CHAPTER 88: EXPLORING A DISH OF ENVY

The first batch was a disaster.

Marron stared at the blackened rice, smoke still curling from their charred surfaces. The oil had been too hot—she was sure of it—but the flame had flickered strangely just as she’d added the rice, flaring high enough to scorch everything in the pan.

"Clumsy," whispered a voice that might have been the wind. Or might not have been.

Marron’s jaw tightened. She scraped the ruined food into the waste bin and started again.

The second attempt was slightly better, until she tasted the pickles. Her face scrunched up and she had to throw them in the bin.

Sour beyond saving.

It wasn’t a crunchy and pleasantly sour pickle. It was absolutly rancid, like they had been made with milk.

Very weird.

I know I checked them before I added the pickles in the pan...so why are they so bad now?

"Such a shame," came that sliding voice again, closer this time. "All that effort, wasted."

The bone shard in Marron’s apron grew warm against her hip. She pressed her hand to it, drawing what comfort she could from its steady pulse.

"Oh. It’s you."

The Jilted Lover was here, watching, sabotaging. But why show herself so obviously?

She wants me to know she’s interfering, Marron realized. She wants me frustrated.

Well. It was working.

Now, the third batch was supposed to be the charm.

Let’s see...there’s no way she can ruin this for me now. Marron deliberately moved with care and checked every ingredient twice. She controlled the heat as if she were performing surgery on a grape. Chilis bloomed in the oil without burning.

This time, the garlic was sauted to perfection, not black. She made sure the greens wilted perfectly, the bitterness balanced by properly pickled radishes.

She folded in the rice, each grain separate and glistening. Steam rose in elegant spirals, and it was exactly what she’d envisioned.

But then the salt shaker tipped over.

Marron lunged for it, but too late. A cascade of coarse salt buried half the pan’s contents, turning what should have been a carefully calibrated bite into an inedible brine.

"Oops," the voice giggled, and this time Marron saw her—a translucent figure perched on the counter’s edge, one finger still extended toward the fallen shaker. The Jilted Lover looked almost solid in the kitchen’s warm light.

This time, Marron saw her wearing a less-tattered wedding dress. In the light of her failure, the Lover’s face looked...beautiful, even. She was grinning.

Marron was tempted to throw a frying pan at her.

"Aren’t you supposed to be hiding from me?" Marron snapped, abandoning all pretense of calm.

"Why?" The banshee tilted her head. "It’s more fun to see you fail up close."

Marron’s hand found the bone shard again. Its warmth had become heat, almost uncomfortable against her palm. "Then you’re going to be disappointed."

She started her fourth attempt.

The Jilted Lover didn’t even try subtlety this time. She blew out the flame beneath Marron’s pan twice, forcing her to relight it. She knocked over the oil bottle—thankfully only half full. She whispered discouraging nonsense in Marron’s ear: Too much garlic. Not enough salt. The rice is wrong. You’re wrong.

By the fifth ruined batch, Marron’s hands were shaking with fury. The bone shard had grown so hot it nearly burned through her apron. She slammed her palm on the counter, scattering flour.

"Enough!"

The Jilted Lover leaned back, delighted. "Finally! Some fire in you. I was beginning to think you were made of wet cloth."

Marron’s chest heaved. Around them, the kitchen felt charged, electric with tension. The other mimics had long since fled to the dining room, leaving her alone with the banshee’s toxic presence.

Think, she told herself. Think like a chef, not like prey.

The Jilted Lover wanted to be fed, but she also wanted to watch Marron suffer. She was feeding on frustration as much as she craved food. Every failed attempt gave her strength, made her more solid, more present.

"What does a jealous ghost want most?" Marron muttered, staring at her ruined ingredients.

The banshee perked up. "What was that, little chef?"

Marron’s mind raced. Envy. The Jilted Lover was fueled by envy. She wanted what others had, what she’d been denied. A perfect meal, shared with someone who cared, someone who—

"Oh," Marron breathed. "Oh, you absolute fool."

She wasn’t supposed to cook for the Jilted Lover.

Marron had almost forgotten. She was upposed to cook for somebody else.

And she would--a dish so beautiful and wrapped in love that the banshee would burn with wanting it.

Marron reached for her pack and pulled out her most precious ingredients—real butter wrapped in wax paper, farm-fresh eggs from her own supplies, rice so white and perfect she’d been saving it for a special occasion. The bone shard pulsed against her hip, no longer burning hot but warm with approval.

"What are you doing?" The Jilted Lover’s voice had gone sharp, suspicious.

Marron smiled for the first time in hours. "Making omelet rice."

She heated butter in a clean pan, not oil. The scent that rose was rich and golden, nothing like the acrid smoke of her previous attempts. She whisked eggs until they were pale yellow silk, added cream she’d been hoarding, a pinch of the finest salt.

For the rice, she used what she’d learned from her failures—the perfect balance of garlic and herbs, but gentle now, nurturing instead of weaponized. She folded it with care, each grain distinct, flavored but not overwhelmed.

The eggs went into the hot butter with a satisfying sizzle. She worked them with chopsticks, constantly moving, creating curds so small they were almost cream. When they were just barely set, trembling on the edge of liquid, she spooned the rice in the center and began to fold.

"Stop," the Jilted Lover whispered.

The omelet wrapped around the rice like silk around treasure. Marron slid it onto her finest plate—white porcelain, simple and elegant. With her knife, she cut a delicate line down the center, letting the barely-set eggs spill open like flower petals, revealing the perfectly seasoned rice within.

She added a single garnish—a sprig of green onion, cut paper-thin and curled like a tiny flower.

It was beautiful. Perfect. The kind of dish that spoke of love and care and countless hours of practice.

The Jilted Lover had gone completely solid now, her dress no longer tattered but whole, her face no longer decayed but lovely and terrible in its rage.

"You think you’re clever," she hissed.

"I think I understand you," Marron replied. She picked up the plate and walked toward the stairs. "You don’t want to be fed. You want to watch someone else be loved."

The bone shard in her apron hummed with warmth, confirming what she’d suspected. This was the right path. Not feeding the monster, but showing her exactly what she’d never have.

"I’m taking this to the Lieutenant," Marron announced. "A perfect meal, made with perfect care, for someone who deserves it."

Behind her, the Jilted Lover screamed.

The sound shattered every piece of glass in the kitchen, but Marron kept walking, the warm plate steady in her hands, the bone shard singing against her hip like a tuning fork struck pure and true.