The morning after the party had broken over Port Lak-Sa in a wash of gold and salt, the fog burning off the harbor by degrees, leaving the streets slick and the air thick with the smell of fish and frying dough. The crews scattered with the dawn, each following the particular gravity of their own necessities—supplies to gather, repairs to fund, the endless arithmetic of keeping a ship afloat in waters that never stopped asking for more.
Lucky Roux found the cooking contest by accident, or perhaps by instinct, the way a shark finds blood in the water without knowing it is looking. A flyer tacked to a market stall, the ink still wet, the letters curling in a hand that had written the same announcement a hundred times: Grand Market Cook-Off. Prizes. Glory. Free Tasting. He had torn it down, folded it into his pocket, and carried it back to the ship like a man carrying a winning hand.
Eliane, in the galley, her knife moving through vegetables with the rhythm of a metronome that had been wound too tight, her silver hair braided back, her white jacket already dusted with flour. He held up the flyer, and she looked at it, and her face did something that was not quite a smile and not quite a hunger but something in between.
Ember sat on a crate, her legs swinging, her mismatched eyes tracking the movement of a fly that was trying to escape through a porthole. She looked up when Lucky Roux spoke, her head cocked, her voice flat. "Is eating part of the contest?"
Lucky Roux chuckled, the sound rolling through the galley like a wave that had nowhere else to go. "There is only one way to find out."
---
The contest square had been transformed overnight. Long tables stretched across the cobblestones, their surfaces scarred by years of knives and heat, their edges lined with bowls and bottles and ingredients arranged with the particular care of soldiers being deployed for battle. Braziers glowed at intervals, their coals banked low, waiting for the signal that would bring them to life. The crowd pressed against the ropes that marked the boundaries, their voices a low hum that rose and fell with the movements of the cooks who moved behind the tables.
Lucky Roux stood at one of the central stations, his sleeves rolled up, his hands buried in a mound of dough that he worked with the rhythm of a man who had spent a lifetime learning that the difference between good food and great food was the weight of your palms. Beside him, Eliane claimed a smaller table, her knives laid out in a fan, her ingredients arranged in order of use, her face the face of a general who already won the battle and was simply waiting for the war to catch up.
Her knife moved. The peppers fell into strips, the strips into dice, the dice into a bowl that she slid aside without looking. Her hands found the garlic, the ginger, the stalks of lemongrass that she selected from a vendor's stall that morning, and the rhythm of her work was the rhythm of a woman born with a knife in her hand and never put it down.
Ember watched from a stool near the back of the station, her legs swinging, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes moving from Eliane's hands to Lucky Roux's dough to the pots that were beginning to steam on the braziers. She had been watching for an hour. She had not complained. But her stomach began to make sounds that were not the sounds of patience.
Lucky Roux's hand drifted toward the bowl of sauce that Eliane set aside, his fingers dipping, his knuckles bending, his face the face of a man who had been caught before and had never learned to be sorry.
Eliane's knife stopped. Her eyes narrowed. Her voice was the voice of a woman who had been interrupted in the middle of something sacred. "You are sampling again."
Lucky Roux's finger paused halfway to his mouth. His grin was the grin of a man who had been caught and was not sorry. "Quality control."
"You have tasted it seven times."
"Seven is a lucky number."
Eliane's hands went to her hips. Her braid swung. Her face was the face of a woman who knew that some arguments were not worth winning, but that did not mean she had to lose them. "You are going to ruin the balance."
Lucky Roux tasted the sauce, his eyes closing, his face going still. He opened his eyes, and his grin was wider. "Balance is overrated."
Eliane's sigh was the sigh of a woman who had given up and was not sorry about it. She turned back to her work, her knife finding the rhythm again, her voice carrying over the noise of the contest. "When the judges say it is too sweet, you will remember my words."
Lucky Roux's hand found the bowl again. "I will remember your words."
His fingers dipped. Eliane's knife paused. Her eyes closed. Her lips moved in a count that was meant for herself and for the ancestors who taught her mother's mother's mother that some lessons could not be taught, only endured.
Ember watched them for a while longer. Her legs swung. Her stomach growled. Her eyes moved across the square, across the other contestants who were stirring and chopping and tasting their own work, across the crowd that was pressing closer, waiting for the moment when the judges would lift their spoons and the world would decide who had won.
She slid off the stool.
