She didn’t particularly want to labor out in a field in all weather, with dragons and fire-breathing cattle. But she’d gotten the sense there was an awful lot of work to do on the ranch. If she was going to ask them to let her handle the tasks shelikeddoing instead of helping the family business, she wanted to prove how helpful it would be first.
Finding a pile of crumpled dishrags in one of the kitchen drawers, Cassia went to lay them out and then remembered how messy the counters still were. She scrubbed down a stretch of greasy, crumb-covered countertop, scraping up a tacky patch that looked like it had originally come from a sauce. Only when that was done did she lay out the towels as drying-mats and set to work plowing through the large amount of dishes. Whenthey were all sparkling clean she opened the cabinets to find out where everything went.
The kitchen cabinets were overflowing with chaos. Plates of different sizes were all stacked together. A mug sat inside a leaning tower of bowls. The cabinet with blown-glass water cups was mixed in with a bottle of cooking oil, a pair of wine cups, and a rolling pin. Cassia opened one door after another, sighed heavily, and then began pulling everythingoutof the cabinets and filling the counter space, the kitchen table, and all but one of the kitchen chairs. She focused on the cabinets and drawers on the side of the kitchen with the washbasin, knowing reorganizing generations of mess might be a bigger task than she could fix in a single day. Beginning to sweat, she paused to pin her braids up around her head, took off the jerkin, and stood on the one empty chair to scrub out the inside of the cabinets.
She was stepping back down onto the floor, one hand on the back of the chair, when one of the mugs on the kitchen counter slid an inch to the right.
Cassia froze, her attention flicking to it. The mug wobbled slightly, then stopped moving. It appeared to be part of a set of five ceramic mugs, but the glaze was aslightlydarker shade of copper, the rim a bit wider, the body a bit rounder.
She should have noticed it before. She’d chalked it up to a potter’s inconsistencies, not an imposter.
Gaze narrowing, Cassia slowly set her other foot on the floor and silently tip-toed towards the counter. Holding her breath, she counted a beat, then lunged forward and grabbed the mug in both hands. With a squeak it shape-shifted into a long eared mock-mouse. He was a fat one with a spotted gray rump and a wiggling, pink nose. The mock-mouse twisted in her tight grip, fighting with all his strength to get free.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Cassia told it sternly. “No wonder Aevrin said those cabinets were getting ‘more crowded by the week.’”
Most people said you were supposed to kill them, but they were clever enough to heed threats, in Cassia’s experience. She’d warned them away more than once in kitchens where she worked, too guilty over the idea of killing something with her bare hands despite her chosen career.
She marched it outside, her hands still trapping the creature tightly. It stopped struggling when she reached the foyer, seeming to decide protest was futile. Cassia shoved her feet into her boots and walked the mock-mouse to the road, where she pointed its face towards Dawn Ridge.
“See that road? Town’s that way. Your days of free crumbs here are over, my friend. You and your clutch better find another house to infest—and don’t eventhinkabout coming back to this one. I’ll only catch you if you do.” She set it down on the road. The mock-mouse scampered off into a cluster of tall clovers by the roadside, squeaking angrily with each step. Brushing her hands off, Cassia headed back to the kitchen. She swore the countertops looked a little less cluttered already, the mouse’s family fleeing now that a human was on to them. Nonetheless, she checked each item carefully as she organized the mess back into the kitchen’s cupboards and drawers.
In the early afternoon she took a quick break on the porch. Then it was back inside to rub a block of hydra tail with a blend of spices. Humming, Cassia swung open the oven to light it, and then blinked.
A book rested on the baking shelf.
With a sigh, she bent down and pulled it out, then wiped a smudge of charcoal off the cover with a frown. The kitchen was cluttered, yes, but surely notsocluttered that the Rivekers had to resort to storing cookbooks in their oven, of all places. It wasan old, leather-bound tome, with loose scraps of paper tucked in throughout. The recipes were hand-written, scribbled in various colors of ink and by different hands, some words scratched out, notes written in the margins. Most of it was impossible to read. The old paper had aged yellow. The ink was smudged and splotched where spills had happened on the warped, wavy pages. Some of what shecouldread was of limited helpfulness, measurements missing in favor of vague instructions like “bake until done” or “add half what grandpa G. used to use.” With a soft chuckle and a shake of her head, she cleared a space between the knife rack and the grallo jar and slid the book in.
She held her tongue when Gramma Prisca poked her head in the kitchen and noticed out loud how clean it looked, and when Aevrin Riveker came home and mentioned it smelled pretty heavenly, not meeting her eyes for more than a second. She didn’t say a word until they were all gathered around the dinner table complimenting the meal she’d made.
Cassia drew a deep breath. Her elbows were tight against her side, her hands trembling beneath the table.
“So, I know I’m supposed to help out at the ranch,” she said, as the Rivekers rapidly fell quiet to listen to her. “I was a cook before I came out to Zhavek.”
“Well, that’s clear,” Sath Riveker said, as he poured more of the sauce she’d made over his hydra.
“Not just a cook,” she amended, blushing. “A cook in the stately houses, in Evaliae City.” SayingI’ve even cooked for the Emperorseemed like too much of a brag, when really he’d just been a banquet guest at her employer’s houses a couple times, so she left that part out. “I wanted to offer my services in the house, instead of the fields. If you’d like.” Sathuel leaned back in his chair. Aevrin was nodding at her, but Gramma Prisca onlylooked thoughtful. “If you need time to think about it first…” Cassia started.
“Well,I’mfor it,” Mavek interrupted loudly, leaning forward with both elbows on the table. “Your food tastes real damn good, not like ass, like we normally have.”
“Language,” Prisca snapped.
“What? It’s true,” Mavek said.
Prisca leaned forward and grabbed his ale mug by the handle, dragging it next to her own.
“You can have water ‘till you learn to be civil,” Prisca said, nevermind that Mavek was 26—an age Cassia found hard to believe, given his immature personality. “And don’t you dare insultmycooking again. I may not be a Cassia, but I helped drag you into this world, boy, and Saints save you...”
“If you’d rather cook than ranch, that’s fine with me,” Aevrin said, looking right at her. Sorven nodded enthusiastically. “You oughta do what makes you happy.”
Prisca looked at Sath, an eyebrow raised inquiringly. Aevrin’s father nodded back and set down his fork.
“So you don’t want to work the ranch?” Prisca wanted to know.
“I’ll do what’s needed of me,” Cassia said, not wanting to seem unwilling.
“Not what I asked, girl,” Prisca told her dryly.
“No,” Cassia admitted. “I love cooking. I’dratherdo housework, but only if it’s actually a help to you. I don’t want to wear out my welcome by being useless.”
