to spare. Reds?"

Hugo nodded. "A Grenache and a Syrah. But also two Rieslings."

"Perhaps pasta?" Simon suggested. "Small bowls, shells with a light cream sauce?"

"Oh -- yes," Hugo said, looking pleased. "Only if you have time."

"When?"

"Friday, before the evening garden party."

"Easily done," Simon said, nodding. "Anyone special attending?"

"I don't think so. I have a guest list but I don't recognize the names. I think he might be auditioning them for some new diplomatic job but that's not my concern."

"Take the olives now if you like -- and I will wrap up some gouda and some others for the cellar refrigerator," Simon said, opening his notebook and scribbling it down on the page after the bet contract he'd made with Ylias. Hugo, with typical nosiness, tipped up the notebook page to study the contract.

"What's this?" he asked, tilting his head. "Who are you giving a year's worth of cheese?"

"A frivolous bet. That chef from town, the one I'm working with on Reclamation Day?"

"Mr. Lazaar?"

"The one. She thinks -- I don't disagree -- that one of us is likely to win. Those are our terms."

"You're not getting a very good deal out of it," Hugo said. "All you get is a promise not to tease you. You have to buy her a lot of cheese."

"Ah, I live a happy life, what else should I do with my paycheck? Besides, you haven't felt the sharp side of her tongue."

"Is she such a harpy, then?" Hugo asked.

"No, not at all, but she's clever, and merciless," Simon replied. "Very good at deflating a person."

"You don't sound bothered."

"Well, it's amusing," Simon said. "I could wish for a -- a more cooperative partner in this work, but I can't deny she's kept things interesting. I look forward to our fencing matches, I suppose you could say. But I will look forward to them even more if she has to be civil when we have them," he added, beginning to unpack the tomatoes. "Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?" he asked, holding one up. "They're almost golden, under the red."

Hugo shrugged. "Looks like a tomato to me."

"How you managed to get and keep a woman like Gwen when you have no romance in your soul is beyond me," Simon said, setting the tomato aside.

"I don't think Gwen ever wanted romance," Hugo replied. "She wanted reliable, and self-sufficient, and to have her own way most of the time. And love, but love can be calm and quiet. Besides, has the romance in your soul gotten you anywhere?"

"Into bed, many times," Simon said with a grin, though it hurt just a little, that his stolid, sensible little brother had found a lifemate where he hadn't. He hadn't been trying too hard, but then Hugo hadn't been trying at all when he'd met Gwen. Still, it wasn't Hugo's fault; he wasn't trying to land a blow.

"Undeniable that you've been in many beds," Hugo drawled. Okay, that might have been an attempt at an insult. "That's why you're mad at Lazaar, isn't it?"

"What?"

"Your charms don't work on her. You're always annoyed when you can't charm someone."

"I wouldn't know, it's never happened. I'll get her on-side yet -- if no other way than by winning the cooking competition. Now, I must prepare breakfast, the family will be down soon," he said, checking the clock on the wall. "What time would you like the pasta ready?"

"The tasting is at three, and the Rieslings will be first..."

"A warming tray at three, then, and if you set out the gouda when I come with the pasta, it will be a good temperature for the reds."

Hugo nodded. "Wine for dinner tonight?"

"I think I will prepare a stracotto," Simon said. "Although His Grace is getting very tired of red wine."

"Red for the sauce, white to pair?" Hugo suggested.

"A white with stracotto? That's novel. Yes, if you can think of one."

"There's one His Grace Gerald brought me from Galia that paired well with acid -- I ordered a few after tasting, I think I still have some. Or I can find something similar. Top notes, aside from the tomato?"

"Basil, tarragon, pepper," Simon said. Hugo nodded. "Excellent. Oh," he added, as Hugo turned to go. "If you were going to pair with a strong yuzu flavor, what would you suggest?"

"Yuzu?" Hugo asked curiously.

"Lazaar was marinating with it this morning. I haven't worked with it much. It's very tart, but a tart fruit ice in the summer is always nice."

"Well, for a fruit ice, a dessert wine -- something rich and not too sweet. For a marinade, I wouldn't put wine in with yuzu, but I'll consider what I'd pair. Do you have any?"

"Yuzu? No, but I'll pick some up. I'm seeing Chloe tomorrow night, she won't mind stopping at the green market."

"Don't let Lazaar see you, or she'll think you're stealing her march. And I wouldn't mention to Chloe where you got the idea," Hugo added. Simon gave him a blank look. "Never mind. I'll leave you to it."

Simon considered what possible reason he could have for not mentioning the yuzu to Chloe, but after all Hugo sometimes leapt to strange conclusions. Soon enough he was distracted by the morning's work -- chopping melon for a fruit salad while he browned the beef for the stracotto, then putting the beef in sauce to slow-cook for the next twelve hours while he toasted bread and set out the butter to soften, and then the eggs had to be poached and some tofu (iron-rich) scrambled for His Grace, who would grumble but would not, critically, pass out from anemia again if Simon had anything to say about it.

By the time he was having drinks with Chloe the following night, he'd forgotten why he shouldn't mention where he got the idea for Yuzu dessert ices. But it was true he didn't mention it, when he asked if they could stop to get some.

Chapter Text

That summer was, as usual in Fons-Askaz, a busy time filled with events; it was the height of tourist season and there was much more to enjoy than only Pride and the anticipation of Reclamation Day. Two events particularly stood out that year: one was the First Annual Royal Shivadh Chili Cookoff, and the other was King Theophile's birthday celebration. They were perfect examples of just how innately Shivadh the king consort had turned out to be. His talent for mischief was only surpassed by his ability to convince the country to go along with it.

The First Annual Royal Shivadh Chili Cookoff was partly Simon's fault. Eddie had been helping him test a recipe and snapped a sort of "behind the scenes" photo of a red sauce being whisked. He'd posted it to Photogram with the caption "I thought Americans were serious about barbecue, but then I met the French Attitude Towards Sauces. I don't think we can let them have an opinion on chili."

Simon had responded in the comments that Eddie was assuming the French had not already formed an opinion on chili; he asserted they had, and were simply keeping quiet about it so as not to cause an incident. This had escalated, without Simon's further participation, into a passionate national debate about several things including:

1. Who cared more, Americans about chili or the French about anything involving butter?
2. Could Americans, who didn't even like football, truly understand how passion felt?

And, most importantly to what came next:

3. Is that American chili?
3a. Really?
3b. Why would the French bother having an opinion on that?
4. I could cook that.
4a. but why would I.

Eddie had at last declared a challenge: anyone who thought they could master chili easily was encouraged to sign up for the First Annual Royal Shivadh Chili Cookoff and see if they could beat their king (the not-elected and therefore cooler one) at making a delicious chili dish.

He had dropped into Alanna's office right before issuing the challenge, just to ensure it wouldn't cause problems, but she still had to scramble an emergency meeting of the events staff and the communications staff. It would have been more irritating if Eddie's enthusiasm wasn't infectious -- Alanna was mostly immune through exposure but the rest of the team would probably have grumbled if they didn't like the idea so much. In any case, they were able to secure a large tent, the necessary equipment, and the event insurance quickly enough that the following Friday, the last day of June, the cookoff was set. It would take place on the palace grounds, starting in the late morning and running most of the day so that more people could stop by to taste their efforts. It would end with an awards ceremony slightly before the king's usual Friday night party, so that the competitors could attend as honored guests if they wanted. Noah, having been raised in America, was tapped as a judge; Ephraim was offered the position as well, but didn't want the attention and in any case knew his brother's chili well enough to pick it out of a crowd, making him prejudiced.

"What we need is a Texan," Eddie said.

"What you need is your head examined," Alanna replied.

"Besides, Texans are prejudiced for beef," Monday said, from where she was nursing Mira. "Noah's a good call because he grew up in New York. He doesn't have strong opinions about chili. Beef, beans, it's all one to him."

So Noah went solo as judge, but Eddie insisted on a People's Choice award too, with attendees voting on the various attempts. Simon didn't enter, but he did plan to stroll down and do a tasting.

Most of the competitors were home chefs -- the professionals were all, well, working -- but a number of the professionals, like Simon, slipped away for half an hour just to witness it. He wasn't surprised to see the chefs from the Shivadlakia estate there, though a little surprised to see Ylias.

"I hope the restaurant is fine without you," he said, stopping at the table where she was tasting chilis, scribbling on a little paper ballot they'd all been given.

"My folks are pretty good at what they do," she said. "Try number six first, I want to see if you taste something specific."

He sampled a bit of the #6 chili, frowning. "Cornmeal? No...masa?"

"I think it might have chopped tamales in it," she said.

"A lot of work for chili," he remarked.

"It beats the one that I'm pretty sure is just Heinz baked beans and hot sauce," she said. He looked at his little cups of chili, aware that this was now a game of culinary Russian roulette. "I actually had a question for you, while I'm here, though."

"Oh?" he asked, carefully tasting #7. That was probably Eddie's -- it had the lemony tang he liked to add onto chili spice.

"Is it true the royal library has menus and cookbooks from past royal chefs?" she asked.

"Yes, certainly. Also cookbooks and diaries of chefs throughout the country's history. His Majesty Eddie consults them sometimes. So do I. The earliest is a journal, from 1650 or so. The chef to the son of Gilles Roman y Askaz and Lanah da Campagna. Interesting reading."

"Do you need a special pass to see them? I assume I can't just check them out and take them home."

"You can't take them out, but you just need to talk to the royal librarian to see them, no special permission required. What did you want to see?"

"My grandmother immigrated here from Tunisia between the world wars with her parents. In my great-grandmother's diary, she talks about learning to make a Shivadh dish I've never found anywhere else. Might just be a misspelling, but I'd like to see if there's anything about it in royal records."

"Very interesting. What dish?"

"Seems to be a kind of sweet stew. It's not entirely clear. It's called vittine?"

"Not familiar to me. But you have your work, when can you do this?"

"We're closing for King Theophile's birthday in two weeks. Nearly everywhere is, but I guess the library might be closed too."

"Good day for it actually -- eugh," he interrupted himself. He'd reached chili sample #1, which was definitely the baked beans and hot sauce concoction.

"I warned you."

"Not strongly enough. In any case, Richard, the librarian, will be off, but I can let you in. The lunch and dinner are both catered. I will have time free. I can show you where to look, I'm more familiar with those shelves even than he is."

"I don't want to make you come in on a day off."

"I'd be here anyway. The celebration is at the palace and should be very fun. Dinner will be from six until nine or so -- a good time to go to the library."

"That's a long meal. Are there speakers or something?"

"His Majesty Gregory has a particular surprise gift," Simon said, grinning. "It will take a while to present."

"Well, I'm in, I was going to take the day and lounge. A few hours in the library sounds nice. Which are you voting for?" she added, indicating his ballot. "Hate to vote and run but I need to get back."

"Seven or ten, I think," he said.

"Seven has the most depth but I think ten might have the best flavor. Those were my top as well. Think either one is the king's?"

"Yes, but I will not say which," he said, and wrote the number seven on the ballot decidedly. "I will see you on Thursday, then, for the party."

She nodded, rising as he did. "You ever make chili?" she asked, as they made their way to the ballot box.

"Oh, yes. I trained in Las Vegas for a time."

She stared at him. "Las Vegas?"

"A very strong food culture, many top restaurants. I learned several forms of American barbecue. I was particularly skilled at 'chili mac'."

"I'm not sure I should ask."

"Chili with macaroni pasta, often with a cheese sauce. There was a 'whale' who would come to the hotel often and pay for the chef service -- a personal chef during your stay -- who always asked for me, because I could prepare a vegetarian chili mac which was kosher. He made an offer to hire me, but I did not care to stay in America."

"You always wanted to be a personal chef?"

"Yes, if I could. I knew restaurant work, eh, not intolerable, but not for me. And this way I have a family of a sort -- my privilege to help raise the king and his cousins, and now the prince and princepses and Her little Grace," he added, nodding at Gerald, who was sitting with Sera and trying to eat while she grabbed insistently at his spoon. "I have known her father since he was five, her mother since a shy little thing of four, always running about with the prince -- now His Majesty, of course. With luck, I will make Princeps Joan's wedding cake as I made King Gregory's."

"That's a nice sentiment. And this is where I leave you," she added. "See you at the planning meeting next week."

"Indeed. Go well," he said, and watched her head off through the grounds, towards the big front gate that led from palace into town. It wasn't a far walk to Plate&Press from here; he really should bear out his promise and eat there again. The food was above average even for Fons-Askaz. Perhaps next week, when he'd have some extra time.

He exhaled a sigh, not entirely pleased about why he'd have extra time, and headed back towards the kitchen.

***

What a busy week it has been! Summer is never quiet in Fons-Askaz. In addition to my duties to the royal family, there are galas and parties, picnics and travel (for which hampers must be packed) and events about town. This week, one and all were concerned with a "cook off" inspired by His Majesty, who wished to challenge his subjects to create the finest bowl of chili.

I declined to participate, as it was meant to match amateur chefs against the king. In any case, it is unwise for an employee to attempt to best his employer, even a good-natured employer such as King Theophile, who accepts a joke at his expense now and again with delight. I did attend the festivities, eager to taste Shivadh ideas of what might make a good chili, and both the chili and the company were enjoyable. Well, I may say most of the chili was enjoyable. And His Majesty gracefully conceded to the winner, Ms. Deborah Lewis, whose newfound fame will no doubt bring business to Fons-Askaz Fine Shoes And Boots, where she serves as bookkeeper.

His Majesty having failed to secure Ms. Lewis's closely-kept recipe, I chose not to bother her either. Instead I will present my own chili-based recipe, which I perfected when serving as a personal chef for guests at the casino where I was employed in Las Vegas. The recipe includes variations for serving with seared steak tips or as a vegetarian dish, with notes on variations to add elegance (and expense) to the meal.

Las Vegas 'Chili Mac' Prepared Two Ways

***

It wasn't really a tradition if you'd only done it once before, but Simon suspected it was to become a tradition that for Galian Pride, in July, the king emeritus went over the highlands to the capitol city of Levaldi.

("Just the one highland," Simon could hear Hugo say, because Hugo never failed to find the dry old joke hilarious.)

His Grace Michaelis was well-liked in Galia, probably more so than King Gregory, who had after all sent his cousins to meddle in Galian politics. That the meddling had been His Grace's idea was not something known outside the family, and probably not really something Simon ought to know, but he also knew how to be discreet. Last year, with the consigliere for culture Lord Carlo significantly increasing the size of the celebration and parade, the king emeritus, Ser Deimos, and Prince Noah had gone to represent the country, and met with success from what Simon had heard. This year, with the little ones so little, the kings again couldn't go, so His Grace and family were going again. This year they were also taking the princeps and, to everyone's surprise, Ephraim.

It would leave the palace very quiet, and Simon felt rather sad. He didn't love the idea of His Grace going somewhere with strange food when he'd recently been ill, even though he knew Ser Deimos and Prince Noah would look after him. He liked Joan and would miss her while she was gone, and he worried the attention would be hard on Ephraim, the (in Galian eyes) romantically mysterious brother of the king, who was so shy and private. Still, Ephraim had said he wanted to, that there was a good collection in the Levaldi casino's art museum he wanted to see, and that Noah and Joan would be the ones getting all the attention.

Simon had to console himself by preparing a massive hamper of food and sending it with them. Hugo selected several bottles of wine, and Simon marked one of them for Lord Milo, a good and diligent man, with a private note asking that he please keep particular watch on His Grace and young Ephraim.

