The three grand staircases of the manor—one centered in the main foyer, the others in the east and west wings—separated the upper floors where the family lived from the restaurant and kitchens that comprised most of the first floor. The Boulier estate and the Oak & Owl. Two very different worlds separated by no more than walls and flooring. Charles heard the murmurs of the grand dining hall long before he saw it. The morning rush was building. His past self had stopped again. This time it was by the marble fountain of Saint Petre, guardian of chefs. The fountain depicted the saint forever locked in combat with an Old Omen, the Beast of Famine. An owl clutching oaken twigs in its beak perched at the statue’s shoulder. When the boy crouched, he could hide behind the pot of stew Petre had used to dine the beast to death. Ahead, on the right, the murmurs grew louder. For a quiet exit, a left through the kitchens was the best option. Quickly around the fountain (where the risk of being spotted was greatest), then past the Masters’ cooking stations and out the door to freedom. Whether curries or cakes, sashimi or struffoli, all the stations faced the same direction; if you were careful, you could clear them without any being the wiser.
His younger self fared well…at first. The bar to success was low—only one person was in the kitchen when he made his move for the back door. They stood almost unnaturally rigid at their station, staring without blinking, no movement save the rapid flow of hands and blade. Kristoph Coss, the Boulier’s Master of the Pantry, took no notice of anything but the morning’s mise en place. He was the thinnest chef you would ever meet. Stalky. Long-limbed. A large, hooked nose. Finding him hard at work before the others wasn’t out of the ordinary. As a Tundra Chef (or arctician) his role encompassed all realms of cooking that did not require heat. Rich, leafy salads. Raw platters of exotic sushi. Even frozen desserts such as sorbet or icy granitas. He knew them all, and he knew them to the letter. For reasons Charles had never fully understood, Father did not like dessert chefs, but with Master Kristoph around the Oak & Owl hardly needed one. It had been from him that Charles learned his best ranch dressings, vinaigrettes, and how to prepare herbal butters stuffed with thyme and sage. Most vital of all, he had learned the art of food décor and presentation. Other masters might craft richer tastes; none could make food look half as appetizing as Kristoph.
Charles watched himself creep, step by step, eyes glued to Master Kristoph’s back. That last part was where he erred.
“Haven’t I taught you it’s best to move with confidence when sneaking, Ace?”
A figure leaned against the door frame. Directly in the boy’s way. A smiling chef who smelled of mace and roasted brisket. If you met him in an alley, your first instinct might be to clutch your purse and scream for help. He was muscled to the core. Broad, tall, and powerful. But what people whispered of most were the scars. The harshest of them emerged from the right of his chin, carved a path through trimmed beard and lips, then cut a great gash diagonally across his left eye, deep enough to leave the eye itself blind. A hundred wiry white lines bit the dark skin at his fingers, wrists, and palms. Charles glanced at the similar lines on his own hands. At some point or other, his own mistakes had caused every one. Scars like that were the price one paid to hone dexterity with chef knives to the brink of human limits, and this man was more skilled with blades than any Charles had known. Even Father. His wild mane of dark hair was hidden beneath a green bandana. It had been a reddish-brown one when he first began working for the Oak & Owl. That was back when he was still a traveling Jack of the Kitchen fresh from far-off lands, and before Charles’ younger sister, Nina Boulier, had taken a liking to his garlic lamb chops. She wove it as a gift to welcome you, Mother had explained gently. It’s a bit crude, I know. You needn’t wear it if it doesn’t suit you.
Erickson had worn the green bandana every day after. During their shadowing, he had taught Charles all he knew of herbs, ovens, and the subtle arts of flames and heating. He looked half a cultured chef and half a beastslayer, but he always spoke and smiled softly. It was painful not to be seen or heard by him now. There was much Charles would have liked to say.
“Master Erickson,” his younger self said. ‘I-”
“-am late for lessons again, yes? Lost track of time with the grapes again, yes?” Erickson said. He wagged a scarred finger as he donned his ten-button. At the collar, a badge of green flames marked him the Oak & Owl’s Master of Roasting—a rotundier. Kristoph bore a similar green snowflake on his uniform.
