“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “My father’s training was rigorous. He was hungry when he was younger. That drive alone got him through the training, but just barely. But among culinarians…only theobsessedsurvive.”
“Explain it to me,” I ordered. I found I was achingly curious about this woman. About where she’d lived and traveled. The people she’d met. Who she was. Who she cared for.
Perhaps because she was everything different from me.
And everything I envied.
Her lips quirked at the order, but she still answered, “As he aged, his heart wasn’t in it anymore. Culinarians are artists in their own way. It has to be your entire life. You have to be single-minded to the point of obsession, about every last detail. You spend weeks—months, even—perfecting a dish. Because ithasto be perfect. To elevate yourself among the stage of the universe, everything has to be perfect. You have to be a peculiar person to live that life, and for so long. After a while, my father realized it wasn’t worth it. He loved food. He loved creating. But he loved me more.”
I marveled at her openness, discussing simple but sacred things like love.
“And I feel like that too,” she continued. “I love food. I love cooking because it reminds me of my father. It reminds me of the first meal I ever served him. It reminds me of late nights in the kitchen, standing over a hot stove and being with him.”
Her vision went a little blurry before she blinked the glassiness away, not embarrassed even though she shot me an apologetic look.
She cleared her throat, her tone shifting from its softened, intimate state to something I’d deem more appropriate when speaking with aKyzaire. And I hated it.
“But cooking is not my whole heart. For many culinarians, you’ll find it has to be for you to be great,” she finished. She gave me an amused smile. “So no…I’m not a culinarian. Why do you ask?”
I’d never given much thought to the lives of culinarians. We’d always had one or two within the keep. I had one within my own now, though Telaana had never been properly trained.
What Millie had told me…it fascinated me.
“We ordered every last dish from the kitchen tonight,” I informed her.
“Ah,” she said, sliding me a tired smile. “It was you. I wondered. Why?”
To make a point,I thought.
Instead, I said, “Because I was hungry.”
Her cheeks went a little pink.
“Thelaakeggs,” I started. “Did you prepare them, or did Draan?”
“I did,” she said.
I grinned. “I liked them.”
“Yeah?” she asked, simple pleasure widening her own smile.
“Yes,” I replied. “How did you get thekannospice inside the shell? I’ve never seen that before.”
“Kitchen secrets,” she told me, her tone sly. “I can’t tell you.”
I grunted. “Thewylden? Yours or Draan’s?”
She looked smug, the expression oddly endearing, as she said, “Mine.”
“What was the purple sauce with it?”
“Black pepper andito’nagcompote,” she told me.
“Ito’nag?” I asked, brow furrowing.
“It’s a fruit from Rupon,” she told me.
“Rupon?”