"It must be quiet, with half the family gone," Gwen said, the first evening after the delegation to Galia had left. The daylight lasted so long now that it was rare for Claude to get to do much stargazing, but he was allowed to stay up late on Friday nights when it was clear, and they were all outside in the dusk, enjoying the warm evening while Claude set up his telescope.

"Very," Simon sighed. "I already miss Her Highness coming to the kitchen for her morning snack each day."

"I think it's nice, having children in the palace again," Gwen agreed. "King Michaelis always seemed less imposing when he was looking after Prince Gregory."

"More parties when there aren't little ones though," Hugo said. "It's another ten years of childrens' birthday parties and galas that end at nine, I fear."

"You've never even stayed until nine at a gala," Simon scolded. "You set up the wine and then go home."

"Well, I like my routine," Hugo defended. "That's why you're the chef and I'm the sommelier. Wine measures time in either minutes or decades, nothing inbetween."

"Hm, rather like His Majesty Eddie at the moment," Simon said, consulting his phone, where a notification from Photogram had popped up, informing him that the king consort had posted. "He's all hurry up and wait, lately."

"I blame the children," Gwen said.

"You may not be far off," Hugo said. "Remember what we were like when Claude was a baby?"

Gwen gave Hugo an unimpressed look. Hugo had not adjusted to parenthood as smoothly as she had, in those first months, and Gwen jokingly held a grudge. "We agreed not to discuss it."

"I'm only saying, that's how babies are too. You're either in it for a few minutes or hours and hours, whatever it is -- sleeping, crying, laughing."

"What's he up to, anyway?" Gwen asked, as Simon studied the post.

"Process photos for a dish," he said, mildly concerned, because it looked like -- "He's making waffles. American waffles on his American waffle iron."

"Is that bad?" Gwen asked.

"It's not...good," Simon said.

"It's what he makes when he's stressed, and trying not to think about something," Hugo, who had witnessed the stress waffles before, explained.

"Because you can't see the waffles while they're cooking, and if you check too soon, you'll pull them in half," Simon added.

"How does that relieve stress?"

"It doesn't," Simon and Hugo chorused. Gwen looked amused.

"It just means you have to stand next to the waffle iron the entire time and watch it, and all the anxiety goes into that, instead of whatever you were worrying about," Simon continued. "So he explained it, in any case. His parents taught him that when steam stops rising the waffle is done, so you have to watch the steam. As a wedding gift they gave him the waffle iron they cooked on when he was a child, so it's..."

"Comforting," Gwen suggested. "That's kind of sweet."

"Yes, but not entirely a good thing. Although perhaps he's simply worried about Ephraim, or missing Joan," Simon mused. "I do wish he'd let go of the idea he's not a baker. He's entirely adequate at most baked goods I've seen him make, and it would do him a world of good to really get into sourdough. Another of those minutes-or-decades issues," he said to Hugo, who nodded knowingly. "I feel sourdough waffles would be a balm to the soul, and also taste better than the quick-rise kind."

"The heart wants what the heart wants," Gwen said.

"I suppose so," Simon agreed. "I'll speak to him tomorrow. Many confessions happen in a kitchen. Oh, look, Ser Deimos has posted too, from Galia. Their latest suit, did you see? Very mode."

They admired the suit and discussed incoming fashion until Claude had begun to pack up his telescope again. Simon, who had set his phone aside (the better to gesture disdainfully about Paris fashion houses) didn't notice until he went inside that he had a text message from, of all people, Ylias.

Does the king consort make waffles often? she'd asked. In French, which was polite of her.

It was late to reply, but she was probably still at work, or at any rate still awake.

Only when bothered by something. I suspect he misses his daughter and brother, he replied.

Recipe any good?

I've had better, but he'd tell you so has he, Simon replied. For His Majesty, the food is frequently not the point. His is a metaphysical menu.

Preserve us from philosophers, she said. Simon appended a little laughing emoji onto it, and went to bed less bothered by worry over the king consort than he had been.

***

A little shockingly, the king consort was in the kitchen when Simon arrived the next morning. He appeared to still be moping.

"Good morning. I am not late?" Simon asked, hanging his bag on its usual hook and taking down his white coat, shrugging into it.

"No, sorry -- I made a bunch of waffles last night and poor Greg couldn't eat them all, so I had extra. Figured I'd throw them in the oven down here to warm, and they can go with whatever you cook up," Eddie said. Simon gave him a dry look. "What?"

"I saw your post last night."

"Do not get on my case about sourdough, Simon -- "

Simon held up his hands, innocent. "No, but I know why you make waffles. What is it, Joan and Ephraim?"

"No -- well, yes, but I'm used to worrying about Ephraim and I do less of it than I used to. Joan's got her grandparents, I miss her but I know she's fine."

"So? What is it? Does His Majesty know about the waffle...thing?" Simon asked. Eddie looked even more morose. "Oh. Trouble in royal residence?"

Eddie heaved a sigh. Simon pulled a stool around for him on the way to the fridge to start taking ingredients out.

"It's not...trouble," Eddie said. "It's just. I mean it's not like it'd be easy for a whole-ass king to run around on his husband even if he wanted to, but Greg's being secretive."

"Surely not. He is a politician but he is an open book with you," Simon said.

"That's what I thought, but I dunno. I'm probably just imagining things so I'm trying not to get on his case about it. What with the twins and Joan, we're both tired. And it's not that I don't trust him. But like, he's got private meetings in his calendar, and I'm worried. Twice this week he took calls and just walked out of the room to talk. He never does that. He told me when we were dating that his dad never kept Palace business from his mom because she needed to know everything Michaelis knew. He said unless I didn't want to know, it'd be the same with us."

Simon hid his amusement in the fridge, taking slightly longer than needed to select some cheese for omelettes. When he closed the fridge door and turned around, his face was fully composed.

"I'm sure it's nothing, just...if it is nothing I wish he'd say," Eddie said.

Simon set the cheese down and crossed his arms. "Eddie. May I ask. How do you feel about...ah, spoilers?"

Eddie blinked at him. "Like...for TV shows?"

"Yes, only this is one for your life."

"Holy shit, do YOU know -- " Eddie began, gaping, and Simon nodded.

"I do, but it is a great secret. Consider, Your Majesty, what is fast approaching?"

Eddie frowned. "I mean, Reclamation D -- wait. Well, my birthday's next week, but that's not a surprise, the party's all planned and I kinda know what he got me because I gave him a pretty specific list of options..." he trailed off, confused.

"Do you know, indeed?" Simon asked mildly. "I am not privy to the king's private affairs in the way you are, but what I do know..." he made a gesture. "His Majesty has many things to put in order before the birthday."

Eddie, as he often did when he was pleased, tipped his head back and laughed, full-throated.

"I'm a sitcom B-plot," he said through his mirth. "I'm a walking third-act misunderstanding. He's cooking up a surprise for me! Oh, Simon, why didn't you just hit me with a wooden spoon?"

"Very bad luck AND illegal to strike the king," Simon told him. "Now, leave my kitchen. I will make omelettes and yes, I will bring in the waffles," he added, as Eddie opened his mouth. "Do not tell the king I told you!"

"I mean you didn't even spoil anything, all I know now is that what I thought was some kind of terrible post-parenthood personality crisis is just him doing something super nice. Man. Okay. I'm gone. Thanks, Simon!" he called over his shoulder as he left. Simon snorted, and set to work cracking eggs.

***

The palace of Askazer-Shivadlakia was situated so that the grand main entrance faced south, overlooking the high street, the train station, most of Fons-Askaz, and the sparkling blue water of the Ligurian Sea below it. The palace parklands were mostly on the south side as well, with the lake and lodge off to the east. The grounds behind the palace were less developed, mostly fields and stands of wild trees -- hike north through them far enough and you'd end up on the Shivadlakia estate.

Southwest of the palace, at the edge of the public garden, was a little natural incline, a sort of grassy natural amphitheater with a flat bottom. The king consort's birthday party, the second week in July, was held on the grounds next to it. It was a relatively informal Thursday luncheon, with afternoon games and entertainments, then a picnic dinner with a concert in the amphitheater to follow. Some accessible seating and a few platforms had been set up in front of scaffolding holding lights and speakers, and Simon knew Eddie was looking forward to an evening of basking in the warm night air, listening to his favorite local musicians.

Like most attendees, the royal family were sitting on blankets in the grass, enjoying the fine weather. Having returned from Galia on Sunday, the king emeritus and Ser Deimos were settled in low lawn chairs, while Ephraim sketched nearby and Noah circulated, Joan tagging after him. He eventually left her with the kings and returned to Michaelis and Jes just as the concert was supposed to begin -- and everyone's heads turned when Gregory got up from his blanket and walked onto the stage, accepting a cordless mic from Alanna.

"Citizens and friends, thank you all for coming," he said, smiling at the cheers that followed. "I'm so pleased you could be here to help celebrate Eddie's birthday with me. Now, before we begin, I have a short anecdote I'd like to share, so bear with me. Back when I was still crown prince, and Eddie was still technically a television host -- before we started dating -- we once got into a discussion of Shakespeare. As many of you know, Eddie studied theater at university. He told me he'd seen -- how many plays does Shakespeare have, hon?"

"About thirty-nine?" Eddie said. "There are questions about authorship on a couple."

"And how many of the thirty-nine did you tell me you'd seen? Thirty-six?"

"That's right," Eddie said, looking confused. He actually glanced at Simon, standing at the edge of the bowl.

"Which ones were you missing?"

"Winter's Tale, Titus Andronicus, and Twelfth Night," Eddie said. "I did get to see Titus Andronicus last year. The uh, the Santa Luna Community Theatre production, which was certainly...in earnest."

"So you're missing Winter's Tale and Twelfth Night," Gregory said, pacing the stage. Eddie's face transformed as realization dawned.

"Greg, did you -- "

"Eddie told me that he was saving Twelfth Night," Gregory continued. "He wanted to see a really good production for a special occasion. Now, we might ask ourselves, is thirty-three a special birthday? Not really. It's not even Eddie's first birthday as my partner. But it is," he added, grin breaking over his face, "his first birthday as king. I did get you a really nice new set of potholders as you requested, my love, but potholders are not very royal or romantic. So I also spoke to the Shivadh Cultural Center's Repertory Theatre, which employs some of the most talented performing artists in the country and honestly I think the entire continent, though admittedly I'm biased."

Eddie had both hands over his mouth, eyes wide. Next to him, Joan was giggling.

"While I did say we would be having a concert today, that was in fact a lie," Gregory said. "Because as soon as I get off this stage, Shivadh Repertory is going to present to all of you here, but especially to Eddie, one of the finest productions of Twelfth Night I've had the privilege of witnessing. This is their first showing in front of a full audience, but in about a week they're going to be beginning a six-week run of the show at the Cultural Center. And now I'm going to turn this off," he said, waggling the mic, "and let you all help me help Eddie unwrap his present. For you, Your Majesty, my love....Twelfth Night."

The assembled spectators roared approval as Gregory switched off the mic and dropped lightly off the stage; Eddie got up as he came up the incline, throwing his arms around him. Duke Orsino, already entering with musicians, waited patiently until the two were seated again, and then struck a tragic pose.

If music be the food of love, play on...

It was a particularly satisfying moment to witness, but Simon had other matters to attend to; Ylias was waiting for him at the top of the amphitheater, for their planned trip to rummage in the library archives.

"That's charming," she said, when he reached her. "Nice gift for the king to give."

"I thought so. You can still stay and watch, if you like."

"No, I'll catch it during the run, maybe. Do you want to?"

"No. I struggle with the language, and I have seen it in French," he said, as they strolled away. "His Majesty only told me about it because he wanted me to create a dessert to serve at intermission."

"What did you create?"

"Taking in mind King Theophile's tastes, simple flavors, complicated structures. The theme of the play is deception and identity; I arranged for a cake which is actually a pie."

"What?" she asked, looking startled. He beamed.

"At intermission they will serve what appears to be a chocolate-frosted cake," he said, as they walked. "But the chocolate frosting is truly vanilla; all food color, no chocolate added. Under the frosting, a light sweet sponge, but be careful!" he said, a phrase he'd heard Noah employ humorously. Ylias chuckled. "The sponge is only a shell surrounding a whipped chocolate cream pie filling."

"Ah, but is it really chocolate?" she asked.

"In this case, yes. Must keep them on their toes. And in the very heart of each slice, a little piping of marionberry jam, His Majesty's favorite. I think I may post the process up online, later. Prince Noah took a lot of video of myself, making it. He was teaching little Joan camera technique."

"So strange to think of the royals having private lives," Ylias said, as they came inside and climbed the grand staircase. "I mean, it's not like I ever thought they were wind-up toys or anything, but I only know the younger ones from recent news. It's interesting to compare my image of Prince Noah and Princeps Joan with a guy taking time out of his day to teach his niece a few camera tricks."

"As strange as it is to me, imagining only knowing them from the news," Simon agreed. "He is very good with her, as I'm sure he is with his classmates."

The library of the palace of Fons-Askaz was, as Simon always thought of it, a Working Library -- which was to say it served as archive, research repository, lending library, and cultural anchor, rather than the private showpiece of a royal gentleman. It was open to the public but locked after-hours, although generations of kings, before and after democratization, had strolled down from the residences to wander the stacks. Formerly, they had carried a large brass key to unlock the big library doors. Now the key rested in a glass case near the doorway, and instead Simon scanned his palace ID on a small gray box next to the door. It clicked and swung open, and the lights came up.

"I toured it once but that was on a school trip, ages ago," Ylias said, inhaling. "Never forget that library smell, though."

"It's a very useful place," Simon replied. "Copies of all Palace records, the diaries and memoirs of previous kings and queens, important letters for diplomacy and such. And the menus and cookbooks we are here to see," he continued, leading her through the atrium and left, into the operations archive. The culinary sub-archive was a little further back, in an extra-wide aisle with a narrow table running down the center. "Many of the papers of the duchies come here, including those of their chefs. The chef to the fifth duke eventually married him, and our Duke Gerald is descended from that match. So I did once show him a recipe for bread written in the hand of his five-times great grandmother."

"What did he say to that?"

Simon laughed, reaching up to take a box down from the shelf. He nodded at the one next to it and she grabbed it, hefting it easily onto the table.

"He said he wished he'd inherited her ability to cook. His Grace....tries very hard," Simon concluded.

"Not one of nature's chefs?"

"No. Now," he added, tapping the cartons they'd pulled down. "You said this dish, this vittine?"

"That's the word."

"Appears to have been a sweet stew. I searched a little, for the word and for a few other phrases, but nothing came up. Still, all the papers here have been logged, but not all have been scanned into the computer. And those that have, the computer can't always read their handwriting."

"This all seems pretty durable, too," Ylias said, unpacking the box in front of her as he did his -- carefully, but not overly delicately.

"If we must look at the fragile documents in person, Richard can provide them with appropriate handling, but many of those were scanned first."

"Makes sense -- they used to use a lot more rag for paper, it preserves a lot better. You can wait to scan this kind of thing while the delicate stuff gets dealt with."

"Not your first time sifting an archive," he said.

"Not by a long shot. So if you didn't find much, why these two boxes?"

"Just a start," he said. "These are the two volumes closest in time to when you said -- between the world wars. If we find nothing here, I go back in time, you go forward. But if the vittine was popular when your family arrived, this is where we would see record. Recopied recipes, perhaps even newspaper clippings, at this point."

"I have to admit I kind of hoped we'd need to do this," Ylias said, turning to him. "This is really cool, that it's all here. I love going through old historical records and old books and stuff."

"I do too," he said. "Not so much anymore, but when I first came here, I spent many hours in this library, learning Shivadh cooking from chefs before me. And when King Theophile first arrived, he looked here too, for inspiration. Plenty to learn from our elders," he said, opening a stained notebook to page through it. "Ghastly handwriting, sometimes, though."

