Leaning forward, she brushed her lips against his. “Nothing?”
“Nothing for her,” he amended. “Everything for you.” And then he was kissing her back, hard, as if he could hold her to life by the strength of his lips, his tongue, his hands.
How she wanted this to be the cure.
Peeking around the doorway of the palace kitchen, Arin listened to the familiar sounds of pots, pans, knives thumping on cutting boards, spoons tapping on edges of bowls, and let the smells of nutmeg and cinnamon and sage roll over her. Inside was a comforting amber glow, spilling from the vast fireplaces, at least three that she could see, each manned by a boy who poked at its embers with an iron rod. Stacks of wood were next to them, waiting to be fed into the fires. A fleet of cooks buzzed around several long tables.
“You there!” a voice boomed, a deep male voice that cut beneath the chatter and clanking of the kitchen. “This is a kitchen, not a tourist spot. If you need a meal, talk to a caretaker.”
Arin glanced behind her before realizing that he was addressing her. A second later, she spotted the speaker: a barrel-sized man with a full red beard that was laced with flour. He was swinging a ladle around him as if it were a conductor’s baton.
“I’m Arin, the queen’s sister.” Sound ceased for a moment, and all eyes stared at her. Stepping into the kitchen, she smiled at them. “I’d like to bake a cake.”
She was welcomed in, wrapped in an apron, and given her own table plus three dedicated helpers. Mixing bowls and spoons appeared at her elbows, and as soon as she asked for ingredients, the helpers delivered them. She tried asking for a few obscure ingredients, and those were delivered as well. Grinning to herself, she dove in, determined to make the finest cake she’d ever made.
Soon, she was just as speckled in flour as the head chef, and the heavenly smell of baking cake wafted from the oven. She’d done five layers and was mixing the filling, pausing to taste it. Scooping a spoonful, she turned and snagged the nearest cook. “Here. Try.” She pushed the spoon between his lips.
His eyes flew open and he nodded.
“More vanilla? Touch more vanilla. Right. Thought so.” She turned back to her filling and saw, out of the corner of her eye, one of the helpers sliding a cake layer out of the oven. “Not yet. Puffed and golden, not curved and slightly yellow. Back in.”
This. This she could do. Not comfort a queen, or even a sister. Not protect against a disease she couldn’t see. But select ingredients, stir, and bake. Make food that made people smile. She could control this. Allowing the cake layers out of the oven, she let them cool while she prepared the frosting. Under her direction, the helpers smeared the filling between the layers, but she was the one who did the icing, pouring it into tubes to add rosettes and ribbons of sugar. She shaped it into petals and added vines and leaves. So absorbed in her work, she didn’t notice that half the cooks in the kitchen had drawn closer and now circled her table, watching her decorate.
“You have an artist’s hand,” the head chef told her as she stepped back, breathed, and noticed her audience. “Is it for the queen?”
“It is for a guest of the queen.” Perhaps this would sweeten the woman’s attitude. She was clearly here for a reason—and knowing Hamon’s devotion to her sister, Arin felt safe assuming that reason was directly related to Daleina. “Can I borrow a platter?” Better than a platter, a cake plate and lid were found, and she carefully lifted it. Two helpers scurried forward to balance it.
“Bring it to the lift.” The head chef gestured to a cabinet alone in a wall. He lifted the door and revealed an empty cupboard inside—a dumbwaiter. “Place it in. How high up?”
“Clever.” She’d seen lifts outside in villages, used to haul harvests up from the forest floor, but never within a tree. “Six staircases up.” The cake just barely fit. The door to the dumbwaiter was about the size of a child. He showed her the crank and let her turn it—the cake rose up into the heart of the tree.
He handed her a token imprinted with an image of an oven. “This will tell the guards you have permission to handle the item and that the ingredients have been screened for poison. If it were going to the queen, you would need to call for a taster to sample it first, but for a guest, this will suffice.” One of the helpers continued turning the crank, raising the cake upward.
She thanked him and the helpers, handed back the apron, attempted to shake the flour off her hair and clothes, and then headed up the stairs with the token clutched in her hand. Any envy she felt for the staff of cooks and the stocked kitchen was balanced by the thought of tasters, sampling every bit of food before it could be trusted. They’re overcautious, she thought. Everyone loved the queen—or if they didn’t, they at least acknowledged that they needed her, especially while there was no heir. This was, in a way, the safest time for Daleina. If she weren’t sick.
On the sixth level, Arin handed the token to the guards and was allowed to remove the cake from the dumbwaiter. One of them helped carry it to Hamon’s mother’s room. Two guards were posted. Since her hands were full of cake, one of them knocked for her.
“Enter!” a voice rang out. “Especially if you are brawny and nude!”
The guard swung the door open, and Arin carried the cake inside.
“Oh, even better, that looks like food. Come, bring it here, child.” Following her voice, Arin carried the cake across the bedroom and then laid it on a table beside two chairs. Hamon’s mother moved a microscope so the cake could fit. “Guards, you may leave us.” In a conspiratorial voice, Hamon’s mother said, “I don’t like to share. Come now, open it. Let’s see what feast you’ve brought for me.”
“Your cake.” With a flourish, Arin lifted the lid and was rewarded with a gasp and a clap.
“Oh, you delightful child! This is magnificent!” Hamon’s mother circled the cake, admiring it from all angles. “You made this for me? I’m so delighted I could kiss you.”
Remembering what Hamon had said about his mother’s lipstick, Arin took a step backward. Now that the cake was delivered, she should leave. She hadn’t meant to be away from Daleina for so long—it was only that she’d been absorbed in the baking. For the first time since she’d come to the palace, she’d felt like herself again. She’d felt useful and appreciated, instead of the horrible, drowning helplessness she felt when she thought about her sister’s illness. “Enjoy,” she said, and added a curtsy.
“Tell me the truth now,” his mother said. “Did you do this, or merely deliver it?”
“I’m a baker. I like to decorate.”