“Verjuice.” Rachel felt her eyebrows climb toward her hairline. “That’s... That’s actually brilliant. The acidity would brighten everything, balance the richness of the stock and wine. And saffron...” She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, picking out the distinctive floral notes beneath the other aromas. “Not just any saffron. That’s the real stuff, isn’t it? Spanish saffron.”
He went very still. “How could you possibly know that?”
“The same way you knew I’d added turmeric to the pottage yesterday. The same way you can probably tell the difference between Ceylon cinnamon and cassia by smell alone.”
She opened her eyes and found him staring at her with an expression of wonder and something that might have been recognition.
“We speak the same language, Tristan. The language of people who understand that food is more than fuel. That it’s art and comfort and memory all rolled into something you can taste.”
“In truth?” His voice had gone soft again, vulnerable in a way that made her want to wrap her arms around him and promise that no one would ever make him feel ashamed of his gifts again.
“In truth.” She reached for the ladle sitting nearby, dipping it carefully into the sauce and bringing it to her lips. The first taste made her eyes flutter closed in involuntary pleasure—complex, layered, perfectly balanced between rich and bright, earthy and ethereal. “Sweet mother of pearl. That’s... That’s incredible.”
When she opened her eyes, she found him watching her face with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. “You truly think so?”
“I think anyone who tasted this would fall to their knees in worship,” she said honestly. “I think you could serve this to kings and have them begging for the recipe. I think—” She stopped, seeing the way he’d gone pale at her words.
“Kings,” he repeated, and his voice had gone flat. “Aye. I once thought the same. I once believed my skills were worthy of royal notice.”
The pieces fell into place with horrible clarity. “Your disgrace. It wasn’t just about treason, was it? It was about cooking. About someone not wanting you to have access to the kitchens, the spice routes, the?—”
“The eastern trade routes,” he confirmed, turning away from her to stare into the fire.
“The contracts for exotic spices and wines that would have made the crown rich beyond imagining. My... former friend... found it convenient to frame me for skimming profits from shipments I was meant to oversee.”
“So he could take control himself.”
“So he could take control himself,” Tristan agreed bitterly. “And I, fool that I was, made it easy for him. My passion for the cookery arts was well known at court, though I kept the extent of my skill hidden. Guy knew I would fight for those contracts, knew I would ensure the finest ingredients reached the royal kitchens. He also knew that my love for exotic foods would make me a convenient scapegoat when profits went missing.”
The raw pain in his voice made her want to hunt down this Guy person and introduce him to some creative uses for kitchen knives. “That’s why you stopped cooking. Because it reminded you of what you’d lost.”
“Because it reminded me of my own foolish pride,” he corrected harshly. “Because every time I touched saffron or pepper or any of the spices that once brought me joy, I remembered how easily my passion was turned against me.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
He turned to stare at her, clearly not expecting that particular response. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me. That’s absolutely, monumentally, spectacularly stupid.”
She moved to stand directly in front of him, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. “You think the solution to being betrayed by someone who used your passion against you is to abandon that passion entirely? You think the way to win is to become exactly what they wanted you to become—broken, empty, reduced to nothing more than your bitterness?”
“You know naught of?—”
“I know that every moment you spend not cooking, not creating, not using the gift you’ve been given, is a moment you’re letting him win.” Her voice was rising with each word, fueled by righteous indignation on behalf of this stubborn, prideful, magnificently talented man. “I know that the best revenge against someone who tried to steal your joy is to keep finding joy despite them.”
He stared at her for a long moment, something complicated flickering in his eyes. “And if that joy has been poisoned? If every time I reach for the tools of my trade, I remember how they were used to destroy me?”
“Then you make new memories,” she said simply. “You cook not for kings or courts or anyone who might use your gifts as weapons. You cook because you love it. Because it’s who you are. Because the world is a little bit better when you share what you can create.”
“As you did with the pottage.”
“As I tried to do with the pottage.” She grimaced, remembering her clumsy attempts to work with unfamiliar equipment and measurements. “Though honestly, that was more like culinary first aid than actual cooking. This—” she gestured toward the pot of sauce that was still gently simmering “—this is art.”
Something that might have been pride flickered in his expression before he could suppress it. “It was my mother’s recipe. One of the few I remember clearly.”
“She taught you to cook?”
“She taught me to love food,” he corrected, his voice growing soft with memory. “To understand that nourishment of the body and soul were equally important. She would sneak me into the kitchens when I was a boy, despite my father’s protests that ’twas unseemly for a knight’s son to concern himself with such matters.”