The boy pressed his fingers together. “Well…yes. If Mother asks…”
Erickson paused. Then he made a show of acting blind and stumbling about. “Ah! The sun! She is so bright this morning. Perhaps someone came through while I was shielding my eyes for hmmm…roughly thirty seconds, give or take? I could not say, eh, Master Kristoph?”
Kristoph nodded very seriously.
“There now. You have your window.”
The boy lingered. “Master Erickson,” he said quietly. “Will you take me foraging? The next time you leave the city, I mean?”
Erickson paused again, as he usually did before speaking. While he spoke more than one northern language, he thought in the language of his southern homeland. One or two seconds was about the time it took for his mind to translate. Speech barriers between north and south were not uncommon. Even something as simple as names could cause problems. Apparently, the ‘ch-’ in ‘Charles’ was quite excruciating for him to pronounce. He had tried, valiantly, to grasp it during his early months in Dreya, but at some point he had taken to using a nickname for simplicity’s sake. One that Charles had quickly grown to love.
“Perhaps…when you return from the King’s City.” He placed a hand on Charles’ shoulder. “Run now, Ace. We’ll all catch an earful if Lady Juliette hears of this.”
“You’ll catch one from me if you send him looking like that.” A second hand fell over Erickson’s. Where his was rough and scarred, this one was all things soft and slender, the nails painted a ruby red. Its owner, a smirking woman in her early twenties, balanced a tray of towered glass—riesling, pinot noir, chardonnay, and several more Charles did not catch—gracefully in a single hand. An insignia of narrow-necked flute glasses crossed in an X gleamed at her collar. Though she leaned this way and that, the contents of her tray remained perfectly level. “Master Erickson, be a darling and hold this for me?” She casually passed the tray to a surprised Erickson who, even with both hands, only just managed to keep the drinks stable.
The woman knelt. “Look at this now,” she teased. Without waiting for permission, she adjusted the boy’s uniform. “Your vest is crooked. Are you wearing your ten-button underneath again?”
The blonde boy tinged pink. “N-no.”
She laughed. “Are you lying?”
Pink tinged even pinker. “It’s fine,” he grumbled. “Just leave it.” She did not leave it. Instead, she leaned closer. She straightened his tie. Re-tied the laces on his right shoe. She was far, far too close. With her black lipstick that matched her hair. With that knowing sideways smirk. With the scent of sweet spices that followed after her as she moved. Nutmeg, or perhaps a blend of nutmeg and cinnamon. When she licked her thumb and leaned even closer to flatten a cowlick poking up in his hair, the boy finally broke.
“Amélie!” he nearly shouted. “I said it’s fine!” It was meant to sound strong. It came out petulant.
“It is not fine. You’re all frazzled.”
If she had only known the half of it. Charles watched with, he was sure, no small degree of pink in his own face. Frazzled? That was far too mild a term. The embarrassment he had felt back then must have been sheer agony. Just having to stand here and relive it was enough. Shame flared hot inside him.
Amélie DeRose was a sommelier. A keen Master of Wines, though that title alone couldn't hope to capture the full flavor of her talents. Unlike most sommeliers, Amélie cooked as well as any mastery. Champagne risottos. Whiskey caramels and sumptuous coffee cakes. Skewered kebabs of bourbon-sugared garlic shrimp. There was no academy badge on her collar. All she knew, she had taught herself. No matter the base or branch of the culinary arts, her glamorous dishes shared one trait: a tantalizing infusion of alcohol. It was a fringe style of cooking, pursued by few and mastered by fewer still. Underestimate it, and you’d be left in a stupor. Amélie’s stepmother was Charles’ aunt, Anetta. The only woman alive who could cow Father in an argument. She had left Lutz many years ago to live with her husband in the King’s City of Frandt.
Amelie was family. A mentor. Someone to whom Charles owed everything he knew and was, just as he did Erickson and all of Father’s masters.
She was also the prettiest person Charles—past or present—had ever seen. Prettier than the pixies and elves in Mother’s fable books. Prettier than queens or dancers or enchantresses. It was almost absurd how pretty she was. Around this age, Charles remembered privately admitting she was even more pretty than his classmate, Cecelia, the girl who had been turning him pink for years.
