The Heir (15 page)

I
WAITED NERVOUSLY IN THE
palace foyer. I wasn’t sure about what I was wearing—what did people wear to cook?—or how to fake expertise in the kitchen or how to disperse attention evenly among four suitors.

And while I knew having a photographer there was both good for publicity and personal safety, the idea of someone documenting this night did not make me feel any less jittery.

I pulled at my shirt, which was rather plain in case I got dirty, and touched my hair, making sure it was still in place. The clock showed the boys were four minutes late, and I was getting antsy.

Just as I was about to send a butler to fetch them, I heard the echo of voices in the hallway. Kile rounded the corner first. Burke was right beside him, clearly trying to buddy up to the alleged leader of the pack. Fox was with Henri,
both smiling quietly. Not far behind, Erik walked with his hands tucked behind him. His presence was necessary, but I sensed he felt a little out of place as the sole nonparticipant in a group date.

Kile rubbed his hands together. “You ready to eat?”

“Eat, yes. Cook? We’ll see how that goes.” I tried to hide my worry with a smile, but I think Kile knew.

“So is it true you two have known each other your whole lives?” Burke asked. It was so abrupt, I didn’t know how to respond.

“Trust me, you’ve got the better end of the deal,” Kile replied smoothly, elbowing him in the ribs.

“It’s true,” I confirmed. “It’s like Kile said on the
Report
: I never considered him boyfriend material until I was forced to. He’s like family.”

Everyone laughed, and I realized how true that was. It annoyed me whenever Josie told people she was like my sister, but I did know both her and Kile better than I knew my cousins.

“The kitchen is this way,” I said, pointing past them to the dining hall. “The staff knows we’re coming, so let’s go cook.”

Kile shook his head at my fake enthusiasm but said nothing.

We walked to the back of the dining hall and rounded a partition. There was a wide dumbwaiter the staff used to bring up carts of food next to a stairwell that led to the main kitchen. Burke rushed to my side quickly, offering his arm
as we traveled down the wide steps.

“What do you want to cook tonight?” he asked.

I wondered if my face showed my shock. I really thought someone else would be providing the ideas.

“Oh, I’m kind of up for whatever,” I hedged.

“Let’s make courses,” Kile suggested. “An appetizer, an entrée, and a dessert.”

“That sounds good,” Fox agreed.

Erik piped up from the back. “Henri and I will do dessert, if that’s all right.”

“Sure,” Kile answered.

I could smell the dinner that was being prepared for the rest of the palace. I couldn’t pinpoint everything, but there was a delicious hint of garlic in the air, and I suddenly had a new reason to hate this date: I had to postpone actually eating.

In a low-ceilinged room, a dozen people with their hair pulled back tightly or tucked under scarves were running around, tossing vegetables into pots of steaming water or double-checking the seasonings of the sauces. Despite the fact that there was still a meal to finish preparing for everyone in the palace, the staff had cleared half of the space for us to use.

A man in a tall chef’s hat approached us. “Your Highness. Will this be enough room?”

“More than enough, thank you.”

I remembered his face from a few weeks ago when he’d presented me with the sample ideas for the first dinner. I’d
been so annoyed at the time, Mom did most of the choosing, and I hadn’t even thought to thank him. Looking around and seeing how much work was going into a single meal, I felt ashamed of myself.

“
Missä pidät hiivaa
?” Henri asked politely.

My eyes went to Erik, who spoke up. “Pardon me, sir, but where do you keep your yeast?”

Fox and Burke giggled, but I remembered what Erik had told me once and what was crudely worded on Henri’s own application: he was a cook.

The chef waved Henri down, and he and Erik followed him closely, trying to chat. The chef was clearly excited to have someone with some experience in the room. The other boys . . . not so much.

“Okay, so . . . let’s go see what’s in the fridge.” Fox hesitantly led the way to one of several large refrigerators along the wall. I looked at the organized contents—parchment-wrapped meats labeled in pencil, the four different types of milk we used, and the various sauces or starters prepped and stored ahead of time—and knew I was way out of my league.

I heard a click and turned to see the photographer had arrived.

“Just pretend I’m not here!” she whispered cheerfully.

