“My lord, if I could offer a few suggestions?”
His head snapped up. Silas stood in the doorway, peering at his work with concern. Since spring had become a semi-permanent fixture in the Deadlands, the majority of his staff had exchanged their heavy woolen breeches for thinner stockings and light tunics. In an effort to move in a positive direction, he’d revoked the sentence that bound his staff to service. Many had returned to Neumovos to live out their afterlife in contentment, but surprisingly, many had requested to stay on, including Orla and Silas, claiming they grew bored when unoccupied.
He noticed what the cook held in his hands: an apron.
“I don’t need an apron,” he stated calmly.
“My lord, I would strongly suggest—”
“Silas.”
The man hung the apron on a nearby wall hook with pursed lips. “Do you need assistance?”
Boreas brushed his flour-coated hands onto his breeches. “I’m perfectly capable of conquering this cake.”
Silas stared at the flour-dusted surface of the counter with a pained expression. “My lord, I do not know if a cake can be, well… conquered.”
“Everything is under control, Silas. This cake will yield to me. You’ll see.”
The man offered him a tremulous smile. “Of course, my lord. If you’re sure.” He turned to go.
“Wait.”
Silas stopped in the doorway.
“How many eggs do I use?”
“My lord—”
“How many?”
He sighed. “Two. And do not overbeat them.” He grabbed an apple on his way out, leaving Boreas to wonder whatoverbeatmeant.
Silas had shown him this as well: how to crack an egg. So he didn’t think much of it as he slammed the egg against the side of the bowl, where it shattered in his hand. Pieces of shell slid into the runny yellow yolks, mocking him.
The morning passed too quickly for Boreas’ liking. After pouring the lumpy batter into a baking dish, he placed it into the oven to bake. Wren had most likely woken by now, but their son kept her busy in the mornings. And she would never think to search for him in the kitchen.
After a time, the air began to smell almost pleasant. When the bell chimed, Boreas pulled the cake out of the oven.
His stomach fell. It looked like a burned, lumpen head. Breaking off a piece of the warm, yellow cake, he slipped it past his lips and promptly spit it out. Inedible. Why did it taste like salt? He’d added two cups of sugar, just as the recipe demanded.
Time to start again.
His second attempt resulted in him nearly burning down the kitchen. Silas materialized in the doorway, breathing hard. He took in the scene: smoke belching from the oven, flour coating the counters, the floors, the walls, even parts of the ceiling, Boreas’ black hair now ashen. In a timid voice, he asked, “My lord?”
Boreas glared out the window from his position near the sink. “Don’t fret, Silas.” He would conquer this cake if it was the last thing he did.
For the third time, he mixed the ingredients—quite aggressively—and poured the batter into a pan, and set it into the oven where the fireburned low. He checked the cake every ten minutes or so until the air smelled slightly sweet.
Removing the pan from the oven, Boreas scrutinized the warm, bread-like food, poking the spongy texture experimentally. It certainly looked like a cake. It wasn’t nearly as lumpy as its predecessor, nor as burned.
The strain around his eyes and mouth smoothed in relief. It had taken the day, but he had done it. He, Boreas, the North Wind, had baked a cake. The sweet concoction had been a worthy adversary, but he had prevailed, in the end. Now to decorate.
Fresh flowers arranged in a nearby vase caught his eye. Perfect. Boreas ripped the white petals off the stems, sprinkling them over the top. There. Wren liked flowers. Thus, she would like this cake.
“Orla,” he called.
She appeared in the doorway. “Yes, my lord?”
