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Authors: Rose Lerner
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strips.
“He’s not French,” Solomon said.
“Of course not,” Serena agreed. “But he thought it was funny to copy René’s accent and pretend he was a snooty French chef. René used to—used to give him pointers on Gallicisms.” She was quiet for a moment. “Antoine was cook in a gin shop before this.”
“And how, precisely, did he learn to cook like a French chef?”
She gave him an amused, sidelong glance. “Don’t be snide. The Blue Ruin was famous for its food.”
Antoine reached them. “Oh, you will make me blush! But it is true.
Hélas
, it was hard to reconcile myself to working in zat sordid pit of vice after my youth among ze lavender fields of Provence. But a true chef takes his satisfaction in staying faithful to his vocation, even when ze creations of his genius go to feed English criminals wis no appreciation of ze finer zings in life!”
“Now, Antoine, you know your patrons at the Blue Ruin appreciated you enormously. I thought they would riot when I hired you to work here.”
Antoine seized Serena’s hand and kissed it. She only looked mildly discomfited. That surprised Solomon; she’d hated the fitting.
He’d hated the fitting. Or he’d loved it, he wasn’t sure which. It had been a stupid thing to suggest, but her modiste was busy and—he’d wanted to touch her. Then he’d had to try desperately to touch her as little as possible. He’d pretended he was at the shop, told himself that he was a tradesman, that he had no feelings or thoughts, that he was an automaton built only for tailoring and laughing at customers’ jokes. It was no use. If it had gone on one moment longer he would have made a fool of himself, and she would have never spoken to him again. It was lucky that hardly any adjustments had been necessary—Serena’s modiste was talented and knew Serena’s measurements well. They were nice measurements.
“I owe everyzing to you, my beloved mistress,” Antoine said. “Thanks to your farsighted decision to hire me, I have attained ze pinnacle of my art, and even now I prepare a meal for ze regent!”
“It was a sensible business decision, that’s all.” But her smile reminded Solomon of how his mother used to look when he’d singed off Elijah’s hair or scorched sugar onto the bottom of all the pots in the kitchen in one of his childish experiments. There was that same reluctant, affectionate pride in it, trying to hide under sternness.
He realized, as he’d failed to do before, that Serena felt about the inn the way he felt about Hathaway’s Fine Tailoring. And Sacreval wanted to take it away from her.
Never
, he vowed silently. “Did you buy what I asked for?” he asked Antoine.
“But of course! It is in ze pastry kitchen right now. Do you wish me to show you?”
“The pastry kitchen? How many kitchens do you have?”
“Zere is ze pastry kitchen, ze ice room, ze larder, and ze bakehouse. I have asked and asked for a confectioner’s room, but again and again I am refused.” He said this last with a meaningful glance at Serena.
“We don’t have a confectioner,” Serena pointed out.
“We ought to hire one. Zen we would not be in zis position.”
“Make do.”
Antoine gave a long-suffering sigh. “And zese are ze conditions under which I must create my masterpieces!”
“And yet somehow you always manage,” Serena said. Antoine smiled at her.
Footmen paraded by, carrying crates of fine china with a coat of arms emblazoned in the center: two ravens pecking at the visor of a helmet, on a scarlet shield topped with a marquess’s coronet. Solomon recognized the design from the swinging wooden sign outside the inn.
Two of the footmen were dark-haired boys with a striking resemblance to each other. The elder hunched to one side with his crate to whisper something in the younger’s ear. Solomon felt a familiar rush of gnawing, resentful envy, and then a familiar rush of shame at feeling anything so petty.
Laughing and distracted, the
“He’s not French,” Solomon said.
“Of course not,” Serena agreed. “But he thought it was funny to copy René’s accent and pretend he was a snooty French chef. René used to—used to give him pointers on Gallicisms.” She was quiet for a moment. “Antoine was cook in a gin shop before this.”
“And how, precisely, did he learn to cook like a French chef?”
She gave him an amused, sidelong glance. “Don’t be snide. The Blue Ruin was famous for its food.”
Antoine reached them. “Oh, you will make me blush! But it is true.
Hélas
, it was hard to reconcile myself to working in zat sordid pit of vice after my youth among ze lavender fields of Provence. But a true chef takes his satisfaction in staying faithful to his vocation, even when ze creations of his genius go to feed English criminals wis no appreciation of ze finer zings in life!”
“Now, Antoine, you know your patrons at the Blue Ruin appreciated you enormously. I thought they would riot when I hired you to work here.”
Antoine seized Serena’s hand and kissed it. She only looked mildly discomfited. That surprised Solomon; she’d hated the fitting.
He’d hated the fitting. Or he’d loved it, he wasn’t sure which. It had been a stupid thing to suggest, but her modiste was busy and—he’d wanted to touch her. Then he’d had to try desperately to touch her as little as possible. He’d pretended he was at the shop, told himself that he was a tradesman, that he had no feelings or thoughts, that he was an automaton built only for tailoring and laughing at customers’ jokes. It was no use. If it had gone on one moment longer he would have made a fool of himself, and she would have never spoken to him again. It was lucky that hardly any adjustments had been necessary—Serena’s modiste was talented and knew Serena’s measurements well. They were nice measurements.
“I owe everyzing to you, my beloved mistress,” Antoine said. “Thanks to your farsighted decision to hire me, I have attained ze pinnacle of my art, and even now I prepare a meal for ze regent!”
“It was a sensible business decision, that’s all.” But her smile reminded Solomon of how his mother used to look when he’d singed off Elijah’s hair or scorched sugar onto the bottom of all the pots in the kitchen in one of his childish experiments. There was that same reluctant, affectionate pride in it, trying to hide under sternness.
He realized, as he’d failed to do before, that Serena felt about the inn the way he felt about Hathaway’s Fine Tailoring. And Sacreval wanted to take it away from her.
Never
, he vowed silently. “Did you buy what I asked for?” he asked Antoine.
“But of course! It is in ze pastry kitchen right now. Do you wish me to show you?”
“The pastry kitchen? How many kitchens do you have?”
“Zere is ze pastry kitchen, ze ice room, ze larder, and ze bakehouse. I have asked and asked for a confectioner’s room, but again and again I am refused.” He said this last with a meaningful glance at Serena.
“We don’t have a confectioner,” Serena pointed out.
“We ought to hire one. Zen we would not be in zis position.”
“Make do.”
Antoine gave a long-suffering sigh. “And zese are ze conditions under which I must create my masterpieces!”
“And yet somehow you always manage,” Serena said. Antoine smiled at her.
Footmen paraded by, carrying crates of fine china with a coat of arms emblazoned in the center: two ravens pecking at the visor of a helmet, on a scarlet shield topped with a marquess’s coronet. Solomon recognized the design from the swinging wooden sign outside the inn.
Two of the footmen were dark-haired boys with a striking resemblance to each other. The elder hunched to one side with his crate to whisper something in the younger’s ear. Solomon felt a familiar rush of gnawing, resentful envy, and then a familiar rush of shame at feeling anything so petty.
Laughing and distracted, the
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