She finished fixing his tie, then made a square around his face with her thumbs and index fingers. “There we are. Prim as a portrait, mon piquet.” The subject of her portrait went pink again. Mon piquet. My owlet. A term of affection…for little children. Amélie loved her pet names. She had a different one for each person she liked. One for Charles, of course. Two for Nina and Mother. Another three for Erickson, Joanna, and Gustav, and—in a testament to her bold audacity—one for Father. When she kissed his younger self on the cheek, Charles got a front row seat of his own complexion shooting straight past pink to tomato-red. The boy suddenly became very interested in the floor tiles. Charles had to stop himself from staring at the floor, too.
A thunk startled everyone.
Boregard Landry, Master of Meats, had buried the massive blade of his cleaver in the beech wood of his cutting board. None had noticed his entry. For such a large man, he stepped with subtlety. The same style of butcher’s cleaver could be seen on his green insignia, crossed lengthwise with a steel sharpening rod. The badge of Octreve Academy, a plumage of brilliant peacock feathers, shined beside it. He was a minotaur of a man. The biggest, broadest Boulier master without contest. Muscled like Erickson. Tall as Kristoph. Deep and commanding in speech like Father. Skilled and respected like Amelie. But his defining feature, the thing you would remember forever once you saw it, was a black walrus mustache flecked sparsely with gray and white, the only hair on his entire head. Special oils kept it proper. Shiny and curled neatly at the edges. It hid the whole of his upper lip, and most of his bottom lip, save for when he spoke. Like Erickson, he had not been born in Dreya. He had come from a far-off land Charles knew little of, save for the rare detail slipped during their afternoon lessons on the anatomy of exotic fauna.
Boregard seemed to know everything about animals. Far more than the average Master of Butchery. He liked to talk about them almost as much as Charles liked listening. About the sheer beauty and ferocity of nature. About the smallest details that affected texture and taste. And perhaps most seriously, about humanity’s duty to preserve the populations of all creatures for future generations. He did not like speaking of his homeland.
“Master Kristoph,” he said with gruff politeness. “How is the morning coming along?”
“Everything is ready,” Kristoph said in his flat, dry tone. And it was. The mise en place had been, at most, half-complete when Charles’ past self first stole through the kitchen. Now, the counter lay lush with all the chefs would need to meet the needs of the day. Bowls brimming with diced tomatoes, mushrooms, and freshly chopped herbs. Butter brought gently to room temperature. Flours, sugars, grains, oils, and acids. Everything, and all of it flawless in presentation and placement. Charles had been so busy watching Erickson and Amelie. He had not even noted the change. How few minutes had passed? Surely no more than five? Ten at most. He is even more efficient than I remember.
Boregard finally took notice of Erickson, Amelie, and Charles.
“And what is this idleness? Two of you have customers waiting. The third, an important outing to prepare for.” He looked to the boy. “You are late, young Charles. Did your father decide against lessons today?”
The boy shook his head. “Mother convinced him. We depart for Frandt this afternoon.”
“Make haste, then. If Lady Juliette hears the word ‘tardy’, we’ll all be-”
“I will soothe my aunt, Master Boregard,” Amelie said. “No need to frazzle your pretty mustache. Erickson and I are merely seeing my little owlet on his way.”
Boregard’s mustache furrowed. “With all due respect, Lady DeRose, your owlet is on the verge of manhood. He will inherit roles that demand he soar higher than any of us. Carry legacies that would crush common men. It is a succession of duties stretching back dozens of generations. He cannot spread his wings with you hovering over him.”
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“For the six-hundreth time, it is Master Amelie,” she replied coolly. “There are no ladies here, save my aunt and little Nina. And what of those roles? They are years away. Should he not have his fun and be a boy while he can?”
Boregard was unmoved. “Fun will not forge the man he must become.”
