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A snort sounded and some chattering.
“Rice? Really?”
More chattering.
“B…Brice? Brice? Is that a name?” A gleeful sound erupted from the corner, so I took that to be a yes. I decided, instead of going to try and corner the little guy, that I was going to leave him be. Listen, I’d lived in the city long enough to learn to coexist with mice and pigeons and whatnot. Certainly, I could learn to live with Brice, particularly if he was as helpful as he was showing himself to be. If he wanted to stay hidden in the corner, I had no problem with that. I’d feed the little kitchen goblin all day long if he didn’t get in the way of what I was trying to build here. Plus, I was a sucker for taking care of anyone, and anything, with food. Maybe that was just the nature of being a chef, but I didn’t like knowing anyone around me was hungry.
“Okay, Brice it is. Thank you, my friend, for your help. I’ve left some cookies for you. They’re cinnamon oatmeal with chocolate chips. I hope you like them. If there’s anything else I can make for you, just let me know. Or leave the ingredients out, and I’ll put it together for you when I can.” I waited, but there was no response. I took that as a sign that he was pleased with my offering and returned to the stove where my broth was just beginning to boil. I added the nettles, along with the rest of the ingredients, and stirred the soup before returning to the book. Now came the hard part. According to the book, I had to actually perform a spell of sorts over the food.
This was going to be my first time trying out my newly discovered magick, so to speak, and I was more than grateful that I was alone.
Well, except for Brice, of course. Granted, he was magick, so he didn’t count as a judgmental audience. Or did he? Would he be critiquing my technique? I narrowed my eyes at the open door to the banquet hall. Either way, it was best to get on with it, or I wasn’t sure I’d work up the nerve to try a spell if anyone was around watching me. I’d discovered that people had a habit of dropping by my kitchen quite frequently, and I needed to take this opportunity while I was still alone.
I turned the stove off, because I needed to read from the book while I stirred the soup and cast my spell. There was no way I was bringing the book near open flame, so I dearly hoped that the spell didn’t require fire to work. But it seemed that the only thing I needed to do was to stir clockwise and repeat the words.
Oh, and intent. That was right. Agnes had mentioned it in an offhand comment the night before, but the meaning had stuck with me. Intention was everything when it came to spell work, apparently, but I supposed that applied to anything in life. What we paid attention to grew, didn’t it? Clearing my throat, I took a few deep breaths to settle myself, and then opened my eyes. With my left hand, I stirred the pot, clockwise as instructed, and brought the book in front of me with my other hand.
A hum of recognition flowed through me. It was startling, and…exhilarating. Like,here I am. Here. I. Am.
This felt right. More so than anything I’d ever done in my life before. A strange sense of understanding and belonging burbled through me, riding on the edges of joy. I held onto that and poured that feeling into my words.
“As I stir with my spoon,
I call upon the power of Mother moon,
The fire that flames within must cool,
And soon the pain no longer will rule,
Set the energy free to run with the wind,
Aching joints and sore bones I do rescind.”
There was a gentle flash of light, and I gaped as the ingredients in my soup melded seamlessly together.
“Well, shit. I didn’t even have to run them through a food processor,” I murmured. Carefully, because my hands were shaking, I turned and put the book in a clean spot on the table. I realized that I would need to create a designated safe spot for the book, because I would be devastated if it got damaged in the kitchen. Which wasn’t unusual. The sign of a well-loved cookbook was the food stains that stuck to its pages.
I spooned the soup into several mason jars and added their lids before digging around in a pantry until I found a basket. I’d give these to Catriona to take home and, well, I guess I would just have to wait and see.
“Hello, dear. Is this a good time?”
I looked up to see Catriona hovering at the doorway. Her face was alight with curiosity, but also I caught a sense of longing in her eyes. I realized now, just how much I wanted to help her.
“Perfect time, I was just finishing up putting together a basket for you.”
“For me? Whatever for?” Catriona came forward, her eyes bright with interest. “This is a brilliant kitchen, isn’t it?”
“It really is. I’m lucky to be working here. I swear I can feel the history seeping into my bones as I work. Speaking of bones…” I tapped my finger on the basket. “I’ve prepared a nettle soup for you. It’s meant to help with your arthritis. I’d be grateful if you could give it a try and let me know how it works for you.”
“Nettles?” Catriona gave a little shiver. “Nasty plants.”
“With healing properties. I promise I’m not trying to kill you.”
“Even though I flirted with your man?”
My mouth dropped open. I didn’t know which part to debate—whether Munroe was my man or that I’d been annoyed at her blatant flirting.
“I saw your look. I may be old, but my eyesight is still sharp. I know a lass that’s got a bee in her bonnet.” Catriona smirked at me. “If he’s spoken for, you only have to say it.”
