CHAPTER 23: DISH-DUTY

CORA

"Holy shit, Brumer... look at this place," I said, ducking my head through the swinging doors of the École de Cuisine’s first-floor kitchens. Each tower was like this, with four floors. Freshmen worked on floor one, sophomores on floor two, and so on. If the École was your elective, you would spend your first two years of study on the first floor with freshmen, before ascending to the second as a junior and the third as a senior, stuck a step behind those with it as a Majeure.

The space was pristine, with marble countertops and dark-wood shelves polished to a mirror-sheen. I loved the breadworks with all my heart, but that was a homey enchantment; this place was powerful.

"It is quite something," she said, passing through the gap and into controlled chaos, her cindery toes reflected in the stone a few inches beneath them. Within, freshly minted junior girls with cuisinière electives worked their final shifts in the space, barking orders at each other but dancing across it, rolling through in tandem.

Color me impressed.

That sort of coordinated movement didn’t come quick, and I doubted many of them had entered the program comfortably in a commercial kitchen space. The quarters were cramped, and your feet were always moving. Their first semester was likely a tumult of crashing bodies, pots, and pans.

"Out of the way, pink-" a red-headed girl in a waitress’s outfit said, rushing the door with a wide tray of linguine alfredo, but I had it open for her before she finished her sentence. She didn’t stop, just drove past me toward the cafeteria counters.

They were too busy to kick us out, as long as I kept out of the way, they’d assume I had a better purpose for being here than gawking.

Vivi and I had spent a while catching up on a park bench before she had to rush off to an appointment with her counselor, and I’d grown a bit bored of waiting for Serica’s return. This seemed a worthwhile excursion, acquainting myself with the space. Brumer’s flame licked off her shoulders to the nearest stovetop as if it were attempting to drag her in. She, too, was more than familiar with this type of space, having spent countless afternoons in our kitchen, where Mom, Dad, and I would move around each other like parts of a machine. I missed it badly, letting my thoughts drag away, just being a part of production, getting caught in a rush.

After Mom passed and we split up the shifts, the kitchen felt more of a task than a release. I knew Dad felt the same. He’d been honest about that. He was always so sincere.

I fought off the urge to wince, my eyes getting lost in the shifting patterns of Brumer’s back. Things were going well here, relatively. I’d been so worried about the fallout with Ser over Brumer, but she’d surprised me.

We worked to the other side of the kitchen, found an out-of-the-way corner, and I rested my back against its tile wall. "Brume," I asked, watching her nose trace circles as she watched a sous-chef stir a pot.

"Huh?" she flicked her eyes to the side. The place was both crowded and secluded, its rhythm and drive masking us from anyone’s attention. The question still nagged at me with each brush of my hand against my leash, each glance in her direction.

Just get it out there.

"Wh- why did you... Why did you call me Cherryblossom?" I asked, surprised I’d managed to get it out. If we were out on the street, in the quiet, my mind would have been a storm. I clocked it for the first time in that moment.

What if that’s why I- why I did what I did in the bathhouse?

"Oh?" Brumer asked, maintaining her cool demeanor. She rarely gave away anything with substance, consuming it within and draping it in smoke. "Your hair," she said, like it was obvious, not even worth notice, then drifted off to look into a stew-pot. That same simmering liquid rolled up my throat.

Seriously? After what we did...

I dropped a hand to clap my hip and took off after her. In the process, I accidentally shoulder-checked a classmate in a white jacket. She rebounded to catch herself against a hand-cart loaded with potatoes.

She howled, "Just what the hell do you think you’re doing in my kitchen!?" livid, leaving silence in her wake as the whole room turned.

Huh?

I was still furious over Brumer’s deflection, and that heat redirected itself. This brat could have avoided that. Any foodservice worker worth their salt knew not to get in the middle of a spat. That was the quick route to burn-creams and stitches.

My mom wasn’t nearly as steady with her flame as Brumer. I’d often thought that Dad’s steadfast resolve was the one thing keeping them together. She could explode, throw herself into a tantrum, and he was man enough to take it. When she ran out of fuel, he’d be there to catch her.

"Your kitchen?" my voice rose.

Who gave this chick her jacket?

She made up for her lack of awareness with a filthy tongue, tearing into me, "Open your ears you hulking cock-breathed whore, if you just laid off the pastries for a few months, people would be able to-" A blast of searing heat cut her off, billowing from the nearest oven. Its door slammed against its hinges, and the girl fell onto her ass, hair crisped and blackened. Brumer pounced on her as her rose-gold chain leash bloomed a wash of clear, lavender-scented water across her body.

Fuck!

"Brume- Brume!" I shouted. Her legs wrapped around the girl, enveloping the two in a thick cloud of steam. Brumer raised an arm, fingers straight like the tip of a blade, angled for a strike to the throat, "You can’t speak to-"

"Get off her!" Without thinking, I grabbed a sheet pan and swung it into and clear through Brumer’s back. It obviously had no tangible effect, but as a pained expression spread across her face, I wished it had. I’d have preferred her furious to this.

"You can’t..." My makeshift weapon clattered to the floor. She rose into the air, legs still curled, and brought her hands to her neck, clutching.

On the floor, the girl was heaving, still furious, water trickling off her chest, "My hair," she clutched at her scalp. Half of it, its left side, was gone, blackened, she sneered, and spat, "I’m going to make the next two years the worst of your life."