Amelie fell quiet a moment. Then she smirked. “Hmmmm…and what are your thoughts, Charles?” she said, idly twirling the boy’s hair in her finger. “Crushing legacies? Succession of duties? Wouldn’t you rather leave all that boringness behind? No one said chefhood meant walking one path your whole life. Why not try something different and travel instead? You always did want to cook with the rarest ingredients. The best way is to venture out and find them yourself. Would it not make for an unforgettable journey?”
Charles remembered what came next very clearly. It had taken bravery to push through the doubts and say it. “I want…,” the boy began. His voice was so soft. Charles had to take several steps closer just to hear himself. Boregard and Amelie waited patiently. “I want…to make everyone feel proud when they see me. To be a great chef and lead the family with honor. Just like Father.”
Boregard beamed with pride. “Well said, Charles. Well said. The Boulier name is in good hands.”
Amelie pouted. “You men. So stuffy with your honor. It’s all so suffocating. Dreya is a drop in the bottle. This world is wide and brimming with all sorts of opportunity.” She appealed to the boy one last time. “And a mastery isn’t everything these days. I got mine because it was what I love.”
Erickson laughed. He set the heaving tray of wine and glasses down at his station. “In my home, there is a word for those who love alcohol this much.”
“Several here as well,” Kristoph added matter-of-factly. He rarely contributed to conversations without invitation. When he did, it was in his plain, forward fashion. “The most common being-.”
“Wet blankets and sourpusses aside,” Amelie continued, shushing both men with a raised red fingertip. “You should pursue the things you love, too. Whatever they might be.” She held his cheek. “The road is always there should you change your mind. With your skills, you could carve your own way in any direction. Choose any mastery or even none at all. Who’s to say? You might even make a fine Jack of the Kitchen some day.” She giggled at her own half-joke, but she was the only one.
Master Kristoph stared blankly.
Master Erickson stared uncomfortably.
Master Boregard stared furiously. His mustache furrowed harder.
“Master Amelie,” he said with grit. He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and stepped forward, as if to protect him from some unseen threat. “I have spent nearly a decade training young Charles so he may become a fine chef and merchant-lord, worthy of honor. Not a shiftless vagabond.” His last words dripped with contempt. Carnender and rotundier exchanged glares. It was brief. Barely a flash. The younger Charles did not notice, but his older self did.
So did Amelie. She understood the implication perfectly well, and was not one to mince words. She was on the verge of unleashing a verbal skewering when Erickson raised a hand. Don’t. She scoffed, but kept silent.
Master Kristoph did not share her social graces. He glanced from face to face, confused.
“Is something wrong?” he said to no one in particular.
No one answered. The awkwardness stewed and soured. It might have gone on forever had a familiar voice not interrupted.
“Everyone is so lively this morning.”
Masters Joanna Truvale and Gustav Geiger were last to arrive. The insignias at their collars were twins of green: a mushroom and a leek. Pogitier and Legumon. Masters of soup and vegetables. They had come together, as always, for of all the chefs Charles had known, none were closer than they. This brought the total number of Boulier masters present to six.
“Charles, you’re still here? The bell rang. We heard it on our way in,” Joanna said.
The boy blanched. “I’ve got to go!” He got as far as gripping the doorknob, then remembered himself and turned back sheepishly. He cleared his throat. With a bow, he brought a hand to his shoulder—a formal gesture of respect from eleve to master. “Goodbye, everyone. Until we meet again.”
Until we meet again.
“Safe travels, Ace.”
“Give Mother and Father my love when you arrive in Frandt, mon piquet.”
“Farewell, young Charles. Remember to mind yourself. First impressions are essential. You may only be arranging a stagiaire, but this a small step in a much grander journey.”
“Take these with you,” Master Gustav said, handing over a small basket. It was stuffed with some of Charles’ favorites, and still warm to the touch. Crisped zucchini slices drizzled lightly with melted gruyere and sharp cheddar sauces. Honey-glazed carrot sticks. Tomato salads wrapped in flatbread, stuffed with Uzkan guacamole and a touch of olive oil. “No cucumbers, extra pickles. Here I thought I’d be too late to give them to you, but it seems we’re both lucky today. I prepared something for your brother as well. Do you…know if he’ll be needing it?”
The boy hesitated. “I am not sure. He has not left his room.”