"At least V is a pretty distinctive letter to scan for," Ylias said. "So what we're looking for is a recipe, whether or not it's called vittine, that uses raisin wine to stew meat. I think chicken, but my great-grandmother didn't like red meat and it was expensive anyway, so that could have just been her preference. But that's kind of how I've been looking: if it doesn't have either raisins or sultanas soaked in wine, or raisin wine, and doesn't use it to stew meat, it can't be the right recipe."

"Have you ever cooked with raisin wine?" he asked.

"I know one or two dishes that use it, but usually I've just used straight brandy and a fruit syrup. Have you?"

"No, I rarely even see it. Most of the recipes I see ask that you soak raisins in brandy, which is not a subtle flavor," he replied.

"Well, no sauce base is, until you start adding stuff," she pointed out, which was...infuriating but true.

"Infuriating but true," he said. Ylias laughed.

"I get what you mean, though. But a lot of people don't really care about the difference between boozy raisins and raisin wine, and I can't blame them. It just means I want to keep an eye out for variations. Ah, see, like this one," she said, showing the book to him. It was typeset, with fairly close text. "Stewed meat in wine, but they're recommending savory herbs. A totally different flavor profile."

"Any reason beyond curiosity to look for it?" he asked, continuing to skim through the books, stopping once in a while to examine something closer. "Not that it needs one. The quest is its own joy."

"Good way to put it," she said, as he set the book down and took his notebook out. There were some interesting sidebars about dinner guests, including one or two references to King Gregory II hosting dinners attended by Jason Michaelis -- then simply a young businessman, but destined to become king himself, and grandfather of both the current king and the Duke of Shivadlakia.

"I'd like to see if it's any good," Ylias continued. "She complains about having to master it and then once she masters it, which I think took her all of five minutes, she complains because the whole family likes it more than she does. It's popular with the family and cheap to make -- they made their own raisin wine and she kept chickens -- so she has to make it at least once a week. I just wish she'd ever bothered to write the recipe itself down."

"Your great-grandmother sounds like an interesting woman," he said.

"How tactfully neutral of you to say," she replied, smiling. "Grandmother used to say she had the warmest heart and the driest sense of humor on two continents, and it was hard to tell either because she was also the loudest complainer of anyone who ever complained."

"Ah, I know the type," Simon agreed. "Small wonder she felt at home in Askazer-Shivadlakia. What will you use when you make it? Presuming we find a recipe. Raisin wine or brandy?"

"Oh, I'll test a few things," Ylias said absently, turning a page. "Same as I will if I have to reinvent it from scratch. I'll find the best version of it through trial and error. It'd be best to have the family recipe, but even then I'd still try to improve it."

"Soon it will be wholly its own thing," Simon said. "What is it they say? Ship of Theseus."

"Stew of Theseus," Ylias agreed absently.

"Well, we need not find it today. The library is public; you know where the shelves are now and can return."

"Look out -- make me much more welcome and I'll come pester you in your kitchen," she said.

"Take a number after Eddie," he replied, jotting down another note and continuing his search.

They worked mostly in silence after that, until his neck began to cramp; his hands also felt unpleasantly dusty, and Ylias looked like she could use a break too. He'd gone as far back as the 1890s, when Queen Victoria had paid a visit and enjoyed fresh sea bass in an intriguing pomegranate molasses sauce; when he glanced over, she was somewhere in the late 70s.

"Records are a little thin on the ground," she said, seeing him glance over.

"Yes -- King Jason was a man of very simple tastes, and King Michaelis and Queen Miranda liked to cook for themselves, when they were young, or dine in the palace canteen with the staff. After King Jason's chef left, the family did not retain another for some time -- until me, actually," he said. "Records until I arrived were mainly from the commissary -- industrial. Not bad, but not suited to a king."

"In your opinion."

"Fortunately, mine is what matters," he said. "The vittine won't show up after this box you're in -- I know it all very well and would remember if it had. My neck aches and the dust is bothersome. Perhaps a break?"

"Yeah, good call. Maybe even stop for the day -- next time I'll bring eyedrops, it's dry in here," she said.

"Well, either way, a drink and some food," he declared. "Then we can decide. I have not a single lead; you?"

"Oh, I found a few interesting things, might be able to refine the search you ran. I don't think I've ever tried to look in the royal library catalogue. Tough to use?"

"Not so difficult," he said, putting the lid back on his last box and setting it aside with the others. Richard, the librarian, would want to log that they'd been used, make sure they were in order, and re-shelve them himself. (He had learned that lesson the hard way, early on, with Richard's predecessor.) "I think it's fortunate His Grace was always very interested in computers from early on."

"I noticed Fons-Askaz had blazing internet, is that why?" she asked, following him down the aisle. He stopped to leave a note on Richard's desk, informing him they'd been digging in the archives.

"Yes -- expensive at the time, plenty of grumbling about taxes, but those that grumbled enjoy their streaming now," he said. The last of the sunset was pouring golden light into the main atrium of the library; he pushed one of the big doors open and led her through, then waited until it closed and he heard the click of the lock.

"The stories you could tell," she said, as they descended the main staircase.

"Ah, but never would. A personal chef is not only there to serve the food, but to be discreet," he remarked. "Part of my pay is to keep confidences."

"Nothing scandalous, I hope?"

"I suppose that depends. Nothing criminal, certainly. And the misbehavior of children who are now kings and dukes is innocent. Although I have been given permission to share stories -- "

He fell silent then, because he'd walked into his kitchen and it wasn't empty; Joan was there, sitting on one of the stools, holding a bowl of fruit. Not necessarily surprising, except that the play couldn't possibly be over yet.

"Hello," he called in French as they entered. "Isn't the play still going?"

"Yes," she answered. "It was intermission a little bit ago."

"Do your fathers know you're here?"

She was quiet, and when he looked closer, she seemed sad.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, bending to catch her eye, and she started crying. "Oh, little king," he said, taking the bowl and setting it aside before wrapping his arms around her. "Why these tears, what happened?"

"I don't like the play," she sniffled into his shirt. He stared at Ylias over her shoulder, eyes wide; Ylias looked perplexed. "I told Dad I was going to go sit with Noah but I came here instead. It has a stupid ending."

"Have you seen it before?" Simon asked, confused. Of all the royals, it seemed as though the little princeps, who liked boy clothes and disliked the title of princess, would like a story about a woman dressing as a man.

"No, but I know how they always do," she said tearfully. "The duke's going to fall in love with her but only after he finds out she's a girl and then she's going to have to go back to being a girl and not get to wear her nice valet uniform anymore..."

He wasn't sure what to do; he wasn't familiar enough with the play to know for sure what would happen in this staging, and didn't want to be untruthful. Still, it was clear the child needed comfort. And unlike his nephew, she probably couldn't be distracted with a question about astronomy.

"Simon," Ylias said softly. She nudged him gently and he let go of Joan's shoulders. She crouched slightly to be on eye-level with the girl.

"Very nice to meet you, Princeps," she said, giving Joan a reassuring smile. "I'm Ylias, I'm a friend of Simon's."

"I remember you," Joan sniffled. "From the parade. You threw me a necklace with a little test tube."

"Ah, I did!" Ylias nodded. "That was from my maman, who's a professor of chemistry at Royal Shivadh. Your father hired her."

"That was nice of you," Joan said, clearly trying to be gracious and royal.

"I'm glad you think so. Now, you think Duke Orsino can't love Viola unless he knows she's a girl?"

Joan nodded, gulping.

"Very unfair," Ylias said. "You must feel strongly about fairness."

"Life's not fair, so we have to be," Joan recited, something Simon had heard Gregory tell her.

"And I think maybe...you feel strongly about this, too. You like seeing girls who don't always have to look or act like girls? Because maybe that's how you feel sometimes?"

"Yeah," Joan said softly.

"And you're maybe upset because you think nobody will like you if you aren't always a perfect girl?" Ylias nodded when Joan did. "But surely you know it's okay to be different. Your grandfather's partner is nonbinary, aren't they?"

"But that's different, Grandem isn't a girl. I mean," she said, "I'm not dumb, I know they used to think they were, they were called a girl, but they aren't now. I'm a girl. I just don't always want to be so girly."

"Ah, I see. Well." Ylias gestured at herself. "I don't look very much like what we think of as a girl, do I?"

"No," Joan said waveringly.

"My name is Ylias, which is usually a boy name. And I like when people call me Mr. Lazaar. I like dressing like a man, sometimes being called a gentleman, but I'm still a woman. I like being a woman, too. I like being Mr. Lazaar and also being she-her. Some people think that's silly, but fewer than you think. And regardless, many people in my life have loved me."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Ylias said. "And I know enough about your fathers to bet that they don't want to see a story where you have to always be and look a certain way to be loved. Does that sound like them?"

"No," Joan admitted.

"That's why they adopted you," Simon said quietly.

"So I'd know they'd always love me whether or not I want to be king," Joan explained to Ylias.

"And even if that's how the play ends, it isn't how it has to," Ylias said. "You could write a new ending, or a whole new story. Maybe about a girl like you. And me."

Joan looked at Simon, apparently seeking confirmation, and he nodded.

"But you have to see the play to know," Ylias continued. "And if you want to tell your fathers you don't like it, it's good to be able to tell them why."

"Noah has a pin on his book bag that says Citation Needed," Joan said.

"That's exactly it. So. Would you like to see the rest? You want us to take you back to see the end?"

"Okay," Joan said, but she reached for Simon's hand, which was a little gratifying. He led her over to the prep sink, wetting a rag and cleaning her face gently, then gathered up a few bottles of juice and a sack of cookies into a basket as they left the kitchen.

"Are you like, kind of nonbinary too then?" Joan asked Ylias, as they walked out of the palace towards the stage. "Like Grandem?"

"No, not really. At least that's not what I call myself -- I'm like them in other ways. If you want to know more about being like me, the word you want to research is 'butch', or 'gender non-conforming'," Ylias told her. "Or for a girl your age, 'tomboy' might be helpful. Your dads will know what else to look up if you want."

Joan nodded, still looking thoughtful. She did accept the basket of snacks and take off running, though, when they were close enough; a good sign. Joan ran when she was in high spirits. They paused at the edge of the bowl, watching as she returned to the kings, throwing herself down on the blanket next to Eddie, who tousled her hair.

"That was interesting," Ylias said. Onstage, duels were being threatened.

"Thank you. You knew just the thing to say," Simon said.

"Well, I've been there. It sucks when you realize who you are is someone people might find it a little unusual to love. When I was young I was afraid that not a lot of people would want to be with a woman who wants to be called Mister, who looks like a man. At least that was my fear."

"Unfounded?"

"Extremely. It's surprising what kinds of love there are out there. I have very few complaints. Haven't found the One, but I found plenty of Someones, and all life is an education, anyway."

"The same," he said quietly, glancing at her, and for the first time saw not a rival or colleague or nemesis but -- someone desirable. And something of a mystery to unravel, too.

She looked sidelong at him and then turned her head, eyes dark, and the air felt like it crackled. He moved backwards, into the little sheltered stand of trees behind them, and she followed -- as soon as they were out of view of the amphitheater, she grabbed him by his shirt front and guided him further in, up against a tree, and kissed him.

"I can't believe how infuriating you are," she said. "Charming high handed son of a bitch -- "

"As if you aren't irritatingly Shivadh, pranking and poking constantly?" he retorted, between kisses. She was also gratifyingly strong.

"You don't live in the palace, right?" she asked, ignoring him. He got the drift, though.

"No, but there are private places in it I know of. Or my home is not too far away, and I have a car."

"Ah, fuck, this is stupid," she said, backing off. He followed for a moment, long enough for her to raise her eyebrows, then got himself under control. "I'm sorry, you're annoying and attractive and also a colleague, and I'm just having a moment. This isn't a good idea."

"I have never considered a colleague out of boundaries," he said. "But I respect a no when I hear it."

"Good to know," she said, rubbing her eyes. "Sorry."

"Why apologize? That was fun. If it's all the fun we have together, as you say, few complaints," he said. "Why don't we do as Joan should, and watch the end of the play?"

"Yeah, probably a good idea. I hope they give it a decent ending. For Princeps Joan's sake if nothing else."

"A smart little one, but still very much hostage to strong feeling," he said, following her out to the ridge of the bowl. She settled in the grass there and he sat next to her, handing her a bottle of juice and opening the packet of cookies, leaving it between the two of them. Onstage, Duke Orsino was discovering his manservant was in fact a womanservant. Simon glanced at Joan, who had curled up against Gregory, her shoulders under his arm.

Ylias was right, though -- it wasn't like the king to commission something especially...straight for his husband, and when the end came it was profound and simple. Viola took off her smart uniform cap and began taking off her uniform coat as well, resignedly reaching for a dress a maid had brought in, but Orsino stopped her, sent the maid off with a flick of his fingers, and then turned back to Viola. With great, grave ceremony, he placed the uniform cap back on her head, did up her jacket, and kissed her.

Simon could see Joan's shoulders heave with a sigh of relief even as Eddie got to his feet for a standing ovation. Ylias sighed, too, rising.

"Thank goodness, now I won't have lied to a child," she said. Simon laughed as he stood. "Don't take it too lightly, I bet it's not the last time you have a little crying tomboy in your kitchen."

"She is not be the first child to be comforted in that kitchen, and will not be the last."

"Will you tell her fathers about it?"

"No. Well, not details. I may say to Eddie, something, I don't know what, but I will keep her confidence. She may tell them anyway, now that she understands. If she comes to me," he added, as they began walking back to the palace while the players took their bows, "may I bring her to you? Or at least ask your advice?"

"Of course. I mean, I don't know how the family would feel about that, it's not like she hasn't got experts closer to hand, but I guess sometimes having someone with some distance is helpful."

"True. Well, we will let Joan decide," he said, as they reached the kitchen garden again. "What will you do with the rest of your evening?"

But she was studying him, and he was fairly certain what he'd said was about to be ignored again --

"You didn't strike me as someone who particularly appreciated masculinity," she said. He tilted his head. "In a partner, I mean."

"I don't have much experience of it, but only because I lacked opportunity," he said. "It has seemed to me that women who are like yourself are usually not interested in men like me."

"Annoying snobs?"

He smiled. "When I said women like yourself, I meant irritating pranksters."

"How often do you let yourself make bad decisions?" she asked.

"I don't think it would be such a bad decision," he replied, "and I still have a car, if you're interested in finding out."

She raked him with her eyes, apparently looking for something; he wasn't sure if she found it, but she leaned in a little.

"If I go home with you am I getting kicked out later or are you making breakfast?" she asked.

"Gentleman's choice," he replied. "Leave when it pleases you. I'm not the one with a restaurant to run, but I do have to leave early to feed the family. If you are still in my bed at five in the morning, breakfast is offered. If you are still in my bed at eight, it is only because I left you there to come here."

"Deal," she said. "Where's your car?"

His pulse quickened. "This way."

Chapter Text

Simon's house was shockingly big, not that Ylias paid much attention at the time; he only seemed to inhabit part of it, and mostly what she saw was the bedroom. By the time she'd gathered her wits, she was lying in his very comfortable bed, catching her breath, while he lay nearby, one hand on her stomach, tracing shapes there lightly. Nearby, a cat purred.

"Well, I'll give you this, you don't overpromise," she said.

He laughed. "Giving a woman pleasure is a great joy of life. No less so a gentleman, as it turns out."

"Hah. Thought you'd catch that."

"It suits you, Mr. Lazaar. Not to treat you as a novelty, but it is rare to experience the novel at my age, and delightful."

