The Heir (The Selection #4)

The Heir (The Selection #4) Page 45

“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.