Her boots found the cobblestones. Her hands found her pockets. Her feet found the rhythm of a street that was waiting for her to walk it. She hummed as she walked, the tune old, the words forgotten, the shape of it something that her mother hummed before the fire, before the smoke, before the world turned to ash in her mouth.
She did not look back. She did not need to. The cooking contest was behind her, and the market was ahead, and the morning was long, and she was hungry for something that was not sauce and dough and the particular patience of a woman who had learned to count her blessings in ingredients.
---
Aurélie sat at a table beneath the awning of a tea house that built on the side of a building that had been there for longer than anyone could remember. The cups before her were small, the tea dark, the dessert a confection of honey and nuts that the owner pressed into her hands with the insistence of a woman who believed that sweetness was the only currency that mattered. She had been sitting here for an hour, maybe two, the morning slipping away from her like water through fingers, and she had not cared.
Wahid-Ahmed sat across from her, his elbows on the table, his head resting on one hand, his face the face of a man who had been laughing for the better part of an hour and was not ready to stop. His voice was low, warm, the voice of a man who had learned that the best stories were the ones that did not need to be true. "And then he says, 'That is not a cheese spreader. That is my mother's heirloom.'"
Aurélie's lips curved. Her hand found her cup, her fingers wrapping around the warmth of it, her eyes holding his. "What did you say?"
"I said, 'Then she should not have left it in the cheese drawer.'" His grin was wide, his eyes bright, and the space between them was the space of two people who had forgotten, for a moment, that there was a world beyond the table.
Her cup stopped halfway to her mouth.
Her eyes slid sideways.
The movement was small, almost invisible, but Wahid-Ahmed caught it. His head lifted from his hand. His grin faded. His voice was careful, measured, the voice of a man who had spent a lifetime reading the spaces between words. "What is it?"
Aurélie set her cup down. The sound of it was soft, final. Her sigh was the sigh of a woman given something she had not asked for and had just been told she had to give it back. "My temporary reprieve has come to an end."
She stood. The chair scraped across the stone, the sound of it louder than it should have been, the sound of something that was ending.
Wahid-Ahmed rose with her, his body moving before his mind caught up, his hand reaching for the spear that leaned against the wall beside him, his face caught between the man who had been laughing an hour ago and the man who had spent eight years watching and waiting and never leaving. His brow furrowed. His lips pressed together. "Is there something I can—"
Aurélie raised her hand. The gesture was gentle, final, the gesture of a woman who had made her peace with the thing that was coming and did not want anyone to try to stop it. "No."
Her head turned. Her eyes found the street, found the figure that was skipping down the center of it, her pink hair bright against the grey of the buildings, her hands in her pockets, her feet finding the rhythm of a child who had no idea that she was being watched.
Wahid-Ahmed followed her gaze. His voice was low, warm, the voice of a man who had been given a piece of a puzzle and was already fitting it into place. "Friend of yours?"
Aurélie's lips curved. It was not a smile. It was something that had been waiting behind her eyes all morning, something that had been patient, something that had known that the morning would end. "Something like that."
She began to walk, her steps unhurried, her hand finding the hilt of her sword, her eyes fixed on the figure ahead. She looked back over her shoulder, her voice carrying across the space between them, her face the face of a woman leaving and was not sure when she would return. "I will be back. I need to check in." Her eyes found his, held them. "Please keep an eye on the doctor."
Wahid-Ahmed nodded. His face was the face of a man who had been given a gift and had just been told that the gift was borrowed. "Yes, of course."
She waved. Her fingers moved, the gesture small, the gesture of a woman who had said goodbye before and would say it again. "I will see you soon."
She turned, and she walked, and the crowd swallowed her, and Wahid-Ahmed stood at the edge of the tea house, his spear in his hand, his eyes on the space where she had been, the morning settling around him like a coat that did not fit.
---
Ember's feet carried her down the main street of the market, her steps light, her hum rising and falling with the rhythm of the crowd that parted around her. The stalls pressed close on either side, their awnings overlapping, their colors bleeding into each other, their smells rising in layers that she could taste without opening her mouth. Fish and spice and something frying, something baking, something that had been dusted with sugar and left to cool on a rack that was just out of reach.
She stopped at a bakery.
The window was low, the glass smudged with the fingerprints of children who had come before her, the pastries arranged in rows that that beckoned to be consumed. Her nose found the glass. Her breath fogged the surface. Her hand rose, her finger tracing the outline of a pastry that was glazed and golden and dusted with something that might have been cinnamon or might have been sugar or might have been something that she had never tasted and wanted more than she had ever wanted anything.
