The palace kitchens were like stepping into controlled chaos designed by someone with unlimited resources and a complete disregard for worker safety. Massive hearths blazed along one wall, their fires tended by sweating servants who moved with the practiced efficiency of people who knew that royal displeasure could prove fatal. The air was thick with smoke and steam, rich with the scents of roasting meat and exotic spices that spoke of wealth beyond imagination.
Rachel had cooked in professional kitchens before, had trained under chefs who demanded perfection and brooked no excuses. But this was different—this was cooking as performance art, with an audience of nobles who held the power of life and death, and stakes that went far beyond restaurant reviews or professional reputation.
“Have the king’s preferences changed?” Tristan asked the head cook, a round man whose red face suggested either constant exposure to kitchen heat or a fondness for the wine intended for cooking.
“His Grace favors rich foods,” the man replied, wiping sweat from his brow with a cloth that had seen better decades. “Heavy sauces, well-spiced meats, sweet comfits to finish. He particularly enjoys novelty—dishes that surprise and delight.”
Rachel felt a spark of inspiration, the same electric thrill she’d felt when creating signature dishes in her own time. “What about fresh herbs as garnish? Something unexpected but not too foreign? A way to add color and brightness to rich dishes?”
The head cook looked skeptical, his weathered face scrunching with the expression of someone who’d seen too many kitchen innovations turn into disasters. “Herbs are for seasoning, not decoration.”
“Not in my... land,” Rachel said carefully, her mind racing with possibilities. “We use fresh herbs to enhance both flavor and appearance. Sage leaves crisped in hot oil until they’re golden and delicate, parsley chopped fine and scattered over finished dishes like emeralds. Rosemary sprigs that release their fragrance when warmed by hot food. It adds a... lightness... to heavy foods, a brightness that pleases both eye and palate.”
Tristan’s eyes sharpened with interest, and she saw something she hadn’t glimpsed since they’d left Greystone—hope. Real, genuine hope that they might actually succeed. “Show me.”
What followed was like a carefully orchestrated dance between old knowledge and new inspiration. The kitchen came alive around them as they worked, servants scurrying to fetch ingredients while the great hearths blazed with purposeful fire. Rachel found herself falling into a rhythm she’d thought lost forever—the controlled chaos of professional cooking, where every movement had purpose and timing was everything.
Tristan worked with the skill of someone who’d trained in royal kitchens, his hands sure and confident as he crafted sauces that would have made professional chefs weep with envy. She watched him dice shallots with surgical precision, deglaze pans with wine that cost more than most people earned in a year, layer flavors with the instinctive understanding of someone who truly understood his craft.
And for the first time since the disaster at Westminster had been set in motion, she felt useful. More than useful—essential.
“The sage,” she directed, selecting leaves with the care of someone choosing gemstones. “They need to be perfect—no blemishes, no yellow edges. When we fry them, they’ll become dark green and crispy.”
She demonstrated the technique on a small test batch, dropping the sage leaves into hot oil and watching them transform from soft green to crispy perfection. The kitchen filled with the herb’s warm, earthy scent, and even the skeptical head cook leaned closer to inhale the fragrance.
“’Tis beautiful,” Tristan said quietly, watching her work with an expression that made her heart skip beats. “Like capturing summer itself and laying it upon the dish.”
Together, they created something magnificent. Roasted venison glazed with honey and wine, the meat so tender it fell apart at the touch of a knife. A subtle sauce enriched with exotic spices that spoke of distant lands and careful trade—cinnamon from Ceylon, black pepper from the Indies, saffron worth more than gold. Sweet comfits that gleamed like jewels in the firelight, their surfaces perfected to mirror brightness.
And over it all, Rachel’s innovation of fresh herbs crisped to perfection, their bright green providing vivid contrast to the rich browns and golds of the other dishes. Sage leaves, parsley scattered like emerald dust, tiny sprigs of rosemary that released their fragrance at the first touch of warmth.
“’Tis magnificent,” Tristan said, stepping back to survey their creation. The doubt that had haunted his eyes for days was gone, replaced by something that looked dangerously like pride. “If this does not prove my skill and loyalty, then nothing shall.”
Rachel felt a warm glow of accomplishment and affection as she watched him survey their work. They’d done this together, combined their knowledge and skills to create something truly special. The herbs were her contribution, but the foundation was his—years of training and natural talent coming together in dishes that would have graced any restaurant in her own time.
“It’s perfect,” she said, and meant it. Whatever happened next, they’d given their best effort.
But as the servants began transferring their carefully prepared dishes to serving platters, she caught a glimpse of movement at the kitchen’s edge—a flash of golden hair and expensive cloth that made her blood turn cold.
Guy de Montague stood near the entrance to the larder, his handsome face arranged in an expression of polite interest as he observed the final preparations. He shouldn’t be here—nobles didn’t concern themselves with kitchen work, and the staff treated his presence with the nervous deference reserved for unexpected visits from dangerous predators.
“What is he doing here?” she whispered to Tristan, who’d gone rigid at the sight of their enemy.
“I know not,” he replied grimly, his voice barely audible over the kitchen’s bustle. “But naught good shall come of it.”
Rachel watched Guy move through the kitchen with the casual confidence of someone who belonged everywhere and questioned nothing. He paused near the herb station where she’d prepared her garnishes, his pale eyes cataloging every detail with the thoroughness of someone memorizing intelligence for later use.
“The foreign innovation,” he said to the head cook, his voice carrying just enough volume to be overheard. “How fascinating. In my travels, I’ve seen similar herbs used for... various purposes. Some beneficial, others... less so.”
The head cook looked nervous, uncertain how to respond to nobility expressing interest in kitchen matters. “His lordship has concerns?”
“Merely curious,” Guy replied smoothly, his fingers brushing against the bunches of fresh herbs with the casual interest of someone examining harmless greenery. “Such innovation speaks to... educated... knowledge of botanical properties. One hopes all precautions have been taken to ensure... appropriateness.”
Rachel felt ice water flood her veins as she realized what he was doing. Not questioning the herbs directly—that would draw too much attention. Instead, he was planting seeds of doubt, making the kitchen staff wonder if they should be concerned about foreign influences and unusual innovations.
“Tristan,” she started to say, but the final preparations were already underway. Their carefully crafted dishes were being arranged on serving platters, garnished with her herb innovations, and carried toward the great hall where the king waited.
“’Tis too late to change aught now,” Tristan said quietly, though his knuckles had gone white where he gripped the edge of the preparation table. “We must trust in our work and hope that honor shall prove stronger than treachery.”
