Cook’s senses were strung as tightly as lute strings. They twanged with the rhythm of the kitchen. From an elevated position on a box, he stood, his eyes roaming the dozens of scurrying servants. Like frenzied fiddlers, men carved meat; elbows sawing back and forth. Others chopped with drumbeat precision that set a furious tempo.
With nostrils flared and quivering, Cook was poised to detect unwelcome odours. Nothing would be burnt at this banquet. His ears strained to detect – well, anything, really. The thud of a heat-exhausted wench hitting the floor. A squabble over the tarts.
Now, thankfully, everything was running smoothly. Well, perhaps not smoothly. Panic rose with the fragrant steam like a silent chorus. Unconsciously, he rubbed the back of his neck and swallowed. Fresh sweat broke on his brow and trickled down his florid cheeks. His head would be the first to go if this banquet displeased the King.
The servant attending the oven caught Cook’s eye, warning him the pastry was ready. He hurried over to check. This piecrust must not fail like the last.
Relief, like a calming melody, washed over him. It was evenly browned. Perfect. With a silent prayer, Cook removed it from the oven and left it to cool. The actual test would come when they lifted it off the frame. Was it strong enough to stand unsupported on top of a dish? He wiped the sweat from his eyes. Exploratory taps demonstrated it was.
Now for the twenty-four blackbirds…
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