Kile grabbed some butter. “You always need butter,” he assured me.

I nodded. “Good to know.”

Burke found a pile of something on the counter. He turned to the chef. “What is this?”

“Phyllo paper. You can make dozens of things with that. Melt some of that butter, and I’ll get you some recipes.”

Kile gave me a face. “See?”

“How do we want to decide who works together?” Burke asked, obviously hoping I’d simply go with him.

“Rock, paper, scissors?” Fox suggested.

“That’s fair,” Kile agreed. He and Fox went up against each other first, and though no one said it one way or the other, they knew the losers would be stuck with each other.

Kile beat both Fox and Burke. Fox took it in stride, but Burke had no talent at masking his emotions. The two of them picked an appetizer to make together—asparagus wrapped with prosciutto and phyllo—while Kile and I were left staring at some chicken, trying to figure out what to do with it.

“So, what’s step one?” I asked.

“I cooked plenty when I was away in Fennley, but I need a recipe at least. I bet those books would help.” We walked over to a cupboard that contained dozens of cookbooks. Most of them had markers hanging in multiple places, and there were piles of note cards next to them with more ideas.

As Kile flipped through the pages, I played with the jars of herbs. The kitchen made me think of what a scientist’s lab would look like, only with food. I opened some, inhaling them or feeling the texture.

“Smell this,” I insisted, holding up a jar to Kile.

“What’s that?”

“Saffron. Doesn’t it smell delicious?”

He smiled at me and went straight to the back of the book he was holding. “Aha!” he said, turning forward to find his page. “Saffron chicken. Want to give that a try?”

“Sure.” I clutched the jar in my hand like it was my big contribution to the night.

“All right. Saffron chicken . . . so, let’s preheat the oven.”

I stood next to him, staring at the buttons and dials. Probably the ovens in normal people’s homes didn’t look like this, but this massive, industrial setup seemed like it might launch a satellite if we touched the wrong thing. We looked at the stove like it might give us some instructions if we waited long enough.

“Should I get more butter?” I asked.

“Shut up, Eadlyn.”

The chef walked past and mumbled, “Dial on the left, three fifty.”

Kile reached over and turned it as if he knew what to do the whole time.

I glanced toward Fox and Burke. Burke was clearly acting as their leader and loudly giving orders. Fox didn’t seem to mind at all, laughing and joking without being obnoxious. They peeked back over at us several times, Burke sneaking in a wink now and then. Past them, Erik and Henri were working quietly, with Erik doing a minimal amount of labor, only assisting when Henri asked for it.

Henri’s sleeves were rolled up and he’d gotten some flour
on his pants, and I kind of loved that he didn’t seem to care about it. Erik was a little messy himself, and he didn’t bother wiping any of it off either.

I looked at Kile, who was buried in the cookbook. “I’ll be right back.”

“Sure.” As I walked away, I heard him quietly try to get the chef’s attention.

“Looking good, boys,” I said, pausing by Fox.

“Thanks. This is actually kind of soothing. I never cooked much at home, nothing like this anyway. But I’m looking forward to trying it.” Fox’s hands stuttered for a moment, trying to find his rhythm again.

“This will be the best asparagus you’ve ever had,” Burke promised.

“I can’t wait,” I replied, moving to the far end of the table.

Erik looked up, greeting me with a smile. “Your Highness. How’s our dinner looking?”

“Very bad indeed,” I promised. He chuckled and told Henri the state of our poor supper.

Their hands were covered in dough, and I could see bowls of cinnamon and sugar waiting to be used. “This looks promising though. Do you cook as well, Erik?”

“Oh, not professionally. But I live on my own, so I cook for myself, and I love all the traditional Swendish foods. This is a favorite.”

Erik turned to Henri, and I could tell they were talking about food because Henri was alight with excitement.

“Oh, yeah! Henri was just saying there’s this soup he has
when he’s sick. It’s got potatoes and fish, and, oh, I miss my mother just thinking about it.”