"Yeah, play your cards right and that won't be your last novelty," she informed him, turning to face him.

"Well, I look forward to the challenge. Although this..." he gestured between them. "I think is...casual? Pleasure for the sake of pleasure?"

"I had the impression casual is most of what you do, yes," she said. "Caught you with that young woman from the Daskaz estate in the alley once."

"Ah, Chloe, yes. Also fun, in a different way. I like to be clear about it, though. If only to save broken hearts."

"You couldn't break my heart if you tried," Ylias told him.

"Good," he answered, which was both amusing and a little bittersweet, somehow. "I do say this will make visits to the library more fun, although of course the offer is extended, not demanded."

"No sex for archive access, gotcha," she agreed. "There's a lot in there, though. You could mine the archives for a really great cookbook. Historical recipe books are very popular right now."

"Ah, I have my blog, that's enough. Perhaps you should, though. You seem like you enjoy publishing?" he said, considering her. "Plate&Press, so forth."

"Oh yeah. I always liked that idea, you know, the way food can tie into literature. I think of it like linking up two pleasures, although a lot of people don't get it. They don't think food and books are intuitive, outside of cookbooks."

"Too much sauce on the pages of The Great Gatsby," he said solemnly.

The idea of Simon reading The Great Gatsby was somehow funny enough to make her laugh; she'd have to think about why later. "Is that what you're reading?"

"No, no. Young Ephraim, the king's brother. He's very fond. He dropped his copy in some pasta, and he and Prince Noah had to go on a mission to replace it."

"Because of a little pasta? Doesn't sound so bad."

"It was still cooking at the time."

"Ah."

"Not many copies of such an American book here. Still, they found one. But there are many books about food, not just cookbooks -- it seems natural to me."

"To me too, but like you said -- people worry about getting the books dirty. That's sort of why I did it like I did, though. With the press theme and everything, to remind people that books can be an earthy business too."

"How did you come by the idea? Many people still say, odd to open an ethnic food restaurant that is not ethnic," he said. The tone of his voice told her what he thought of people who reduced her cooking to ethnic food, which was at least gratifying.

"I always wanted to have my own place. But when I started seriously considering what I wanted it to be, I thought, I really like those literary themed bars -- like the ones where they claim Hemingway wrote there, or Gloria Steinem or whoever."

"Ah -- yes, drink here and touch greatness," he said.

"Yeah. Kind of pompous, some of them, but you do feel like in certain pubs, if you just had the right idea, you could write the next world-changing novel. And most of them are really comfortable, too. So..." she shrugged against the sheets. "I wanted a restaurant where it wouldn't seem weird to host a poetry night. But I also didn't want to do a coffeehouse, I wanted to cook the food I grew up with and studied. That just happens to be Tunisian. My family is Shivadh too -- "

"They take in immigrants quickly here," he said, nodding. "The king's family arrived not long before yours."

"So there are Shivadh influences in what I cook. Tunisian and Shivadh, Jewish, some French. So the food's not totally unfamiliar, just different enough to seem odd that the origin of it isn't played up more. I like that too. Subverting expectations."

"I would not have guessed," he drawled.

"Anyway, hopefully people like the food and the vibe enough not to question why the Tunisian restaurant in the middle of Fons-Askaz also hosts book signings. Or will, once I find an author who wants to come sign there. Meanwhile, poetry nights, write-ins, that kind of thing. We're going to start doing Quiet Reading events, special hours a few times a week for people who come here with their beach-loving families but hate the beach and just want to have some snacks with a nice book. Shockingly common."

"You need one of the..." he gestured, clearly trying to recall something. "Little free libraries? One of the prince's friends built several for a class project."

"Well, we have a lending shelf, but that's not a bad idea. Seems a little more official. If I had another few square feet of space, I'd put in a book room. If I ever get the chance to make that happen, I'll come take reference photos of the royal library."

"I do love it there," he said quietly, and then yawned. "I may sleep a while. Do you need anything?"

"Not a thing," she said as his eyes closed, and found it was true -- a strange place to be content, but she was. Perhaps best to examine that later.

***

Simon was up early the next morning, but he slid quietly out of bed and let Ylias sleep; she seemed like she probably appreciated every minute of sleep she could get right now, considering the new restaurant. He normally didn't do anything especially elaborate for breakfast; half the time he simply ate while preparing family breakfast at the palace. Still, one did like to treat oneself sometimes, and be a good host.

He fed Erreur and Desolee, who grumbled quietly over their kibble, then set the coffee to percolate. He buttered two deep ramekins for coddled eggs and set water in a pan to boil, then broke the eggs into the ramekins, sprinkled them with salt and paprika, and screwed the lids on. He sliced bread from the boule under the tea towel on the counter and put that in to toast, fetching an avocado from the bowl on the windowsill.

Claude was up and running around in the garden, burning off excess energy. When he saw Simon through the kitchen window he ran up to it and jumped onto the little block they'd put there for just such a purpose, and Simon slid the window open. Erreur jumped up on the sill so Claude could pet her.

"Good morning," Simon said, as he scooped the avocado. "Making trouble so early?"

"Am not," Claude protested, rubbing Erreur's ears.

"I'm glad to hear. A favor, if you would?"

Claude nodded gravely.

"I have a friend visiting, who I will be bringing breakfast shortly, but she is asleep. You may run about," Simon said, wiggling his fingers to make them look like running legs, "but no shouting, if you please?"

"Is it Laurie? I like when Laurie visits," Claude said. "We never see her now."

"Ah, Laurie has a paramour that takes up all her time," Simon said, putting the eggs in their ramekins into the boiling water and setting the little antique timer on the kitchen counter for seven minutes. "But I will invite her to dinner soon, for you. My friend's name is Ylias. You should call her Mr. Lazaar unless she gives you leave to call her Ylias."

"But she's a girl? Called Mr. Lazaar?"

"Indeed. The world is full of wonder," Simon told him, and Claude digested this briefly, then nodded.

"Are you working at the palace today?"

"Yes, in a little while -- " Simon looked up and smiled as Gwen came out the front door, strolling over to wrap an arm around Claude's waist. "Good morning!"

"Claude, are you bothering your uncle?" Gwen asked.

"I am not," Claude said indignantly.

"No, he was not. I was just telling him I have a guest visiting, Mr. Lazaar."

"Oh! The chef at the letterpress place?" Gwen asked. Hugo, emerging behind her with a mug of coffee and a tablet, cocked an eyebrow at them. "I thought you two didn't get on."

"Nonsense. We settled our differences like adults," he said with dignity.

"Oh, is that what you settled," Hugo asked, seating himself.

"You were the one who thought I couldn't charm her," Simon reminded him.

"I should never have issued such a challenge," Hugo agreed.

"Be civil, both of you. Do you suppose she'd like to come have breakfast with us?" Gwen added, nodding at the breakfast table.

"I am preparing ours -- I will ask, but this was, ah, somewhat unplanned, and she may prefer privacy," Simon said, and Gwen nodded.

"Let's go pour you some cereal," she said, nudging Claude off the block and sending him on his way. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do," she told Simon sardonically, as she went. He closed the window and Erreur, deprived of her adoring public, jumped off the sill and down to the floor, strolling away.

Simon went back to breakfast preparation -- buttering the toast, mashing avocado up with pepper and some butter-soft caramelized onions from the fridge. He put it into a little bowl with a spreading knife, then pulled the ramekins out of the boiling water and put them into a bowl of icewater to shock briefly, before drying them and opening the lids. When everything was assembled, he left the tray on the counter and went back to the bedroom. Ylias was sitting up in the bed, head bent forward in a luxurious stretch.

"Your bed is fantastic," she said. "I think I'm like an inch taller where my spine stretched out."

"I like little luxuries," he said, grinning. "I have breakfast prepared -- and an invitation."

"Oh?"

"My brother and his wife and their son -- they share the house with me. I can bring a tray in for breakfast here, or we are invited to dine with them al fresco -- they have a nice table on the porch overlooking the garden."

"Hell, I was wondering why your house was so massive," she said. "They won't mind?"

"No, I entertain guests often enough they're accustomed to it. Claude -- my nephew -- is something of a handful but he knows to behave in company."

"Sounds nice," Ylias said, rolling out of bed. "Can I steal one of your shirts? Mine's very wrinkled."

"Will it fit you?" he asked, but she was pulling what looked like a very tight elastic contraption over her head -- he'd helped her out of it the night before, and watched now as it flattened her figure. His shirt buttoned across her chest without issue and he felt a twinge of something warm that he didn't want to look at too closely, seeing her in his clothing.

"Right, presentable," she said, undoing the cuffs and rolling them up to just below her elbows.

"Then come along," he said warmly, and guided her out, through the kitchen (stopping for the tray on the way) and across the garden.

"Good morning, Mr. Lazaar," Hugo called.

"Ylias, please," Ylias said, as Simon set the tray down and passed her a cup of coffee, gesturing at the sugar and cream. She sipped it black, making a slight approving noise.

"This is my brother Hugo, his wife Gwen, my nephew Claude," Simon said. "Ylias is head chef and owner of Plate&Press, and on the Reclamation Day committee with me."

"You're the royal sommelier, aren't you?" Ylias asked. Hugo nodded. "I read about you, I think -- when they found that cache of wine a few years ago? You did an interview with some magazine or other."

"I didn't really want to, but His Grace tasked me with valuating and selling a portion of the wine," Hugo said. "It was a good way to bring in offers on some of the bottles."

"What did you find? I mean what were some highlights?" Ylias asked, and Simon sat and ate quietly, pleased, as Ylias peppered Hugo with questions and Hugo briskly expounded on his favorite subject. Claude eyed Simon's toast enviously, so Simon spread some of the avocado-and-onion on half of it and handed it over.

"Are you riding in with me this morning?" Hugo asked Simon, gesturing at the car.

"Yes, I think so. If we leave soon, we would have time to leave Ylias at the Promenade -- or take you home if you prefer," Simon said, glancing at her.

"Well, we have the committee meeting this morning," she said, and he smacked his forehead, nodding. "But I do need to check in at the restaurant. Actually, let me make a call," she added, taking her phone out and standing, walking away into the garden.

"May I go play on the computer?" Claude asked, and Hugo gave him a nod. "Thanks for the toast!" he said to Simon, giving him a quick hug around the neck as he went back inside.

"Someday soon he's going to start having questions about your friends," Gwen said, amused.

"Perhaps I should begin to be more discreet," Simon said.

"Ever considered keeping it in your pants?" Hugo asked, and Gwen scowled at him. "What?"

"There's nothing wrong with Simon having lots of women friends," she said.

"I'm only saying, your life does seem complicated because of it at times," Hugo said.

Simon, well-used to his brother's bluntness, rested his chin on his palm. "Well, perhaps you have a point. You know Laurie is considering marriage, and I think Chloe will not put up with me forever. But I enjoy complexity, Hugo. The same as you enjoy a complicated wine."

"A point difficult to refute," Hugo said.

"It's not as though I refuse to settle down -- if I found the right woman I would. Or perhaps my altruism would get the best of me," he said, and Hugo snorted. "Should I find a woman patient enough, perhaps she would have better prospects elsewhere."

"You don't really mean that," Gwen said.

"No, not truly. I'm too selfish," Simon told her. "But I will be a little mindful. Perhaps I will ask the lady to host, next time. Or -- there are always apartments in town for sale, and I have savings. Perhaps I could purchase one. Rent it to tourists when I'm not using it. What do they call those, a love nest?"

"Awfully expensive way to go about things," Gwen said. "Honestly, Simon, I don't mind and Hugo had better not mind if he wants to stay on my good side. Claude will have questions or he won't, and when he does we'll figure out what to say."

She nodded at Ylias, who was returning, phone in hand.

"Well, my kitchen says they're set for prep, so I'm not needed until after the committee meeting," she said, settling in. "As long as I can freshen up a little before we go, I might as well just ride in to the palace with you. I can camp out in the conference room until the meeting, help with coffee service if you want."

"In that case, we should adjourn," Gwen said. Simon began gathering up the plates and cups, carrying them inside; Ylias went back into the bedroom and he could hear the shower go on. He followed, leaning through the half-open bathroom door.

"Would you care for company?" he asked.

"I was just wondering whether I should invite you," she replied, and he grinned and took down a second towel for her from the airing closet before joining her.

***

I have recently had reason to consult the archives of the palace library, which contain records and recipes from royal chefs dating back to the 17th century, before the current palace was built. In the case of some dishes, the recipes themselves may be much older; the dishes were eaten in the ancient world, in the Levant or in Rome, Morocco or Gaul.

There is some mess, yes; the documents are old. The handwriting may be difficult to read, and some are in other languages I do not speak well -- Italian, Portuguese, Spanish, even Greek. They are as organized as any such archive can be, but there are only so many ways to fit food into an order more meant for books.

But all of this is a minor inconvenience next to the pleasure of time spent with a truly unique collection of documents: recipes, what I am told is called "marginalia" but which I have always thought of as the wonderful English word "doodles", menus, the private musings of chefs on both the culinary and the social lives of the palace. I have found letters from foreign kings, praising soups.

In my last exploration of the early archives, I had a companion with me, as we were searching for records of a specific dish, which I had never encountered and which remains, for now, elusive. If it is pleasant to spend time with chefs long dead and food long since eaten, it is doubly so when one can turn to a companion and show them a funny doodle, or ask their thoughts on an old measurement in a recipe. And once we have had enough of searching, we may return to the kitchen for a meal, or spend the time discussing what we have have found. Truly a delightful pastime.

I have before me a menu from somewhat later than ancient Gaul -- a meal served to King Gregory II in 1947, as well as his guests Jason and Serafina Michaelis, later to become King Jason the Interloper and Queen Serafina. A simple family meal served to friends; though King Gregory II was near the end of his life and Jason Michaelis was a relatively young man of thirty-three, they were close colleagues. Jason had served as a trusted advisor and occasional mouthpiece for the king during the war, and had a keen political mind.

There was no official rationing in Askazer-Shivadlakia, but even so late, there were shortages of grain and sugar from abroad; absolutely no fruits or vegetables that we did not grow ourselves or that were not smuggled in and very dear; even fresh fish was in short supply, as the fishing fleet had been depleted. The country's beekeepers could not satisfy the demand for sweets.

King Gregory II wrote, in his diary of the era, "Butter, cheese, and eggs from our own farms are plentiful, but one does tire of omelet. The beef and chicken, from animals slaughtered only when they no longer give milk or eggs, is very tough, the mutton doubly so. Even salt is in short supply. I have never given such thanks for our bountiful garlic and onions, and the potatoes with which we suppliment the lack of other foods. The whole country prays for a fine olive harvest. The dates are not salvageable this year, but our people are returning in numbers sufficient that next year we will not need to choose between olives and dates. The imagination of our cooks in making use of food the Americans send or sell us is immense, but it is mainly tinned fish or beans -- and endless peanut butter. We look forward to the day when Europe teems with crops once more."

I present to you this meal, although I have made extensive notes on appropriate substitutions to make the dishes more palatable. Particularly I cannot advise attempting the Wholemeal Loaf, the Shivadh version of the "National Loaf" of Great Britain, truly a dire affair.

Family Meal For Close Friends, May, 1947:
Egg Salad with red onions, olives, and turnips, served with US Army surplus crackers
Slow-braised beef in chickpea-flour gravy with roasted potatoes
Wholemeal Loaf with American peanut butter
Honey-sweetened meringues
Chicory coffee

***

That morning went very smoothly, and Simon was self-satisfied about it; he let Ylias into the conference room, then went to prepare breakfast for the family. People began arriving for the Reclamation Day meeting just as he was delivering breakfast to the dining room, and he timed it well enough that the coffee was hot and the pastries were still warm when the meeting began.

