But I didn’t have magic, only skill, knowledge, and a certain knack. A feel for the right ingredients and a precious cook book written in my father’s practiced hand, which really was an awful lot like the magic book the gardener and mage followed to create his potions.
“Why do you think I could bake magic?” I raised my eyebrow, deep in thought.
I would not look directly at the Elf King, as if his very presence didn’t fluster me enough.
“I felt it. In your bakery. I hoped—” The king’s mood seemed to soften in confusion. He reached a hand out to the dough, but pulled back and cleared his throat. “I shall have fifty tarts by this night at eventide. I expect them to have your magic.”
I placed an incredulous floured hand on my hip. “Fiftymagictarts? I can’t do any magic!”
“Fifty magic tarts.” The king fixed me with an icy glare, chin up. “By eventide. I shall send in an assistant to facilitate you.”
I gaped at his beautiful face as he nodded once to me, then cleared his throat again, his eyes unreadable. He ran a large hand through his damp white-gold hair and huffed as if second guessing his request. “Treat him with kindness. He’s been asking after you for days. It’s insufferable.”
With that, he turned on his heels and left the kitchen with a swoosh of his ridiculously shiny cloak.
I just stood, covered in flour, my braided hair falling down my back, mind reeling. Fifty magic tarts? By eventide? Fifty tarts were no problem, I could make them with my eyes closed, but full of magic? Impossible. Absolutely impossible.
The king said he’d felt magic in my baking. He had to be mistaken.
I punched at the elastic dough, sending plumes of flour into the air, finding it oddly satisfying. Then I folded in some of the fragrant rosemary and oregano. The smell was intoxicating but not enough to clear the buzz of incredulity from my mind. I drizzled some oil and covered the loaves in a white cloth to rise.
“Hi.” Chirped a little elves’ voice from the doorway.
I jumped in surprise. Like all of their kind, this little one was very quiet on his feet. Aldaar, the king’s younger brother. Was heto be my assistant? So now I had to babysitandbake fifty magic tarts?
“Hi.” I offered a kind smile I didn’t quite feel. “My name is Noelle.”
“I know.” Aldaar stomped into the kitchen, proudly swinging a wooden sword. “Can I help you bake some yummy stuff? My brother says you’ll let me help, and I’m really good at making things. See this sword? I made it from an elder tree and it only took me two weeks to carve. My brother likes it when I have projects. He says he can hear himself think better when I have projects. But I wouldn’t think it would be that hard to hear yourself think since your voice is in your own head, y’know?”
I blinked back at the barrage of words. Well, at least it would be a bit like having Daisy in the kitchen with me. What was she doing now? Coloring by the fireplace? Toddling about the kitchen with bare feet? I didn’t allow myself to feel the stab of sorrow at the thought. “Yes, of course, young sir. Know your way around a kitchen?”
Hopefully he’d be a better help in the kitchen than his oaf of a brother.
I gave the small white-haired elf a tour of the cozy space which took mere moments.
“Looks really nice and warm in here. I like it. Makes me feel warm, too,” he said.
I smiled. “Good. As long as you are kind and clean up after yourself, you’ll do just fine. Now, do you know where I can get some magic?”
“Magic?” Aldaar’s mouth lifted in an eager grin. “Mother used to tell me it was in your heart, so maybe look in there?”
“Great.” No help there. “How about we start with the butter?”
Every good recipe started with butter. I needed to make fifty tarts for the king, but I wasn’t going to make just any tarts. I would make mincemeat pies, a Christmas favorite. Without thetop crust, they could technically fall under the category of tart. This was one small way I could rebel against the king’s order, at least in my heart. But, looking around the larder I realized fresh meat and suet would be impossible to find. Best to make meatless pies.
Aldaar and I worked slowly as I talked him through the steps of making the flaky pie crust, the smell of flour and butter filling the kitchen. He was very steady with his hands and hardly ever spilled anything as he happily spun wild tales about everyone in the castle. The gardener left little secret roses for the maid, Dahlia, to find. She still had no idea Jel fancied her. His tutor, Leigh, hated snakes. And the kitchen servant on the lower floor always gave him extra doughnuts if he asked nicely.
We didn’t have any pre-prepared mincemeat, which I usually kept in cold storage for up to a month to let the flavors deepen, so this mixture wouldn’t be as full-flavored, but it would have to do in a pinch. We chopped up the apples, then slowly cooked them with raisins, currants, cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves.
“So,” I asked once I found an opening in Aldaar’s stream of dialog. “Is your brother always so bossy?”
“Yeah.” Aldaar deflated while chopping the lemon peels to be candied. “He doesn’t play with me anymore. Not since father got sick.”
“Your father is sick?” I asked. This was the first I’d heard any of this. If this king had been preying on maidens for centuries, how old would that make their father?
“Yeh, father, he’s sleeping with the older kings of Ravensong now. He got sick real bad. Just like mother.” Aldaar poked at the lemons. “So now Elden has to be king and can’t play anymore.”
Elden.I rolled the name of the Elf King around in my head.