I smiled, trying to imagine Erik alone trying to master his mother’s meals and Henri in the back of a restaurant already having conquered every recipe in his family’s memory. I kept worrying that Erik felt like an outcast. He certainly worked to separate himself from the Selected. He dressed differently, walked at a slower pace, and even carried himself a little lower. But watching him here, interacting with Henri, who was too kind for me to dismiss, I was so grateful for his presence. He brought a little piece of home to a situation twice removed from Henri’s idea of normal.

I stepped away, allowing them to work, and went back to my station. Kile had collected some ingredients in my absence. He was dicing garlic on a wooden brick next to a bowl of something that looked like yogurt.

“There you are,” he greeted. “Okay, crush those saffron threads and then mix them in the bowl.”

After a moment of blank staring, I picked up the tiny bowl and mallet I assumed was meant for thread crushing and started pressing. It was a strangely satisfying exercise. Kile did most of the work, smothering the chicken with the yogurt mix and throwing it in the oven. The other teams were at various stages of prep as well, and in the end, the dessert was ready first, followed by the appetizer, and our entrée pulled up the rear.

Realizing belatedly that Kile and I should have made something to go with our chicken, we decided to use the
wrapped asparagus as a side, all laughing at how poorly we’d planned this.

The whole lot of us crowded around one end of the long table. I was sandwiched between Burke and Kile, with Henri across from me and Fox at the head. Erik was slightly removed but still clearly enjoying the company.

Honestly, I was, too. Cooking made me nervous because it was totally foreign to me. I didn’t know how to cut or sauté or anything, and I despised failing or looking foolish. But the majority of us had limited experience, and instead of it becoming a stressor, it became a joke, making this one of the most relaxed meals I’d ever had. No formal place settings, no assigned seats; and since nearly all the china was in use for our very full house, we were using plain plates that looked so old, the only reason they could possibly still be here was sentimentality.

“Okay, since they were supposed to be the appetizer, I think we should try the asparagus first,” Kile insisted.

“Let’s do it.” Burke speared his asparagus and took a bite, and we all followed. It appeared the results were inconsistent. Henri nodded approvingly, but mine tasted awful. I could tell Fox’s was bad as well based on his poorly concealed grimace.

“That . . . that is the worst thing I’ve ever tasted,” Fox said, trying to chew.

“Mine’s good!” Burke said defensively. “You’re probably just not used to eating such quality food.”

Fox ducked his head, and I gathered something I wouldn’t
have known otherwise: Fox was poor.

“Can I try a bite of yours?” I whispered to Henri, using my hands and happy to find he understood without Erik’s help.

“Do you mind?” Fox replied quietly, and I pretended to be too focused on the food to hear him. And Henri’s piece actually was much better. “Who’s to say it’s not because of your cooking?”

“Well, maybe if I had a better partner,” Burke snapped.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Kile insisted. “There’s no way yours could be worse than ours.”

I giggled, trying to break the tension. I could feel Burke’s anger like an actual, physical thing hanging in the air, and I wanted nothing more than to return to the relaxed feeling we had when we’d sat down.

“All right,” I said with a sigh. “I think the first thing we need to do is cut each piece of chicken in half to make sure it’s cooked through. I seriously don’t want to kill anyone.”

“Are you doubting me?” Kile asked, offended.

“Definitely!”

I took a tentative bite . . . and it was pretty good. It wasn’t undercooked; in fact, some of the edges were a little dry where the paste hadn’t covered it all. But it was edible! Considering that I’d only done a fraction of the work, I was maybe a little too proud.

We ate, sharing pieces of the asparagus that hadn’t turned out too bad, though I genuinely worried I might be sick later.

Finally, I’d had enough. “I’m ready for dessert!”

Henri chuckled in understanding and went over to where his pastries were cooling on a rack. With careful movements, only using the edges of his fingers even though the rolls seemed firm, he transferred them all to a plate and set them in front of us.

“Is
korvapuusti
,” he said, giving the dish a name. Then, taking my hand, he gave me a very important speech; I could tell by the intensity in his eyes. I wished so badly that I could understand him on my own.

When he finished, Erik smiled and turned to me.

“
Korvapuusti
is one of Henri’s favorite things to prepare as well as eat. He says that if you do not like it, you should send him home tonight, for he’s sure your relationship could not survive if you aren’t as in love with this as he is.”