He didn't honestly register much of it -- Ylias came and sat with him and spoke occasionally, and he mainly meditated on her attractiveness. In any case there wasn't much in the meeting that concerned him other than providing an update on the food stalls and cooking contest, which Ylias had mainly in hand.

One of his favorite things about his job was that it allowed for at least some leisure; there were times when he felt he was doing ten things at once, and certainly he didn't often sit down during the day, but he was able to write the beginnings of a blog post about the archive search, and he was was unhurried as he prepared lunch. Then once he'd taken away the lunch plates after the meal, he could start prep for dinner without worrying it would be late or undercooked.

It being summer, Joan wasn't with her tutor in the afternoons anymore, but she seemed to like routine; she didn't always visit the kitchen in the afternoons even during the school year, but when she did it was always at three on the dot, perhaps because she knew he was almost always pulling something out of the oven then -- bread or cookies, or rolls for dinner. He imagined he would see her that particular day, given the stormy tears of the day before, and he prepared accordingly, providing her with a jam thumbprint cookie when she arrived.

"And what mischief are you up to today?" he asked, as she settled on a nearby stool to watch him clean and slice strawberries.

"None at all, I'm being very good," she said. "Father recessed Parliament early this morning so I went down to the lake and sat and thought. I'm going to write a play."

"Oh? Like Twelfth Night?" he asked indulgently.

"Yes, only set in Askazer-Shivadlakia and it's going to have a nice ending like the play yesterday did. Like Mr. Lazaar suggested. And there'll be more politics and less shouting and making fun of butlers."

"I see. Although shouting is a long Shivadh tradition."

"Well, maybe more interesting shouting," she allowed. "Mr. Lazaar is a chef like you, isn't she?"

"Yes. She owns a restaurant near the train station. Plate&Press," he said. "Very good food too."

"Do you think Dads would want to eat there?"

Ah, there it was. He smiled over his prep work.

"They would like to," he agreed. "But the twins...difficult to go out. Still, no reason you can't," he added, seeing her disappointment. "Ask your grandfather. As a treat for being a very well-behaved older sister."

"Yeah?"

"He and Ser Deimos both like the food there. But you know if you wish to talk to Mr. Lazaar, I could help."

"Well, sorta. But I also want to see her restaurant," Joan said. She looked up at the ceiling and added, wistful and envious, "She seems like she has life like...figured out."

It did seem that way, Simon agreed internally, amused at such an envious sentiment from one so young. Aloud, he said, "We all are on a voyage. We come to our destination at different times. Like how you may still be uncertain -- no crime in it -- but Noah's friend Amani already has their gender changed in government records. Your Grandem didn't do that until their thirties. When did Ylias know she wished to be Mr. Lazaar? I don't know. But I will bet she was older than you are now."

"I can't wait to be a grownup," Joan told him.

"A common feeling," Simon said, smiling. "And you are a bright young girl, so it's harder for you."

"Why?" she asked, not really asking why it was harder, he could tell, but why she was stuck in such a predicament.

"Many ask; few have an answer. But you are fortunate. Your fathers are like you, and they saw your kinship. Perhaps not the family you were born to, but the family that recognized you. They said, ah! Precocious and strange! We must have her!" he declared dramatically, and Joan giggled. "And was I not already feeding you? I could not let a girl who liked my scones so well go running off. So! Family, we love unconditionally. Life will give you difficulties, for who you are and what you wish to do, but there will be many rewards, and always love. And strawberries," he added, showing her the bowl of neatly sliced berries -- thin, just how His Majesty preferred them. "Shall I make cobbler, tart, or cake?"

"Cobbler, please?"

"Certainly. As to Mr. Lazaar, if you wish to eat there, petition at dinner; your grandparents will take you, or your aunt and uncle. Ylias buys oil from Gerald, and so he likes her."

"Everything is connected," Joan informed him, considering this.

"So it is. Now, either run along to become the next great playwright, or help me with the cobbler."

Dinner service that evening, even the brief glimpse he saw of it, was a little quieter than usual. Ephraim was leaving in the next few days, and the whole family would be sad to see him go, but Eddie and Monday in particular were subdued from their usual boisterousness, and Noah was visibly glum. In addition, Monday was fully recovered from having the twins, and was taking a vacation starting the following week, so they would be without two of the three Ramblers they were accustomed to. Simon made a note to prepare some of Noah's favorite foods for the following week, and decided to come up with some recipe to distract Eddie with. For the moment, he satisfied himself preparing a more elaborate buffet than usual for Saturday morning, and Ephraim's favorite Shivadh dish, leek fritters with crispy garlic and sour cream, for dinner.

Before he left on Saturday evening, he found that his satchel, hanging on its usual hook by the door, had a fold of paper in it; opening it, he saw that it was a drawing of himself, in full chef regalia, waving a baguette in one hand like a magic wand and casting fire at a table full of food, like the wizards he knew Ephraim sometimes painted on the sides of vans, back home in America.

He tucked it carefully into his notebook; he'd have to have it framed.

Having discharged his weekend responsibilities, he slept in on Sunday and then decided he might as well go into town; he could enjoy the lazy remains of the morning in some cafe, researching recipes for Noah and Eddie, and then peruse the grocers, picking up any ingredients needed or ordering them for later in the week.

He packed up a satchel with some spare net bags, his notebook and his wallet on autopilot, and he didn't realize he already had a destination in mind until he was walking through the front door of Plate&Press, the smell of coffee and roasting peppers floating out through the big open windows.

"Chef!" the host said, looking surprised. "If you're looking for Chef Lazaar, she's in the kitchen -- "

"Ah, no -- Martina, yes?" he asked, and she nodded. "I am, actually, simply here for a meal. If you would let Chef Lazaar know I am here, yes, appreciated, but please convey that I am here as a patron -- she need not leave the kitchen, particularly if she is busy."

"Brunch rush is about to hit," Martina said. "I'll let her know but you probably won't see her."

"That's fine. I smell peppers -- shakshouka?" he asked, and Martina nodded. "Very nice. A table and a menu and I will be satisfied."

He ordered coffee and a little date pastry to start, and requested a serving of the shakshouka to follow; the coffee and pastry took the edge off his hunger as he set up his tablet with its little bluetooth keyboard and began scrolling through recipes, consulting his notebook occasionally for reminders of what flavors Noah liked, what Eddie had or hadn't investigated about Shivadh cooking so far. He ought to start a page for Ylias; she'd seemed to enjoy the coddled eggs at breakfast and doubly so the avocado spread.

He was buried in an article about concocting sauces with more esoteric spirits than vodka or wine -- perhaps he could suggest to Eddie that they try adapting some to use davzda, a salty, earthy spirit that Hugo wouldn't touch and Simon had taken a long time to warm up to -- when the shakshouka arrived in a small cocotte, still sizzling, rich with tomatoes and harissa, the poached egg gleaming with a drizzle of olive oil.

"I noticed you like your yolk jammy," a voice said, and he looked up to see Ylias sliding the dish onto his table.

"Ah! I told Martina you needn't come out, if you don't wish," he said.

"I have a few minutes before brunch unleashes hell on us," she said, amused. "I can't stay but I wanted to say hello and make fun of you for loitering around my cafe."

"I have important work to do," he told her, mock-dignified, but he waved her into the seat next to him.

She sat, nodding at at the recipe open on his tablet, for hot sauce made with Malort, a wormwood liqeur which he'd heard was similar in flavor profile to Davzda. "Clearly."

"I am making notes for a davzda sauce. His Majesty Eddie enjoys experimenting with Shivadh cuisine, and needs a distraction; this may work, or I have other ideas," he said. "His brother leaves for California tomorrow, and Lady Monday leaves for a vacation on Friday."

"Davzda sauce," she said, considering this. "And you aren't looking at tequila?"

"Davzda can go in place of tequila in many things," he said. "But Eddie said to me, when he was making cocktail recipes, anyone can make a margarita."

"I like a margarita, but I take your point," she said, as he cut into the egg, scooping up jammy yolk and bubbling tomato-pepper sauce, maneuvering to get a chunk of melting feta onto the fork as well. "I'd look at Amaro as well."

"Oh! Yes, sound idea," he agreed, bringing the fork to his mouth, and then when the flavor rolled across his tongue he couldn't help the distinct noise of pleasure. Ylias smiled.

"I'll leave you two alone," she said, clapping him on the shoulder, and was ducking back into the kitchen by the time he had a reaction formulated.

Shakshouka was relatively easy to do well, but difficult to truly master -- so much depended on the harissa that flavored it, and he could tell this was both fresh and of her own making. He tried to stretch out the meal after that, abandoning his research for the moment so he could concentrate on eating slow enough to enjoy it, but quickly enough that it was still warm when he finished. He barely noticed how crowded the cafe had become, and he would have felt worse about taking up a table through the brunch rush, with people waiting outside, if he didn't have a local's disdain for the desires of the tourists that filled the city every summer. There were plenty of places to eat in Fons-Askaz; they showed good taste in attempting to eat at Plate&Press, but if they didn't want to wait they could go elsewhere.

But he did order another helping of shakshouka to carry away with him, and a second round of date pastry and coffee, so that he wasn't depriving the restaurant of business.

The box of shakshouka came with a note taped to the top -- It won't be as good reheated but that's your funeral. Consider: a davzda-base salad dressing.

An intriguing thought. He tore a page from his notebook and scribbled a quick note in return. I am considering deeply. Could it go in harissa? Yours is very good. I would request the recipe if you care to give it.

He handed the note to the server as he signed the bill. "If you would give this to Chef Lazaar -- I am leaving, though, no need for an immediate reply."

The woman looked perplexed but nodded, and Simon tucked the shakshouka carefully in the bottom of his satchel as he stepped out into the street. He was browsing the various fresh and dried peppers available at the greengrocer the royal family preferred, pondering which would pair best with the salty-mushroom flavor of davzda, when she texted.

We close on Mondays, so day off tomorrow, was planning to go to the library again. I can teach you the recipe after I'm done if you like. Run some of the dressing ideas past you too.

He smiled down at the phone. Very good. After the breakfast service I will have time before lunch preparation, or directly after lunch until three or so.

After lunch sounds good. See you then, she replied, and Simon tucked his phone away, returning to his shopping.

Chapter Text

Ylias was growing to like the comfortable, brightly lit, and immaculately clean private kitchen of the palace. That Monday, a balmy day to start with, Simon had thrown open the rear doors that let out onto the little kitchen garden he kept, and the smell of soil and vegetation wafted through, mingling with the odor of the herbs he was drying on racks nearby and the little pot of citronella oil hanging in the doorway to keep the bugs out.

She brought with her a box of spices, not knowing what he had or how fresh it would be, although she'd told him what chilis to buy as the base. She brought along fresh garlic too, grown in her own pots at home.

"Very good," he said, studying the head of garlic like a specimen. "What is it they say, good tools make a good worker...you and I know how much study we have done, but fresh food helps so much."

"Hard to get some things in Fons-Askaz, too," she said. "I mean, the dairy is first-rate and I can grow most herbs myself. The produce is mostly fine, and there's no shortage of cured meats. But I'm still struggling to find good quality fresh meat sometimes, outside of the fish."

"Ah, the tourists all want fish, so that is what is supplied in greatest amount," he agreed. "And the cattle are dairy, not beef, so it must be imported. I have considered sometimes keeping chickens, but the mess and fuss..." he shrugged. "And I have less trouble than you, only cooking for the family."

"Don't you cater the galas and such?" she asked.

"Sometimes -- the Friday parties and Prince Noah's graduation, yes; their majesties' wedding, no. But I also have the royal mandate behind me. Somehow the butchers always find me enough good quality meat," he said, smiling. "And helpful that Eddie was a chef, and understands when certain things are beyond my skills a a caterer."

"He still does those cooking videos all the time," she said, because she'd been catching up on them -- and anyway it was funny to see Simon in some of them, sometimes.

"Shivadh cooking must have a champion. Come, give your approval of the chilis for the harissa, or tell me I must fire our greengrocer," he said, and led her to a pot where the chilis were softening.

It was very pleasant to spend time in a quiet kitchen too, unhurried for once -- it reminded her of cooking with her mother, a little, though Simon was less precise, more intuitive, which came of not being a scientist who cooked because it was interesting home chemistry. They joked about the last council meeting and discussed local restaurant politics as they steamed and sliced and seeded the chilis, then he minced the garlic while she measured out and crushed caraway seeds.

"Do you use coriander already ground?" he asked, noticing she was only working with the one ingredient.

"Coriander and cumin too, but not how you think," she said, studying the seeds -- she just wanted to release a little flavor, not grind completely, and she was considering whether they were sufficiently crushed. "But that's my own personal twist."

"Ah, a secret ingredient?" he asked, eyebrows rising.

"Not secret, really, just unusual," she said. "Are you familiar with hawaj?"

"Not overly," he said, considering. "I don't think I have any."

"I mix my own, I brought some. Cumin and coriander, cardamom, black pepper, and clove."

"Very heady. But the clove...?"

"I don't put in very much," she said with a grin, already anticipating his concern. "For the restaurant I usually use a little tomato as well to bring the heat down, but I can give you the high-octane version if you want."

"Hm. Let us try with tomatoes first -- I can always adjust later if needed," he said.

"Good call. So, this and the hawaj need to toast, then I'll add tomato to the rest to get it a nice caramelization, and then everything into the food proessor."

"Fresh or sun-dried tomatoes? There is tomato paste too, but it's Eddie's."

"Sun-dried'll be fine. Pantry?"

"Yes -- the shelf on the right, past the flour bins," he said, gesturing at the door in the corner.

His pantry was full of jars and cans and bundles of herbs alongside things like boxed breakfast cereal and various liquors clearly meant for cooking, but it was reasonably well-organized for a working pantry. She found the tomatoes almost at once, but used the quest as an excuse to poke around a little, envious at its size. He had an entire shelf of hand-labeled little bottles of olive oil -- they all had the Dux Shivadlakia seal on them, but otherwise they were marked with masking tape and scrawly handwriting in marker pen. Top Shelf and Herb Infused v.2 and even one marked Simon, I don't like this one much. Probably the duke's handwriting, she realized. He must use Simon as a tester of sorts for his various oils.

She was about to emerge with the jar of sun-dried tomatoes when she heard a new voice in the kitchen; peering out she saw it was the king emeritus, calling a greeting to Simon. In theory there was no reason she couldn't also step out and say hello -- it wasn't like Simon was banned from having guests in his kitchen, she knew -- but perhaps it would be better to be discreet.

"Good afternoon! No Joan today?" Simon asked, turning to face Michaelis.

"Oh, she'll probably be along," he answered, looking a little distracted. "I haven't seen her, I just came up to do a little research -- I was going to the library..."

Ylias watched, startled, as he visibly faltered, putting his hand out to rest it on the surface of the prep table. His other hand went to the back of his neck, head bowing, and he muttered something she didn't catch from her place behind the pantry door.

Simon moved swiftly, slinging an arm around Michaelis's waist and steadying him, pulling the man's arm over his shoulder. It wasn't a move she expected to see between employer and staff, especially without any hesitation in the least -- it was a genuine, affectionate, instinctive and highly physical gesture, laced with worry. Not sexual, she thought, but intimate.

"It's all right," she heard the old king say. "Momentary lightheadedness."

"You are still -- "

"Yes, I know, that's why I came here instead, I needed food," he interrupted, a little crankily. "I checked my level this morning, I was fine then."

"Sit. I will bring something," Simon said, helping him to where a little dining table with two real chairs, not stools, was arranged nearby.

