She gave him a stern look. “Young man, are you trying to insult me?”
“No, Your Excellency.”
“Agnes. Please call me Agnes,” she corrected. “What you did last night was a remarkable act of self-sacrifice. It horrifies me to think of one of my children enduring the kind of suffering that you took on for my Laina. I consider the debt to be mine, so please stop trying to refuse my hospitality. Am I understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Are you hungry?”
He was positively starving. “I’m famished,” he admitted. “If you show me to the kitchen I’ll—”
The baroness frowned again. “Didn’t we just cover this topic?”
Will held up his hands. “I’m not trying to refuse your hospitality. I just like to cook my own breakfast.”
“I’ll have you know that our cook, Armand, is one of the best in Cerria,” she said proudly.
He felt a grin begin to form. “Would you like to make a wager?”
Puzzled, she stared at him. “On what?”
“Let me borrow your kitchen to cook for you and I’ll compete with Armand. If I can’t make something you like better than what he offers I’ll eat my hat,” he declared confidently.
“Not that I would wish to disparage your skills, but you do realize that you’re not just part of the nobility now, but also technically a royal. Cooking your own meals will earn you some strange looks in the future.”
“It’s a hobby.”
The baroness’ lips formed a faint smirk. “I suppose that explanation will suffice. Very well, let’s see if Armand is willing to take up your challenge, but you’ll have to cook for everyone. Are you sure you’re sufficiently recovered?”
Somehow, he had forgotten the previous evening. As her words brought back the memory, he felt a flash of pain, and his back tensed so painfully that he contorted and fell back onto the pillows. There was nothing physically wrong with him—the regeneration potion had seen to that—but the memory was so powerful that it overwhelmed him. Agnes cried out in alarm and held onto his arm, but after a few seconds the spasm had passed.
“William?” she asked.
He nodded, though his brow was beginning to bead with sweat. “Let’s not talk about it. The memory is still too strong.”
“Perhaps we should forget about this contest then,” she suggested.
He sat up and threw back the covers. “No, I need to keep myself occupied.” His face shifted to red as he realized he was still naked, and he quickly jerked a coverlet over himself.
Agnes wasn’t embarrassed in the slightest, though she laughed at his expression. Rising to her feet, she moved to the door. “I’ll have some clothes brought in for you. You’re almost the same size as Mark, so I’m sure some of his things will fit you. You’re practically the spitting image of him when he was your age.” With that, she left.
Will stared at the door, feeling nervous once more. What if she realizes?
***
Lethargy caused him to doubt his decision, but once he got into the kitchen and finished waking up, his energy returned. The family cook, Armand, turned out to be a heavyset man in his middling years, and his appearance was unusual in that he had neither beard nor mustache. While being completely cleanshaven was mildly unusual, the man’s head also appeared to be thoroughly denuded. Or maybe he’s just bald, thought Will. It was hard to tell with the white cap that the man wore.
Armand responded to Will’s challenge with equanimity and an air of assurance. The man had been cooking for men and women of high station for most of his life. There was no doubt in him that he would win.
Will’s blood warmed as he got to work. He had a good idea of the types of food the upper class in Cerria were used to. If Armand was as skilled as Agnes had claimed, then the man would probably serve an omelet or possibly sweet crepes paired with sausages or ham. Rather than compete with him, Will decided to go with something he doubted the baroness had had before.
He chuckled wickedly, thinking of the breakfasts Arrogan had made for him. The crotchety old wizard had been an exceptional cook, and over the course of his hundreds of years the old man had traveled most of the known world. Some of the dishes he had introduced Will to had no equivalents in Terabinian cuisine. The kitchen at the Nerrow house was well appointed, and after a brief survey of the tools and ingredients he had available to him, Will began.
Somewhere in the middle of things Armand glanced over at him. “What a shame.”
“How so?” asked Will, glancing up from the apple he was slicing into wafer-thin slices.
“All those ingredients gone to waste.”
Will hid a smile. “We’ll see. Where did the vinegar go?”
The other man pointed to a shelf and returned to his own work, shaking his head. Will got the vinegar and measured out what he needed, until the smell hit him. Something about it reminded him of the brine from the night before, and his legs sagged beneath him. It was all he could do to catch himself on the edge of the worktable. With an effort of will he straightened up, but his hands continued to tremble for several minutes while he worked.
Breakfast was served later than usual, since Will and his competitor had both gone to great lengths to produce the best they could offer. The family was already seated at the dining table with Mark at one end and his wife at the other while Laina and Tabitha sat on one side in the middle.
Armand had produced a savory crepe that was paired with sausages and sweet strawberry tarts. Will was impressed by the man’s skill, and he was glad he had chosen not to compete head-to-head with similar dishes. Years of practice had given the old cook the perfect touch with both his batter for his crepes and the crust on his tarts. Will would have lost if he’d tried to best the man with either of those.
The family glanced at the double set of plates placed before them. Mark Nerrow seemed somber and detached as he tasted the various dishes. Laina was only marginally more animated, but Tabitha was practically bubbling with enthusiasm. She gave Will a smile and a wink as she began to sample each dish.
As expected, they gave Armand’s food high marks, but their expressions turned to surprise, then delight as they moved on to Will’s offering. Within minutes it was apparent he had won, for they kept sampling, tasting, and outright devouring what he had put in front of them. Agnes was the first to address him. “What exactly is this?” She pointed her spoon at the fluffy yet savory concoction that was in the ramekin in front of her.
“It’s called a soufflé,” Will answered. “It’s made with eggs and cheese and it has to be served immediately after cooking, before it falls.”