When he speaks, his voice is low and rumbling, meant only for my ears.
"You alright?”
I nod slowly, crossing my arms over my chest, meeting his stare with my own. Not that I don’t appreciate what he did, but I don’t want him to think that I need him to fight my battles in the kitchen.
If I want the brigade to respect me, I need to hold my own. I tip up my chin.
“Thanks. But I can take care of myself."
Something flickers across his face. A vein throbs at his temple. His expression grows even more remote.
He stalks past me and to his counter.
I head back to the dry storage. I grab olive oil, shallots, and fleur de sel, then head to the prep area adjoining the main kitchen.
I peel, slice and dice the shallots. Two-millimeter cubes. Perfect.Uniform. Just as the master commanded. He’s not here, but his voice is in my ears.
I plop them into the bowl and cover them with red wine vinegar. Let them macerate while I try to remember how to breathe normally.
Ten minutes. I can breathe for ten minutes.
I lean against the prep table, close my eyes, and count my breathing.
In.
Two. Three. Four.
Out.
Two. Three. Four.
When I open them, the shallots have mellowed, pickled slightly in the acid.
I add Dijon. A tablespoon. Whisk it together. Then the olive oil. Slowly. A few drops at first, whisking constantly until the emulsion starts to form.
Then a thin stream. Steady. Controlled.
The vinaigrette comes together—thick, glossy, creamy. I add the fleur de sel. Three-finger pinch. A crack of black pepper.
Footsteps sound behind me. Steady. Ominous. The hair on the back of my neck rises. The Ice Commander comes to a halt next to me. Suddenly, the space feels too small. It’s like he’s sucked all the oxygen out of the room; I can’t breathe. My skin suddenly feels too tight for my body.
Without looking at him, I slide the bowl of vinaigrette in his direction. My actions are measured, yet every nerve in me is aware of how close he is, how the scent of his soap cuts through the aroma of lemon and herbs.
He picks up a spoon and tastes it.
I hold my breath. Wait for his judgment. For the ringing ‘Adequate’ that’s sure to fall from his lips. Every second stretches until it feels like minutes.
Instead, he murmurs, “Perfect.”
Did he just say ‘Perfect?’ Not ‘Adequate.’ But ‘Perfect?’ Nah. I must have imagined it. I spin around to face him.
“Wh-what did you say?”
For a few seconds, his blue eyes blaze. The silver sparks in them lightup. Oh, there are also swirls of gray in them. They are stunning, actually. Then, as if catching himself, a shutter falls over them.
“Not going to repeat it.” He nods in the direction of the kitchen. “I’m sorry for what happened.”
I blink, attempting to form a coherent sentence.