This was almost certainly something she wasn't meant to see, and she stepped further back into the pantry to make sure she wasn't spotted. Simon ducked in and put his finger to his lips, and she nodded. He took a carton of cashews from the shelf, and she could hear the two men speaking as he poured out a bowl of them, along with a glass of tomato juice from the refrigerator. Michaelis ate and sipped his juice meekly, while Simon stood nearby, texting someone.

It didn't take long for reinforcements to arrive -- Princeps Joan and Duke Gerald together, hurrying in just as His Grace was finishing the cashews. There was some ribbing and grumbling as they bundled him out of the kitchen, but it didn't seem like an emergency, exactly. She put her head out cautiously once they were gone.

"Thank you for your discretion," Simon said, rubbing his face. "Not the time to explain my social life or kitchen experiments to His Grace."

"Is he okay?" she asked. "That seemed serious. I'm not going to spread rumors," she added, seeing his face.

"His Grace developed anemia over the winter. That is known, not a secret. But he still has trouble, that is less known. Both he and his body are stubborn. His iron is rising but I must still see to it. Spinach, red meat, eggs and nuts, red wine if he'll drink it." He gestured haplessly. "Every good fresh food full of iron I can think of. And still sometimes..."

She nodded, sympathetic. "Sometimes it takes time. Older you get, longer it takes."

"True. But I have fed his family for thirty years. I was a gift for Her Majesty Miranda, you know. He hired me for their anniversary. Now she has passed, and he worries me," he said, looking tired. "Their majesties and the children are my responsibility, even he has said so, but I cannot simply stop caring."

She nodded, considering. "Beans?"

"Chickpeas, lentils. Ser Deimos makes sure the lodge has tinned baked beans."

They shared a momentary look -- tinned beans, for heaven's sake.

"I suppose no shellfish," she said. "Offal?"

"Not favored by the family, but liver on occasion. Giblet gravy with roast chicken. He is fond of sardines, when I find use for them. He has vitamins also."

"And you mentioned eggs and greens. Sounds like you're doing all you can," she said. Some rough emotion passed over his face, there and gone, but the frustrated tension in his shoulders eased. "Simon," she said. He looked at her. "You've known him for decades. It's natural to worry."

"But not helpful," he replied. "We should finish the harissa."

"Won't take particularly long, all the prep's done. You load up the food processor -- only half the chilis -- and I'll do the spices," she said, adding oil to a pan already on the stove. "We'll do a version with vinegar first, so the davzda won't infect everything."

They were quiet for a few minutes, working over their respective stations, and then she brought the toasted spices and tomatoes over, adding them in. He fitted the lid on and began pulsing everything together while she streamed in olive oil. He watched the stream closely.

"I don't bother measuring it anymore, I know by the color when it's got enough oil," she said, still pouring a steady but thin drizzle. "I think the original recipe was about four ounces. Depends on the chilis, of course."

"Of course."

"My maman's a chemist, so she's always very precise," she continued. "She'd have weighed the chilis too, and timed the toast on the harissa."

"You have more faith in your abilities," he observed.

"So do you, I see how you don't measure," she said, grinning.

"When I make pastry I am very precise. For the rest, as you say. I know when the color is right, or the smell."

"Anyway, I don't think of it as trusting myself more -- I think of it as her trusting the universe to be predictable. Or at least her small corner of it."

"Perhaps. But you cannot add as much water to bread when it is rainy; you must salt soup to taste."

"Well, I'm of your mind -- there, scrape it down and give it another chop," she said, setting the olive oil aside. It took a few more minutes of scraping and blending, but in the end the warm, fragrant harissa paste was scooped out and into a bowl, and they both examined it.

"Now...davzda," he said, sounding excited and doomed at once, like someone about to attend an execution but fortunately not theirs.

"I'm wondering, should we just try to loosen it up with the raw hooch?" she asked. "Or actually make some shakshouka and stir the davzda into that?"

"I think to start, we make a sauce -- some beautiful harissa, some davzda, and some broth," he said. "I will reserve some for further experiments."

She carried the bowl to the stove and set out a saucepan, spooning some of the harissa into it and then shuffling aside so he could add chicken broth; he whisked them together cold, then added a careful pour of davzda from the ubiquitous gray-green bottle. The smell that rose from the mixture was...herbal, but it began to fade into something more pleasantly spicy as it heated. She was just about to suggest a taste to see if it needed salt (or something to cut the salt, given davzda's unique flavor) when Duke Gerald returned. He stopped, clearly surprised to see her, then gave her a smile and a nod.

"His Grace is well?" Simon said, which was perhaps not the most discreet, but did make it clear they could speak openly in front of her, something she appreciated.

"More or less," Duke Gerald said, turning to Simon. "I think he forgot his supplement this morning, probably why he stopped in. Al's got vitamins left over from when she was pregnant, so I gave him one and told him to take the bottle, maybe keep it in his bag as a backup. His ego seems unwounded by being made to take prenatal supplements, so I guess the cashews perked him up."

"Will he stay to dinner?"

"Yeah, Jes wants to walk him back to the lodge but they can't realistically get here before dinner anyway, they're in town. Joan volunteered but I didn't want to put that on a kid, and anyway he could use to sit the hell still for a minute. I guess it's a positive that now Joanie's worried about him instead of sad about Eph going home," he sighed.

"A tumultuous summer," Simon said thoughtfully. "I will make the meatballs for dinner, Eddie's recipe, and I have cookies for Joan. Extra frosting, perhaps."

A look of such childlike hopefulness crossed Duke Gerald's face that it was hard not to laugh.

"Yes, and for you as well," Simon told him, amused. "Now, if His Grace wishes more food, send Joan to get some from me, otherwise I have dinner to prepare."

"Right you are. Off I go. Keep him out of trouble, Mr. Lazaar, and there's a bottle of the duke's new premium label olive oil in it for you," he added, winking at her, and left.

"Premium label, I'm moving up in the world," Ylias said. "You could have told me to step outside."

"It is a privilege of long service that the family knows anyone I vouch for is discreet," he replied. "And also, I will now use some of this harissa for dinner -- not the davzda sauce," he said hurriedly, at her expression. "His Grace is fond of a recipe Eddie makes, little tarragon meatballs in a spicy tomato sauce. I think he will appreciate the new flavor, and not be annoyed that I am once again trying to drown him in tomatoes and beef."

"You've known Duke Gerald almost all his life. It shows -- he talks to you like a man would talk to a father."

"I have never wanted children of my own, but I have enjoyed helping to raise them," Simon agreed. "And now they trust me with their own children. I like to think that when I am gone, I will be remembered when they eat a good meal, or when they prepare recipes I teach them. Certainly King Gregory will remember all his days the time I taught him to make curry," he added.

"I never wanted kids either but that's partly because I was very awkward around 'em," Ylias said.

"You were good with Joan, though!"

"Well, once they get past the sticky stage, they're all right," she said. "Like your nephew Claude, or Joan."

"A very big advantage of being chef de cuisine and not father or nanny -- I have never had to change a diaper," Simon agreed. "Now, I must begin prep for dinner, I think, while this simmers."

"Can I help?" she asked.

He blinked at her. "Oh -- it is my job and I am too accustomed to it. But..." he added, considering, "You won't go yet, will you? You must taste this sauce. And I have been accustomed to company, but not so much with Eddie now looking after the little ones."

"Can I criticize your technique?" she asked, grinning, and he laughed.

"Only in French, and I will not be gracious about it," he replied.

"I'd worry if you were," she said, stationing herself at the stove to mind the sauce while he gathered ingredients. By the time he was done assembling the meatballs, the sauce had thickened and darkened to an almost mahogany color, and Simon's spirits had improved. He procured some twist-bread and fetched crudite from the fridge ("I keep carrot sticks for Joan, and His Majesty will enjoy the leftover cucumber at dinner,") and she spooned some sauce out into a bowl, dipping the bread while he tried a piece of carrot.

At the first taste, he looked thoughtful, chewing the carrot and harissa sauce with a blank look on his face. Ylias, taken off-guard, coughed and nearly choked when she finally tasted it.

"Oh, no, oh dear," she said, taking a long sip of water while he grinned, still chewing. "It's...so earthy."

"The flavoring in the alcohol, I think," he said, finally swallowing and rinsing his own mouth out. "The oil in the chilis brings out the mushroom in the davzda."

"Ugh, but the worst part," she managed. "That's awful. It's not even bitter, really, not like davzda is, it's just...almost cloying."

"Yes, but..." he considered, eyes narrowed. "There is good flavor there too, just not in balance."

She tapped her tongue against the roof of her mouth, chasing stray hints of the sauce, then braced herself and took another, smaller taste.

"You can almost get to it," she agreed, considering more deeply. "I never bother with mushrooms in shakshouka because they're just texture at that point, the flavor's too delicate for the spice. But maybe...if you could just cut the flavor a bit."

"Less davzda?"

"Defeats the point, but maybe. Or..." she considered. "There's a lot of tomato coming through, but it's the acid. Do you think a sweet note would help, or would that just make it worse?"

"Make this worse?" he asked, amused, but he was already reaching for a jar on the counter. "The family likes muscovado in their coffee," he said, using the little spoon in the jar to lift out a mound of golden-brown sugar. "Yes?"

She gestured for him to give it a try; he added a few spoonfuls and then stirred it with the whisk again. The sauce darkened further, but when they tasted it this time, the horror had receded.

"Oh, that's...actually nice," she said. "Salty-sweet. You could even use molasses -- or a sherry if you wanted."

"Yes. Very good," he agreed, and then he leaned in and kissed her.

It surprised them both, she could tell; she didn't pull away -- he was a very good kisser -- but when he leaned back, he looked startled by what he'd done.

"Ah, perhaps inappropriate," he said. "Only -- I like this very much, this experimentation. With the sauce," he added in a stammer. "Although, of course -- "

She held up a finger and he fell silent, looking relieved.

"I like it too," she said. "A little warning next time, maybe."

"I should finish dinner," he said, looking regretful, but then he added, "Warning?" and leaned in slow enough that she could meet him, engaging more fully in this kiss than the last.

Then he jerked back sharply, and she wasn't sure why until she heard shouting in the hallway; a faint voice calling out to someone, and then the thump of running feet and Joan burst into the kitchen.

"Gerald said Chef Lazaar was here!" she said, and Simon gave Ylias a knowing look before turning around.

"Yes, I have been taking lessons at her feet," he said to Joan, as she hopped onto a stool and beamed at them. "Learning to make her harissa paste recipe. Are you hungry, Princeps?"

"I just came to say hello. I have to go back 'cause I'm minding grandfather. He's going to take me to eat at Plate&Press, though," she added breathlessly.

"I'm glad to hear it," Ylias said with a smile. "Tell Simon what day you're coming, and I'll hold a table for you."

"What day is quiet? I want to see the kitchen but Dad says we shouldn't get in the way of a working chef," she said. "So we won't come on a day when you're very busy."

"Hopefully no day is too quiet," Ylias said, laughing. "But Wednesday and Thursday nights are slower. As long as we aren't in the weeds I'll give you a tour."

"Awesome," Joan said. "Okay, I have to go back. Thank you, Chef! Thank you Mr. Lazaar!" she added, and bolted again.

"You have a fan," Simon said.

"No pressure," Ylias replied. "Although she's a cute kid, and His Grace seems to have a decent palate. Send me some intel on what they like, I'll fix up something special."

"That's very good of you," he said, an odd note in his voice. "And now, to these meatballs! Stay if you please, but once these are in the oven I must make a salad and some pasta and -- I think I will serve this sauce with the crudite, and see what Eddie thinks."

"Ah, I should get going. I want to go over some notes from the library, and maman will be interested to hear about the sauce."

"Still haven't found your stew?" he asked.

"No, but hints here and there." She gathered up the spices she'd brought and shouldered her bag, leaning in to kiss his cheek. "I'm free next Monday, though, or -- well, Wednesdays and Thursdays are slow," she added impishly. He smiled.

"I will bear that in mind -- and not get in the way, as Joan advises," he said.

That night, having tidied away her notes and regaled Maman with tales of her day, she found herself idly daydreaming. Ordinarly, she didn't especially like other people in her kitchen; necessary in a restaurant of course, but for home cooking, even when she cooked with Maman she liked to have her own space. Most of her lovers hadn't been chefs themselves and were content to stay out of the kitchen --

But she liked sharing a kitchen with Simon, seeing his expression as he tasted food they'd made together. Ribbing each other had felt natural, even affectionate, now that the hard edge they'd had as strangers had worn away.

"You're quiet tonight," maman said, looking up from the budget she was carefully laying out for her department.

"Getting into trouble in my own head," Ylias said, shrugging. "Just mulling over the day, that's all."

***

I have known chefs who do not care for communal kitchens; while it is commonly believed that one of the joys of life is to cook with loved ones, there are some who prefer to be full master. Then too, there are some whose loved ones are not...naturally inclined towards talent with food. Myself, I enjoy being with those I love when I cook, and I am told I have a natural patience that makes me an effective teacher. As the palace fills with children again, I have been reflecting on what to teach them, and how to give them the skills to learn for themselves when I cannot be there.

When they were young, little prince Gregory and his cousins liked to spend time in the kitchen; I taught them some little dishes suitable for children, and when they were older sometimes demonstrated more complicated technique. They could all at least feed themselves by the time Prince Gregory and Lady Alanna went off to university, but it was simple fare, and living in Paris offered exceptional opportunity to eat well in restaurants for reasonable prices, if one knew where to go. It was not until Prince Gregory was in London that I received the most urgent request for help.

Prince Gregory enjoyed his lessons at the London School of Economics and has put his degree to good use, but he did not care for London itself. He was without either of his beloved cousins, a foreign prince in a new city, and a child of the Mediterranean living in a foggy, overcast place. He spoke of finding some of his classmates dull, and though he did not speak of this, I now know that he struggled with whether he should come out, given he wished to be king. Some say the struggle of a wealthy, well-educated young noble to fit into one of the finest cities in the world is no great tragedy, but the prince was unhappy, and we are all permitted unhappiness in this world.

I received the call just after I had collected the dinner plates; it was an hour earlier in London. His Highness greeted me with, "Simon, I'm desperate. I'm so glad you picked up."

Alarmed, I asked what was wrong; his reply almost made me laugh, though I could hear he was close to tears.

"I've been trying all afternoon and I can't get this curry right. Curry's easy, I don't know what I'm doing wrong! All the ingredients are right, I bought good fresh curry powder, but I'm almost out of chicken and I already had to buy more yogurt -- I just wanted your curry, it's different from what you can buy here! I want your curry."

He was silent then, and knowing the royal family as I do, I decided I would pay no notice to his upset.

"Which?" I asked. "The sweet curry? The tikka masala?"

"The sweet curry, the orange one you always make. Mine's a mess, it's gritty and bitter, the flavor's all wrong."

Curry is not a native dish to Askazer-Shivadlakia, but it is well-loved here, and sweet chicken curry was often served as a comfort food on rainy nights or when high emotions sometimes threatened the young teenagers of the palace. No doubt the prince was seeking comfort in familiar food. The upset was understandable.

I asked him what ingredients he had, and found that one or two were different from what I would have used, but not enough to entirely alter the flavor of the dish. I determined, having finished my regular duties for the day, to walk him through it via telephone. Prince Gregory was always an eager student. I asked first what he had done, and immediately the problem became very clear.

"You must toast the seasonings first," I told him, and there was a long pause.

"Like...in the...toaster?" he asked, and then I did laugh.

"You have watched me cook so many times! Did you never see me put the seasonings into the pan to toast? That is why the bitterness and the grit. You cannot season the sauce at the end. Now, we will start over from the beginning."

