Watch the Viridescent Cliff and watch the race for town hall.
—Crow’s Caw
Paloma had beenin the sumptuous kitchens many times before; she’d had a hand in every major design decision where the resort was concerned. They were exquisite in every way—she’d made sure. Everything in the Astronomy Resort was exactly how she wanted it to be. Needed it to be.
The kitchens were filled with light and enough equipment to be able to feed a small army. Or a town. Or a luxurious resort. Her architect had employed a restaurant consultant to ensure that Reem Alami, the chef Paloma had lured from one of the best New York restaurants, had everything her heart needed, wanted, and desired. The very best. So far, Reem had been pleased. Paloma had heard that it was a tall order. The chef was like a military commander: tough, disciplined, and involved. She was also a woman of very few words.
Paloma smirked as she pressed the button to the lowest floor. She could already imagine her reaction to Deryn spending time in her sanctuary.
They rode down in silence, something Paloma had not anticipated. In fact, ever since she saw Deryn this morning, she kept getting outflanked. Not by much, not a lot, but in small yet palpable things.
They’d had each other, in more ways than one, on the night they spent together. Deryn had her in her bed, on the grand piano, on the lush carpet. Deryn had reacted to everything and anything Paloma threw her way that night exactly as Paloma presumed that she would. A sexual being, she’d answered Paloma’s siren’s call.
And yet, away from the sheets, or walls, or grand pianos, Deryn followed no script and kept providing little surprises. Likethis one. The silence did not feel heavy. Or hard. It did not hold the jagged edges of expectation or traps. It just…was. Quiet and peaceful was something Paloma very rarely experienced. It was encumbered by neither a “but” nor an “also.” Yes, Deryn had asked a question—several, actually. All pertinent to their current situation. Still, there was no rush on either side for answers. Paloma would provide them, of course, seeing as by now rumor had probably reached not just all the floors of her resort but also the town and the boarding school, and Magdalene Nox herself would text her any second with a winking emoji or something equally as suggestive.
Crow’s Cawwould have a lot to say. So would the Crowhart sisters and certainly Victoria. But for some reason, standing in the elevator, side by side, watching the numbers go down on a screen, made time feel immaterial.
Of course, time was nothing of the sort, and reality intruded in the form of a ding and the announcement ofLower Level Threeas the doors opened into chrome and action.
Reem was in the middle of it all, four sous-chefs moving around her in a precise and orchestrated manner. Periodically, she’d extend a hand, someone would put a tasting spoon in it, and Reem would sigh, nod, or frown. Judging by how the color of the sous-chefs’ faces changed when they were on the receiving end of the frown, the dish was surely ruined to warrant such harsh feedback.
Their entrance did not seem to faze the chef. She simply narrowed her eyes, first at Paloma with something akin to begrudging respect, then to Deryn. The dark eyes squinted further. The movement of the sous-chefs stopped. Reem took a step closer, nodded to Paloma, and stared at Deryn.
“Crowhart.”
“Alami,” came the steady reply. Then, as the moment stretched, Paloma was caught by surprise yet again, as her fauxgirlfriend and her indubitable and inscrutable chef burst into laughter and embraced each other.
“Jesus, Reem, habibti, it’s been ages.” Deryn extended her arms, took Reem in, and then hugged her close once more. The sous-chefs were staring, their jaws hanging open.
“Aww, look at you. You still remember that one word in Arabic I taught you. Also, wrong god, you blasphemer, and not ages. We did theFood & WineClassic in Aspen two years ago. Granted, you were busy chasing skirts, so I accept that the occasion must’ve slipped your mind.”
“You wound me.”
Reem smiled, and demonstratively waved her hands.
“Nothing wounds you, Crowhart. You have no heart. Or you have too much of it, and it occupies all the space where your brain should be.”
Something crossed the open features at the words—a shadow—and when Deryn returned the smile, it didn’t seem sincere. In fact, if anything, it felt forced, a touch wobbly at the edges. Paloma tucked the thought away and simply observed the exchange. She must’ve made a move or a sound because Reem turned to her, bit her lip as if suddenly reminded of her presence.
“Ms. Allende. Was there anything you needed?”
It was Paloma’s turn to smile, but she allowed her humor to shine through just a touch.
“Yes, I need my kitchen, Ms. Alami.”
Before Reem could reply—though not before her face turned pensive—Deryn slapped her on the shoulder and laughed.
“Ms. Allende is helping me out. I need to work, and I need space. I’ll be happy to produce as many portions as you need me to make. And, of course, you’d be the boss.”
“I am the boss.” Reem turned to face Deryn, and some of the earlier mirth returned to her eyes. “You don’t have a kitchenof your own, Crowhart, because you don’t play well with others. And you don’t take orders.”
“Well. You mean I don’t take orderswell.” Deryn winked, but to Paloma’s delight, Reem was having none of it.
“You haven’t changed, Crowhart. You look the same, sound the same, and I watched you bake during the last season of that stupid show with lots of yelling. You are still Deryn Crowhart, who could’ve had any position in any restaurant under the sun. But you are in mine, exchanging services for space. You’re the same. But since Ms. Allende asked nicely, you’re welcome.”
Paloma shook her head. Trust her temperamental chef to turn it around on her. She hadn’t asked at all. Still, bees, honey, vinegar, and all that.
“And I thank you, Ms. Alami, for ensuring that my request is fully implemented. Between you and Ms. Crowhart, work out a schedule that doesn’t disturb the running of the restaurant with the soft opening approaching.”