The voice came from behind her, low, warm, the voice of a woman who had been watching for longer than Ember wanted to think about. "Do you see something you like?"
Ember's head snapped around.
Aurélie stood at the edge of the stall, her silver hair loose, her black attire stark against the colors of the market, her hand resting on the hilt of the sword at her hip. Her face expressing a woman who had been interrupted in the middle of something that mattered, who had been pulled away from something she wanted to be doing, who was here now and was not going to leave until she had done what she came to do.
The vendor appeared behind the counter, his hands wiping his apron, a man who had been waiting for customers all morning and finally found one. "You want something? I have the best pastries in the district. My grandmother's recipe. Been making them sixty years."
Ember's head cocked. Her nose twitched. Her eyes moved from the vendor to the pastries to the woman who was standing behind her with her hand on her sword and her face unreadable. She inhaled, deep, the scent of sugar and butter filling her lungs, and her finger found the glass again, pressing against it, leaving a print that would be there for the rest of the morning.
"That one."
The vendor moved, his hands quick, his fingers finding the box, the paper, the string that would tie it closed. Aurélie reached into her jacket, her fingers finding the coins, her eyes never leaving Ember's face. She paid. The vendor handed the box to Ember, and Ember took it, her fingers closing around the edges, her face lighting up with something that was not quite a smile and not quite a grin but something in between.
Aurélie's hand found Ember's shoulder, her fingers light, her voice low. "Where are the others?"
Ember was already opening the box, her fingers pulling the string, her eyes fixed on the pastry that was waiting inside. She shrugged, the movement casual, the movement of a child who had been asked a question that did not interest her. "Don't know. I was with Eliane and the big round one, but then I got bored."
Aurélie's hand tightened on her shoulder, not gripping, just resting, the weight of it a reminder that she was there, that she was not going anywhere. "We should return to the ship, then."
Ember lifted the pastry to her lips, her teeth sinking into the crust, her eyes closing, her face caught between the pleasure of the first bite and the particular satisfaction of a child who had found something she wanted and had not had to ask anyone's permission to take it. She chewed, swallowed, licked the frosting from her fingers. "Or," she said, her voice muffled, her mouth full, "we could go back and help Eliane with her cooking contest."
Aurélie's eyebrow rose. Her hand dropped from Ember's shoulder. Her voice was careful, measured, not sure she had heard what she thought she had heard. "Do you know the way?"
Ember cocked her head. Her tongue found the corner of her mouth, the frosting that had settled there, the sugar that was coating her cheeks, her nose, the place between her eyebrows. She considered the question with the gravity of a philosopher who had been asked the meaning of existence and was not sure she had an answer. "Hmmmm." She licked her thumb. She licked her index finger. She licked the spot on her cheek that was sticky with honey. "No."
Aurélie's lips curved. The movement was small, almost invisible, but it was there, the crack in the mask, the thing that had been waiting behind her eyes since she left the tea house and followed a girl with pink hair and a box of pastries into the middle of the market. "Then let's meet the others back at the dock."
Ember shrugged. Her teeth found the pastry again, the crust cracking, the filling spilling across her fingers, the sugar coating her cheeks, her nose. "Okay."
She walked past Aurélie, her steps light, her box clutched to her chest, her voice rising in a hum that was old and familiar and belonged to a place that no longer existed. Aurélie fell into step beside her, her hand finding her sword, her eyes scanning the crowd, her attention divided between the girl who was eating her pastry and the street that stretched ahead of them and the thing that was waiting for them at the dock.
Ahead, the market was thinning, the stalls giving way to the warehouses, the warehouses giving way to the harbor, the harbor giving way to the ships that were waiting for the afternoon to come and carry them away from this island and toward whatever was coming next. Ember walked through it all, her pastry in her hand, her hum in her throat, her shadow falling across the cobblestones like a question that did not need an answer.
Aurélie walked beside her, her eyes on the girl, her hand on her sword, her mind already turning toward the thing she left behind at the tea house, toward the man who was waiting there, toward the morning that had ended and the afternoon that was waiting to begin.
Behind them, the cooking contest was still going, the judges were still waiting, the crowd was still pressing close, and Eliane was still arguing with Lucky Roux about the balance of flavors and the proper way to taste a dish that was not finished and the particular crime of a man who could not keep his fingers out of the dough.
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