Gustav’s expression fell. “I see,” he said. “I thought as much.”
“That’s two days now,” Joanna said worriedly. But that was all. No more was said on the matter. There were certain things that did not linger long in conversation under the Boulier roof.
Master Kristoph said his goodbyes last. He produced a slate and a small piece of chalk from beneath his station.
“My slate!”
“You left it on the veranda again. Try harder to remember,” he said. Blunt, as always.
“My apologies. I-I will,” the boy said. He offered a ‘thank you’, but it was quick and disingenuous. As though he wanted the exchange over with as soon as possible.
Charles watched himself with sadness. That and the sting of guilt. Master Kristoph had always been odd. One conversation could make the truth of that plain enough. His poor social skills had unnerved so many diners that eventually Father forbid his Pantry Chef from interacting with them. And the bleak truth? He had unnerved Charles, too. The flat tones. The stiff formality and frankness. There were no true expressions, no recognizable mood in the face. His inability to grasp the feelings of others was especially disquieting. But was any of that such a sin? In the years that had passed since this moment, Charles had come to understand, on that last note at least, perhaps he and Kristoph were not so far apart. Maybe that was why I chose not to be close to him. I did not want to see us as the same. The feelings of others were no simple thing. Cooking was often easier than people. Understanding that now only made it more painful to see his past self keep the arctician at arm’s length, to show such thinly-veiled discomfort, in a way he never would have with the other masters. It was not fair. You were only ever helpful. A good man and a kind teacher. I should have treated you better. Been wiser. The guilt grew. It would have meant so much to have the chance to speak with Kristoph. The way he was now, not as he had been before. Just a minute would be enough. But it was futile. In this place, none would hear him. No one could feel him. Here, he felt no more than a prisoner in his own life. Just like-
“Young Luen?”
What? Charles had his back to the door. He was last to see. Instead, he saw the faces of everyone else. The shock. The pity. The vain attempts to suppress those things behind strained smiles and pleasantries. Amelie’s mouth fell open as if she was going to gasp, but she caught herself and closed it.
Luen Boulier had been handsome, once. A gem, even among noble peers. Fair of hair and face, endowed with the pride and dignity of old power. Someone to be admired or even envied. No one envied him now. The smell struck Charles before he turned. A reek of gin and other things he dared not identify. He met his brother’s eyes. They bore straight through him, bloodshot and distant. Dark wrinkles lay embedded underneath, and his nose was wracked with ugly red veins. Luen had screamed in fury the day the veins started to show, but it wasn’t until the first tooth fell out that his pride truly broke. There had been no screaming that day. Only a withdrawal into his room that did not end for a week. Gaps in teeth were a common sight…in men of the lower districts. For a lord’s son, it was an unbearable shame. He no longer bothered hiding them when in the manor. On those rare occasions he ventured outside, he kept his mouth closed tight. It was a strange thing to see him in school attire, disheveled though it was. Despite standing as tall as Erickson, most would not be able to tell by looking. Years of poor posture had shrunken and hunched him. As the discomfort grew, he would twist himself more to avoid it, like a tree gnarling back towards the ground, until sitting or standing straight became burdensome. Even now he leaned against the doorframe rather than trust his whole weight to his legs alone. Charles thought of the boy in the squalid cottage he had once been. It was as though all that rough filth and degradation had been stripped and dumped away, only to fall on someone new instead. All of it and then a great deal more. Charles had long heard the whispers. Everyone had. He has become a shadow of his sire. A sickly owl, hiding deep in the rotted branches of the oak.
“Good morning, Luen,” Gustav said. “Will you be attending today?”
Unsurprisingly, Luen did not answer. He had nothing to say to any of them. He hated all chefs, and he hated his half-brother most of all. With a huff, he pulled himself up as high as he could—which still fell far short of upright—then snatched the food Gustav had prepared for him and made for the door, pausing only to glare at Charles’ past self, briefly.
His swift exit didn’t go as planned.