Slowly and carefully we went through the recipe, first sauteeing the aromatics and then adding the curry powder and other seasonings to toast before beginning to build the sauce. He repeated back my instructions to me -- diligent to the last -- and finally was able to taste his first curry made under his own hand, in his small flat in London. It is good to cook with loved ones, even if it is by telephone, at the end of a long day.

His Majesty has not often needed my counsel, in cooking or in life, but those who do not need advice still sometimes need comfort. And all should know how to make a delicious curry.

Recipes:
Simple Chicken or Tofu Curry, Shivadh Style
Tips for Basmati Rice

***

Simon did show up at Plate&Press that Wednesday night, and close enough to closing that he knew Ylias would suspect him of ulterior motives -- which he did have, but he wasn't so crude as to say it outright. He sat at the bar so as not to make more work for the waitstaff, who were already beginning to wipe down tables.

"Whatever is left in the kitchen," he told the bartender, who nodded and ducked through the door, returning a few moments later with a bowl of potatoes and chickpeas.

"Turmeric-garlic roast potatoes, courtesy of Chef Lazaar," he said, and then set out a pint glass. "She ordered you up a cocktail, too."

Simon grinned. "No choice, eh?"

"Well, it's the new house special," the man continued, pouring out what smelled like tomato juice from a jar. "Just put it on the menu this week. The Spicy Mary -- tomato juice, vodka, and harissa paste, shaken with lime." He added ingredients as he spoke, shaking them up, and poured the resulting concoction into a highball glass, garnishing it with a wedge of lime and two olives. Simon sipped, nodded appreciatively, and worked his way through the potatoes and chickpeas, notebook open on the bar next to him to record his thoughts, while the bartender helped a few more late-night drinkers stopping in for last call.

He was most of the way through the potatoes and halfway through the Spicy Mary when Ylias emerged, drying her hands on a towel at her waist, and leaned on the bar.

"You don't have to go home, Chef, but you can't stay here," she said, smiling, and his smile in return felt conspiratorial. "What can I do for you?"

"The pleasure of your company, if you aren't too tired," he said. "If you are, then I am a messenger -- His Grace, Ser Deimos, and Princeps Ioanna request a table for tomorrow night, and I have written down some notes for you on their tastes. I think you will find them easy to please."

He turned to the back of the notebook, where some loose pages were tucked, and passed one across.

"Hm. Medium heat tolerance for young Joan, not that surprising; His Grace likes the extra spicy, also oddly predictable," she said. "What did he think of the sauce?"

"He liked the new sauce for the meatballs very much -- the whole family did. The davzda sauce..." he waggled a hand. "Lady Alanna liked it, and Eddie. His Grace, not so much. He has a grudge against davzda. His Majesty enjoyed it, but was not so effusive as Eddie."

"Well, can't win them all, I suppose," she said, still scanning his notes. "I'm sorry, does this say pizza?"

"Ah, well, that is trivia, not their request. I thought you might like to know. Ser Deimos is very fond of American-style pizza, specifically "New York" pizza, after living there so many years," he said.

"Makes sense. Ugh, American pizza sauce is so sweet. Do they like cream sauce at all?"

"Yes -- the more garlic the better," he said.

"Well, that's something to work with. Most of these flavors are already on the menu, at least."

"Chef," someone called, leaning through the kitchen door. Ylias looked up, eyebrows rising. "We're gonna start cleaning," she said, and then tilted her head slightly, smiling. "We got it covered if you want to head out."

"Cheek," Ylias replied. "Sure you've got it?"

"Yeah, no problem."

Ylias nodded. "Take home the leftover slata, it won't keep past Friday anyway."

"Thanks chef!" she called, and vanished again.

"I would like to feed you if you haven't eaten, and enjoy your company if you have," Simon said. "But say the word and I fly away."

"No, that sounds nice. Your place?"

"Yours if you prefer, but I have the car, and the drive is fast. Or -- the kebab stand nearby is open late. Al fresco dining," he tempted.

"Much as I love a kebab, I'd rather be in your kitchen," she said, and he filled with warmth at the way she phrased it. "Can you take me home quickly first? I'll grab a change of clothes and let my mother know."

He waited in the car while she ducked into what looked like a very pretty little cottage; he wouldn't have minded coming inside, but she said, "I'll only be a minute," and he knew that it could be difficult to let someone into one's home for the first time without any warning. She was back as quickly as she'd gone, anyway.

"Maman was asleep, so I left a note," she said, slinging a small bag into the back. "I really should get an early night if I'm hosting the royals tomorrow, but -- "

"Life is for pleasure," he said. "If you change your mind, not a problem -- but my bed is comfortable, and I know how to be quick."

She cackled. "Do you woo all your dates like this?"

"Only the ones that need a good night's sleep."

"No, drive on. I want eggs and avocado toast again in the morning, though."

"The royal chef, at your service," he replied, and pulled away into the night.

***

That Thursday was the day of the royal portrait photo, now that the twins were old enough to tolerate it and Joan had been fitted for her uniform. It was also, unfortunately, the day Monday left for her vacation, her first trip out of Fons-Askaz since giving birth. Michaelis was relieved that she slipped away while the family was having their portrait photos taken, so there were no tearful goodbyes. She'd be back in a week, but coming so close on the heels of Ephraim's departure, it was hard on everyone. The Ramblers were an enthusiastic, boisterous family -- even Ephraim was a handful in his own way -- and they could be tiring, but they were always entertaining.

Michaelis would certainly miss Monday; being honest, he'd probably be the one to miss her the most of anyone after Eddie. They'd formed a friendship based on an interest in history and the diving lessons she'd given him, as well as shared amusement over the resulting rumors that they were having an affair.

Otherwise, he felt better than he had in weeks. He wasn't trying to catch his breath nearly so often, and he didn't feel tired simply from minding Joan or holding the grandchildren. Jes had said he looked less pale, too. Which was good, because he also knew Jes had warned Joan that if he was tired, he might not be able to go with them to Plate&Press.

"How're you feeling?" they asked him, as the photographer packed up his equipment that evening, while Gregory and Eddie soothed the fussing twins and Gerald and Alanna took cold glasses of juice from the little hutch Simon had set up for the purpose.

"Tired of having to think about it constantly, but overall, excellent," he said, smiling. "I think things might finally be on the upswing. Absolutely ready to take you and Joan to dinner, when you're ready. Joan!" he called, and Joan stopped making faces at little Serafina, looking up. "Almost time to go. Do you want to wear the uniform to dinner?"

"Can I?" she asked, tugging on her jacket. She was immensely proud of the royal uniform, deep black with gold trim, identical to Gregory's in miniature. She'd worn it to several state events already, and she did look inches taller in it, somehow. "Would it be too official?"

"Oh, no, it's fine, I think," he said. "It's only that if you want to change, you should run on and change now."

"No, let's go! Let me tell Dads," she said, and dashed off to accost her fathers.

"Is she really that hot on Tunisian food?" Jes asked. "I mean, it's great food, and I like to see her eating, but I've never seen her so excited about eating."

"Simon told me that chef you fancy made an impression on her," Michaelis told them, grinning.

"Well, shows Joan has good taste," Jes said, utterly unfazed by the tease. "And Chef Lazaar can cook food on something other than a grill, which you are still mastering."

"I hired a chef for a reason," he said. "I was busy running the country."

"Yeah, you always play that card," Jes said, as Joan ran back. "Come on, Princeps, if we walk from here into town we'll get there right on time for the booking Simon arranged for us."

"Can you walk into town, Grandfather?" Joan asked, looking up at him. "We can drive. Even if we take the minivan."

"You know, I think I can," he said, ruffling her hair.

There was a minor stir when they walked into Plate&Press, which was quiet in the early evening, but did have a handful of tourists and one or two locals. He suspected the tourists were more impressed with Joan, in her royal regalia; every year fewer foreigners recognized him, now that his face wasn't on most of the currency anymore, but even the newest tourist tended to recognize the uniform. The host seated them promptly, at a very good table that commanded a view of the room but allowed for some privacy.

"Chef Lazaar is happy to recommend a tasting menu, but didn't want to presume," their server said, pouring water from a jug as they studied the menus. "We do have two specials tonight: a garlic-cream-sauce flatbread with local cheeses and grilled peppers, and a lamb tagine, served spicy or mild."

"Those sound like specials that she was, perhaps, tipped off about," Michaelis said, amused. The server kept a poker face. "The lamb tagine sounds fine, spicy for me."

"I'd hate for a good flatbread to go to waste," Jes said. "Joan, you need a minute?"

"What's a tagine?" Joan asked the server.

"It's a clay pot stew with vegetables and couscous," she replied. "Very tender lamb."

"Can I have it mild?"

"Of course, Princeps."

"We'll have a starter, too, whatever Chef recommends," Michaelis said. "And whatever drinks your bartender thinks would pair with the meal."

"Very good, Your Grace."

"And can you say hello to Chef Lazaar from me?" Joan added impulsively. "But not if she's busy!"

"She knows you're here," the server said. "If you like, I'll take you back to see the kitchen now."

Joan started to get up, then looked at her grandparents for permission.

"Remember what Eddie told you about being in a working kitchen," Michaelis said, then gestured her off. "Go on. Mind your manners."

"You really think Simon told Lazaar what to set as specials?" Jes asked, as Joan bounced up and disappeared into the kitchen.

"Oh, probably. He'd consider it a courtesy. Most of the places we used to eat when I was king knew the family's tastes -- all chefs gossip like old hens, you know -- but the last few years of the reign I mostly ate at home, and Gregory was too busy to dine out much. And Lazaar is new, so she'd have no way of knowing anyway."

"Simon LeFevre, the shadow king."

"Well, he's earned the crown. Mind you, I haven't often seen him take to someone the way he has to Lazaar -- she hardly needs mentorship, but it seems as though he's smoothed the way for her a little. I don't even know when she met Joan, but Gerald says he's seen her in the palace kitchen once or twice."

"Seems a little...." Jes considered their words. "I don't want to imply she's some kind of threat, I like her a lot, but he doesn't usually just allow random people in his kitchen."

"Well, he's a good judge of character, and if he trusts her I'm certain we can. He trusted Eddie immediately, which worked out very well, in the end."

"You don't say," Jes said, smiling.

Joan was in the kitchen for long enough that Michaelis was beginning to be a little concerned -- partly that she was pestering the staff, partly that she might have wandered off -- but the server brought out their drinks and then the starter unconcernedly, so probably she was just enjoying her tour. Eventually the server emerged from the kitchen again, this time with both Joan and a tray of food. And also the chef.

"Good evening, Your Grace, Ser Deimos," Lazaar said, as Joan sat down again while the server set their plates in front of them. "Thank you for the loan of the princeps. She helped me season your tagine properly. The lamb is sourced from a farm on the border near Fossan, and of course the cream is local. Many of the seasonings and the garlic are from my own garden, although I regret to say the peppers are imported."

"Scandalous," Jes told her, smiling. She smiled back and winked.

"If you have any questions or anything isn't to your liking, of course let us know," she finished, and gave them a deep Shivadh bow. "Very nice to see you again. Ah, and you should know Princeps Joan was extremely well-behaved. Please convey my compliments to her father, who clearly taught her how to dodge in a kitchen. Bon appetit," she added, and withdrew.

Joan glowed under the praise for a full ten or fifteen minutes, while she inhaled her tagine (which was very good, Michaelis agreed, though he preferred to actually taste his food while eating). She finished before them, but didn't seem to mind sitting and listening, occasionally commenting, as they ate at a more leisurely pace. By the time they'd settled the bill and started on the walk home, the restaurant was deservedly filling with eager patrons.

"I think Simon likes Ylias," Joan said as they walked, still bouncy from dinner but visibly starting to wear out. "Like-likes."

"Why do you say that?" Jes asked.

"They're always hanging out," Joan replied.

"Well, they are working on the Reclamation Day committee together," Michaelis observed.

"Maaaaybe. But there's lots of people on the committee and he never hangs out with any of them. And he looks at her funny. But she looks at him funny too, so maybe that's just grownups."

"Difficult to say. Best not to assume," he said.

"Although sometimes fun to speculate," Jes added. "But yes, don't gossip too much about it."

"Some of King Jason's journals say you shouldn't gossip because if it's worth gossipping about, it's worth saving to use to your advantage," Joan said.

"And what do you think of that?" Michaelis asked carefully.

"He had to be a different king than you or Father," she said. "Or he wanted to. I haven't decided. But I don't think it's good at all. Gossip is about people. You shouldn't gossip but you also shouldn't use people like that. I'm glad you and Father don't treat people that way."

"A very good answer," he said quietly, a little relieved.

"And very true," Jes said. "Even when you're grown up yourself, and all ethical considerations aside, other people have a right to privacy about their affairs."

"Unless you're a royal," Joan said. "Then you're fair game."

"Not entirely, but I see your point," Jes answered.

"Has someone been pestering you?" Michaelis asked. "Or talking about you on Photogram in ways they oughtn't?"

"Not more than they always have since Dads adopted me. But they do talk about all of us. Father the most, then Noah. Maybe Aunt Alanna doesn't get it so much. Dad says when they talk about him it doesn't count because he's always asking for it by posting all the time. Uncle Gerald says he doesn't mind because these days it's all boring political stuff instead of exciting shenanigans."

"Gerald did have a long shenanigan phase," Jes laughed.

"Anyway, I still want to run for king but if I don't get it, maybe it'd be okay being staff, since they don't get written about as much. Or have to do...hard things sometimes."

"Going to be the next royal chef, perhaps?" Michaelis asked.

"I like eating more than cooking. Too bad there's no royal taster anymore."

"Create jobs -- become a royal poisoner, then we'd need a taster," Michaelis suggested. Joan laughed.

"Hemlock and arsenic!" she said, and then dodged away from them momentarily, distracted by a distant window display.

"She may be right about Simon. You know how perceptive she is sometimes," Jes said.

"I try not to pry into the personal lives of the staff, but Simon has a reputation as one of nature's Casanovas. Might do him good to get swept off his feet by Mr. Lazaar," Michaelis replied. "Ah, young love."

"They're both older than I am."

"But younger than I am. Well, I suppose we'll find out," he said. "You know, after we return Joan to the palace, it'll still be fairly early."

"We could take the Jaguar for a drive," Jes suggested.

"We could! Or we could take advantage of the fact Noah's out late doing that summer training on the Dychev," he said. "Lodge to ourselves. A nightcap, some music..."

Jes looked delighted, which had been his aim anyway. "Is this a proposition? You are feeling better."

"Just enjoying the evening. And your company."

"Well, I have to admit I like-like you, so yes, that sounds very nice," they said. "Let's get Joan home."

Chapter Text

Ylias went to bed on Thursday night self-satisfied on a number of levels. She'd served the king emeritus and his family a meal they seemed to enjoy, which was both gratifying as a chef and good publicity for the restaurant. The princeps had been as well-behaved as one could expect when poking around the kitchen, and she felt she'd been able to offer the kid some words of wisdom, too. That was nice on a personal level, as a butch who'd been a little confused herself at Joan's age.

Joan had asked if she would rather be Chef Lazaar, as befitted her station, or Mr. Lazaar, since it must be very satisfying to hear. Ylias had said she liked both, which had led to a brief discussion (she was sauteeing at the time) of whether a girl could hold the title of king, and whether it was, in practicality, gender-neutral. Simon was right about the princeps being a little uncanny sometimes; she didn't always sound older than her years but Ylias hadn't known a lot of people her age who could use "in practicality" properly.

"I mean, 'Your Majesty' isn't gendered, but 'Her Majesty' is," Joan had said. "What if you wanted to be King but Her Majesty? Or King and His Majesty, but she/her for everything else?"

