“Culinarian,” I corrected softly, on instinct. I blinked at him, tilting my head to the side. “Of course. It might be a little while. They weren’t on the menu tonight, but I can put in a special request for you. Will that be all right?”
Hanno lounged back in his chair, tipping his goblet up at me. He grinned around at his friends. “We’ll be here all night. And I’ve been craving them almost as much as blood this last week.”
Pleasure warmed my belly—a feeling I’d never get used to whenever someone praised my food. “Anything else?”
“Just a heaping platter of those tarts, if you will, Millicent.”
“You got it,” I said, grinning again—though it felt genuine this time around.
When I left the lounge, I passed Lesana again.
“Are you going to stand here all night?” I asked.
“We’re expecting some special guests this evening,” she informed me. Ah, that was why she seemed so on edge. “I don’t want to miss them.”
“Anyone I know?” I asked, hugging the empty steel tray to my chest.
She gave me a tight smile but didn’t answer. “How is your group in the lounge?”
“Hanno wants to feed tonight,” I told her.
She inclined her head, reaching over to tap on her Halo Com, one of the many screens she’d had installed throughout thedyaan, including in the private rooms. “He prefers Kian. I’ll see if he’s up for one more feeding tonight. He’s already been with two other patrons.”
I shifted on my feet, waiting for her to finish putting in her request for Kian’s presence on the Com. “And, um, they requested thekanno-spice tarts I made last week.”
She started to frown before her gaze ever left the screen. When Lesana met my eyes, she asked, “They did?”
“Yes.”
She let out a long-winded huff that I’d learned was a Kylorr version of a sigh. “You know Draan doesn’t like to share his kitchen, Millie. He’ll skewer me with his favorite knife.”
Most culinarians—and gods knew I’d met a lot over the years—were fiercely, fiercely territorial over their kitchens. Once, when my father had come to serve at a party in Potri, I’d literally watched the head culinarian piss on the floor in front of him, splattering the kiln in lime-green urine. My father had merely stepped over the puddle to lay out his knives, sharpening them deliberately and with thoroughness as they’d stared one another down.
My father had been calm, level headed, and very rarely confrontational—a rarity among culinarians, truthfully. Except for that night.
“He’s your mate,” I argued, shooting her a sweet, sweet smile. “So afterward, he’ll kiss your wound to make it all better.”
Lesana huffed again.
“Very well. But don’t get in his way, Millicent,” she warned, wagging a long, tipped finger at me. “Make them quickly. Then get out. Oh, before you go, can you get Grace? She hasn’t responded to my Com message. She should be finished with her patron. I need her in the common room tonight. And soon.”
I scurried away before she could change her mind, already making a mental list of the ingredients I’d need to poach from Draan’s stores for the tarts. They were a recipe I’d cobbled together quickly, taking inspiration from a similar dish my father had created for a Bartutian family when we’d lived on Bartu briefly. Only, instead of crackling spice—a Bartutian favorite, which popped and fizzed on the tongue when eaten—I’d usedkannospice, a Kylorr staple. Spicy and earthy, it melded well with the tart sweetness of theito’nagplums I’d found in Draan’s cellar. I’d been delighted over the surprising discovery, unable to stop myself from popping a small black fruit into my mouth, savoring the juicy spill over my tongue as I’d avoided the spiked pit.
They’d been beautifully ripe last week, and I only hoped he had more. I knew it was an expensive import, but then again…thiswasRaanaDyaan.
Only the best for Lesana’s patrons.
First, I needed the blue-pepper compote from my room. I was loath to use it, truthfully. Carefully stored in pressurized silver flasks and bottles and jars, nestled in a padded case within the depths of my heavy trunk, were the last of my father’s stores. But the compote complemented thekannobeautifully, bringing out its best qualities and softening the sharp spiciness. It was necessary. It was what my father would have done.
But first, Grace,I remembered, beginning to ascend the winding staircase, heading up one level to the private feeding rooms. My own room was on the third, uppermost floor.
Treading down the hallway on the second floor, my footsteps falling silent on the velvety stone, I stopped in front of a black wooden door. Grace’s room.
Just as I raised my fist to knock, I heard a moan come from within.
I stilled, my fist raised but motionless.
Another moan, breathy.Hers. It was quickly muffled, as if a hand had snapped over her mouth, fastening into place.