The door to outside burst open…and through it stormed a figure that silenced the kitchen. At his collar gleamed the green owl of House Boulier. Beside it, the insignia of a ladle marking the mastery of a saucier. All the masters stiffened. The figure towered. He stood tall like Luen, his hands and wrists scarred like Charles. Beyond that, there was little description to be said…
For the figure had no face. Or where there should have been a face, there was both a void of darkness and a beacon of blinding light warring for dominance. It was a nightmare with the body of a man. What is this? Charles was speechless. This is not…
“F…Fa…” His past self was faring no better.. Each word died in his throat.
Father?
“Fetch your belongings,” the figure said. It was no request.
“Mother…she said she would speak with you? That I could say goodbye to my classmates today?” the boy said. It was an old habit, being careful to phrase his statement as a question. But he was not screaming, or running in terror. Nobody was. Everyone was acting as though there was not an unspeakable monster standing in their midsts.
“We have spoken. She has been reminded of today’s importance.” The figure loomed, casting a long shadow. “Do not make me repeat myself. Fetch your belongings. We leave within the hour.” The figure, this thing that stood in place of Charles' father, strode past the boy, who offered not so much as a syllable of further protest.
Someone else did.
“Father,” Luen said. The figure stopped. It did not face him.
“...What?”
“You had not mentioned you were leaving today. When will you return?”
“I am not certain.”
Luen frowned. He clearly didn’t care for that answer. Not one bit. His face twisted in a quiet sort of anger. “The congregation is in two days,” he said. His voice hardened. “You promised you would attend. You promised.”
“I promised only that I would try. We will not be home for two weeks at the very least. It is unfortunate. Another occasion, perhaps.”
Luen scoffed. “Another occasion? Another occasion!? Anointment to manhood happens only once. There won’t be another!” Luen had never been known for his ability to restrain himself or act with calm sensibility, and the past few years had not helped. He was quick to shout when things did not go his way. Screaming or fits of anger often followed. So it did not take much, perhaps as little as four or five poor exchanges before what little patience he possessed was exhausted. This time it took only three.
“How many times have you given the same answer? The same lies!? You did not try. Not in the slightest! And there will be no other occasion! The real answer is never!”
The answer is never!
He raged. “And why should I expect differently?! Why should anyone?! You hold others to honor and expectation, but do not practice them! You care only for yourself! Treating others as tools of convenience. And when you’re done, you leave behind those who no longer suit you!”
Those were the words that crossed the line. The figure marched back and slapped Luen. Hard. In front of everyone. “You do not speak to me that way,” he said coldly. Light and darkness swirled about his head. “Not ever.” He wiped the back of his hand against his apron. “You are drunk. Reeking of gin. Repulsive.” Luen clutched his cheek and stood as straight as his gnarled back allowed. Defiance lit his eyes…at first, but it died a little more with each word, a fire withering in the rain. “Anointment is a celebration of one’s accomplishments on the road to manhood. How many days have you attended this year? What have you brought to this household other than shame? Your congregation was allowed to proceed only because your name is Boulier. Do not pretend it was any merit of yours.”
By the end there was no defiance or anything close to it in Luen’s eyes. Only the beginnings of welling tears. The figure did not hit him again. Instead, it broke him with a single sentence as it left. “Return to your room. And do not even think of leaving the manor in that state. I will not have you disgrace our name as you have disgraced yourself.”
“It’s not my fault I cannot be you!” Luen cried. He crumpled to the ground. His words trembled. Tears streamed down his face.“I tried! I tried everything!”
The figure ignored him.
“Am I not also your son!?”
“Get back to work. All of you,” was all the figure said.
Charles watched the end of the confrontation from the sidelines, unseen and unheard. Apart from the distant hum of diners rising and falling as the swinging doors flapped open and shut again, the kitchen was quiet. Erickson and Boregard cast their eyes to the floor. It was not the place of foreigners to question their patron lord. Gustav at least looked tempted to try anyway. He glared at the door the figure had left through with a simmering rage, fist clenched around the butt of his knife, until Joanna took his hand gently. Amelie covered her mouth in stunned horror. This must have been her first time seeing one of us reprimanded. She did not know. Father treated girls differently than boys. Even Master Kristoph seemed to understand the mood. He, too, said nothing.
Luen wept, and everyone said nothing.