"Well, plenty of women have ruled, and some have even done it as kings, so I guess you'd have options," Ylias said. "Look up Hatshepsut sometime -- she was the wife of a pharoah but she became full co-pharoah, and ruled alone after he died. Wore a fake royal beard and everything."

Joan's eyes had lit up and she'd tapped it into her phone notes, just before the tagine was ready, and Ylias had let her help finish seasoning her grandfather's stew. The family had apparently liked the food, since Ser Deimos had put up a picture of the meal on Photogram and tagged Plate&Press in it. Just in time, too, given what Ylias had planned for Sunday.

So she did the early morning shopping for the restaurant cheerfully, and when a text came in from Simon, she smiled at it in the middle of morning prep.

My employers give me good reports of this new restaurant, it said. Have you eaten at Plate&Press? The tagine is excellent, it appears. Do not reply, I know you are in prep.

She didn't just then, but before opening there was a brief lull, and she stepped into the alley while the other chefs were smoking to answer. I'm glad they liked it. Ser Deimos was kind to give me some free publicity.

Deserved, I'm sure. May I call quickly?

She blinked, then wrote back, I have about two minutes.

The phone rang as soon as she sent it; the other chefs glanced at her, curious.

"Bonjour," she answered, grinning at them, and Simon picked up on the hint.

"Ah, French, is it?" he asked in French.

"Just in case you wanted dirty talk. I'm with the kitchen staff," she replied.

He laughed. "No, it's just easier to explain over the phone. You know the Friday night galas the Palace hosts?"

"Yes -- do they still have them? I remember hearing about them as a kid."

"Oh yes. Usually it's wine and very light bites; I do some prep but the palace canteen staff does most of it. After the guests leave, we have family dinner -- canteen, myself, some of the waitstaff, sometimes the family. I know it's short notice, but I thought you might like to attend. Not to help," he clarified. "But we should be finishing up just as you do, so you could come to dinner tonight."

"Are you sure it's okay?"

"Eddie expressed an interest this morning in meeting you properly."

"Sounds fun," she said, although it also sounded faintly intimidating. "Sure. Should I text when I'm closing up here so that you know when I'll be there?"

"Perfect. And my two minutes are up," he said. "See you tonight."

"See you then," she said, and rang off, tapping her phone against her lips.

"Hot date?" one of the chefs asked.

"Is it Chef LeFevre? He seems to like you," another chimed in.

"I thought speaking French would be a hint not to ask," she told them. They grinned at each other. "Come on, let's get ahead of the opening rush."

***

Ylias might have been concerned about meeting Eddie, or maybe not; Simon didn't worry, and knew immediately he was right not to have. Eddie was charmed within minutes.

It wasn't hard to charm Eddie, granted; he was a man disposed to like people, and to accept them for who they were. But he loved food and to talk about food, and people who were genuine about their love of food -- people who were genuine generally -- were his favorite kind of people.

Most of the staff were eating in the tired silence of a job well done; some had already gone home. Simon sat at the long canteen table and watched Eddie and Ylias talk from a distance, entranced and delighted. Eddie was gesturing, Ylias nodding, then speaking almost before he'd finished.

"Mr. Lazaar can't have everyone," Gregory said in a low voice, settling on the canteen bench next to Simon. "First Jes, now Eddie? He has children, Simon. Think of the children."

"You know who holds his heart," Simon replied. "Ylias is only borrowing his stomach for a moment."

"Sure, defend her, I see how it is."

"Where are les enfants, by the way?" Simon asked. "Have you let them loose to scavenge in the wild?"

"Asleep in the residence. I just came down to check in, I'll go back soon." Gregory pointed to a bud in one ear. "I've got the monitor on my phone, and Joan's sitting up with them. She likes feeling like we trust her with the responsibility."

"You chose well with her."

"Wasn't a choice. Just loved her too much to do anything else," Gregory said.

"So your parents told me years ago, about you and your cousins," Simon told him. "On nights much like tonight, in fact."

The king rested an elbow on the table, chin in hand. "When I was a kid I used to like the gala part the best, but I like this more now, I think."

"Now the gala is your job."

"True. It's fun, still, but it's also work. And then everyone goes home and we have this nice, quiet, peaceful meal." Gregory grinned sidelong at him. "Which is your doing, don't think I don't know."

"His Grace was always a little high-strung after the galas, and didn't sleep well at first. It was your mother's idea, to host this meal both for the staff and for themselves. I have always found it satisfying. And for His Grace -- and for you, too, for a time..." Simon grinned back. "Well, a late meal, particularly bread and cheese, brings sleep easier. Or so the old tradition goes."

"What tradition is that?" Eddie asked, distracted from Ylias for a moment, and Gregory laughed.

"Carbs and fat to make you sleepy," he said. "Simon was just telling me that Mom convinced him to stuff us full of food after these parties so we'd come down a little easier."

"Good idea. That could be a fun video, actually," Eddie said thoughtfully. "Sleepytime foods for when you need a knockout meal. How's that curried chicken salad recipe coming along, by the way? Speaking of festive meals."

"Top secret," Simon replied, glancing at Ylias, who made a lip-zipping motion with her mouth. "Mr. Lazaar and I cannot discuss such things in front of one another. And you may be a spy!"

"Aw, Simon, if I was a spy it'd be for you," Eddie said, standing. "Okay, Your Majesty, let's go. Joan needs to be put to bed so she can read for another hour while we pretend we don't know she's doing it. Chef, a pleasure to finally get to talk to you."

"Likewise," Ylias said. "And I'll speak to my mother about those recipes."

Eddie gave her finger-guns, because after all he might be a king and a father but he was still inevitably Eddie, and the kings left. Other people began to trickle out too.

"This was really fun," she said, as he walked her from the canteen to his own kitchen, and through to the little lot outside. "Thanks for inviting me."

"It was a pleasure to watch you charm His Majesty," he said, pausing in the doorway. "It could be a pleasure to invite you to come home with me, as well."

She sighed. "I really can't. We have an event on Sunday and I need to be on time and focused from now until Sunday night."

"Ah, no matter. What event, a private party?"

"No, we're having our first author reading! He's reading at six and then after he's leading a writing session. There's a lot to set up, is all, and a special menu."

"Ticketed? I mean, may I come?"

"It's open seating. I don't know if anyone's going to show up but I hope so. We're putting flyers in all the guesthouses and bookstores tomorrow. Or some kid I hired is, anyway. You should come, for the menu if nothing else."

"A delight. I have Sundays off. What kind of book?"

"Historical murder mystery. He's Italian -- he writes books about a translator who solves crimes. It's not the most highbrow, but they're fun and pretty popular locally. His first few books are getting an English translation now, so he's touring."

"Very good. I will come. Would you like me to drive you home?"

She leaned in and kissed him. "The temptation to take you home with me might be a little much. One of the staff lives near me, he's giving me a lift -- there," she said, catching sight of one of the canteen chefs and waving. Simon ignored a brief jolt of jealousy.

"See you Sunday. Bring an appetite," she said, and he watched until she'd gotten into the car and it had pulled away.

***

Sunday found Simon arriving early to the reading, wanting to get a good spot. Even so, he was almost too late -- when he got there the place was already crowded, and he ended up sharing a two-top with an acquaintance who graciously let him take the other chair. At quarter to six, Ylias darted out of the kitchen to hang a sign on the front door that read Event is full; meal service will resume at 8:30pm.

Every table had flat pan bread and dipping bowls at the start, and there were small plates served between the reading and the writing workshop; Simon savored the food as always, though he could tell Ylias's efforts might have been somewhat wasted on the other patrons, who were listening intently to the author.

The prose was solid, and he was interested enough that he considered buying the book, but for Simon the food would always come first. It was difficult to watch people eat absently while they paid more attention to some novel, and then to the author speaking about his experiences writing it. When the author retreated briefly for a quick break before leading the writing workshop, Simon quietly slipped into the kitchen. The waitstaff were busy, but Ylias and her chefs were clearly taking a quick break before they'd need to start gearing up for the next round of meal service.

"Congratulations," he said, coming to lean on the prep counter across from the stove, where Ylias was propped, rolling her shoulders and stretching her neck. "A very good turnout."

"Better than I expected. Hopefully the workshop goes well. It could be a real draw, having a creative writing space weekly," she replied. "What'd you think?"

"I think I'm very glad for you, but disappointed for you as well," he said. She frowned. "Your food should be the star. Your patrons don't properly appreciate it."

Ylias laughed. "Oh, is that all?"

"All? It is all," he insisted. "I like entertainment with dinner as much as the next man, but that is for average food. Yours deserves better."

"Well, I think so too," she said, amused. "But I don't mind. I wanted to bring in literary influences, and if nothing else it pays the bills. I can afford to be ignored once in a while if it means the restaurant thrives. What did you think of his reading?"

"Entertaining," he shrugged. "I might read the book. Why, is he a particular favorite of yours?"

"I haven't read the original Italian, but I really liked the translation when I got it. It's why I invited him to come read. Can't fault him for looks, either," she added, still amused. Simon narrowed his eyes. "Anyway, another fifteen minutes and we're bringing out desserts during the workshop, then I have to help prep because once he's done I have to do the handshake-thank-you-hope-you-had-fun goodbye dance while the rest of these layabouts handle second service."

"Well, he should be grateful to have his prose paired with your meal."

"I'm sure he is. Are you sticking around for the workshop?"

"Mm, dessert is tempting, but I think I would be bored. I may go to Fine's, try some of the new wine they took a risk on and report back to Hugo." He tilted his head. "If you like, I can stop in after closing. Whisk you away for a nightcap."

"I'm going to need to get home," she said, shaking her head, but before he could regretfully (but graciously) accept a no, she added, "Although you're welcome to come home with me if you like."

He raised his eyebrows. "To your home?"

"Well, I wasn't going to take you to someone else's," she teased. "Maman wasn't going to wait up for me, and she sleeps like the dead and anyway the walls are thick, so if you'd like to see the herb garden -- and the bedroom -- "

"Yes, I would like," he said, before she could reconsider.

"Well, then stop in around eleven, and you can walk me home," she replied. "Now shoo, you're in the way."

He retreated, ducking out the kitchen door, and went to Fine's with a bounce in his step; even the somewhat harassed bartenders noticed his cheerful manner as he sampled several of the new orange wines they had imported from across Europe. He didn't think much of any of them but, as he pointed out to the bartenders, the tourists would enjoy the novelty and most didn't have a refined enough palate to notice the quality.

"Want a bottle to take back with you, see if the royal family likes it more than you do?" Portia asked him with a wink.

"Mm, His Grace has no interest in tannins, so it would not do for a table wine for the family, but His Majesty Eddie may find a use for it in a reduction," he said, reaching for his wallet. "Yes, I will take a bottle of the '23, the Andalusian."

"Wrap it up now?" Portia asked. "Or if you want, I could deliver it when I get off," she said, tone suggestive. He looked up at her, surprised; she'd never indicated any interest in him before beyond professional courtesy. She shrugged. "Nothing else going on, and you've been on my list."

"A list!" he exclaimed, passing over a credit card to pay for the wine and the tasting flights. "Where do I fall on this list of yours?"

"Well, you used to be just below His Grace Gerald, but I had to skip him," she said.

"He's an attractive man, I will take the compliment. I am, however, otherwise engaged at present, I'm afraid," he said.

"Ah, well. Keep me in mind for when you eventually wriggle free, eh?"

"I do not wriggle," he said with dignity, and then smiled. "But if I do, I will."

She passed the bottle, card, and receipt across to him, the bottle wrapped in protective netting and a twist of brown paper. He tucked it into his bag, giving her a nod as he got up to leave.

Ylias was just finishing up when he arrived, and he appreciated the warm yellow glow of the kitchen spilling out into the alley; it felt like the world was settling into place, watching her toss her chef's whites into the laundry bin and lock up. It occurred to him as they walked quietly through the late night streets that he hadn't even considered Portia, the way he might once have -- not because it was Portia in specific but because he wouldn't have considered anyone's proposition. They hadn't spoken about any kind of...commitment, him and Ylias, but he wasn't interested in other companionship just now, and he had -- well, he had behaved as if it would have been unfaithful of him to do so.

He wondered, glancing at her, if she felt the same -- or if someone asked her, she might go home with them instead, because after all this was 'just in fun'. He didn't know, after all. Perhaps she had other partners. He wouldn't hold that against her, but he didn't like the idea.

It was no trouble for him to avoid other entanglements, which was what mattered; perhaps soon he would speak to her about possibly doing the same. It would be nice to try that again, to see if he'd found someone with whom he could share a deeper bond. A long time since he'd even considered it.

But not tonight, when she pulled him into the middle of a fragrant herb garden outside her kitchen windows and kissed him, and then led him inside and up a flight of stairs to a very pleasant bed.

***

He didn't bring it up the next morning either, although he hadn't really planned on it anyway. He'd considered leaving after she slept, mainly to avoid any potential awkwardness the following morning with her mother, but she hadn't kicked him out and he'd fallen asleep before she did. When he rose, Ylias was still asleep.

But her mother, it turned out, was not.

He'd dressed and gathered his shoes, realizing he'd left his satchel in the darkened kitchen, but then he had to leave through the kitchen in any case. When he padded down the stairs he found the lights on, and the smell of coffee filling the air. A woman with an unmistakable resemblance to Ylias, except for her bright white hair and a few extra wrinkles, was sitting at the kitchen table, clearly waiting for him.

"Ah," he said, not entirely unused to this sort of thing (roommates, the occasional parent, once or twice an indulgent partner) but still never quite sure the best path to take. "You must be Ylias's mother."

"I wondered whose bag that was," she replied, nodding at the satchel hanging on the back of another chair. "Chef LeFevre, isn't it?"

"Yes, madam. You have the advantage of me -- I have only heard you referred to as Maman."

"Anet Lazaar," she said. "Have some coffee if you'd like. The carafe is on the counter."

"Oh, I should -- I would not impose on your hospitality. I meant to leave before I could make the morning awkward," he said.

"Good intentions, eh?" she asked. He narrowed his eyes.

"I have lived in Askazer-Shivadlakia for twenty-five years or more," he said slowly, "and I have some measure by now of the Shivadh character. I know, Madam, when I am being poked."

She grinned. "I'll bet you do, son."

He was opening his mouth to reply when he heard footsteps on the stairs; he turned, and did have the somewhat mischevious pleasure of seeing Ylias's face when she saw him and her mother in the kitchen together.

"Good morning, Ylias," Anet called. "I was just making the acquaintance of Chef LeFevre here. Chef, I believe you've met Mr. Lazaar."

Ylias snorted and rolled her eyes. "Maman, don't be cruel."

"Chef LeFevre can take it, I imagine, if he's lasted this long around you," Anet said.

"Maman!"

"No, she's right," Simon said, and saw that it scored a point with Anet. "I suffer, but I persevere."

"I am not awake enough for this," Ylias decided, going to the carafe on the counter. "Will you stay for breakfast, Simon? Don't let Maman run you off."

"Tempting, but I must go home before I go to the palace, and time is growing a little short," he said, pulling his shoes on. To his surprise, she crossed from the carafe back to him and kissed him.

"Well, go safely then. I'll see you at the planning meeting later this week?"

"Yes, if not sooner. Ms. Lazaar, a pleasure," he added, turning to Anet.

"Was it?" she asked amusedly. He gave her a grin and departed through the kitchen door, passing back through the herb garden and heading for the main road. If he was lucky, he could catch a lift-van or one of the handful of taxis in town and get a ride home. As he closed the garden gate behind him, he heard Anet's laughter from the kitchen.