Kingfisher(78)

It could read her mind.

The first time she used it, she had no idea what to expect. None of Stillwater’s machines ever did anything predictable. Would it, she wondered, transform a homely potato into a perfect nest of twigs, deep-fry them golden, and lay tiny eggs of potato ice cream in them? It did. Would it stack paper-thin slices of raw beef, black licorice, sweet cherries, white onion, and bittersweet chocolate into colorful layered bites, and add a rosette of red onion on top of it? It would indeed. Might it shred the boiled crabmeat, swirl cracked peppercorns, roasted garlic, and the tender green shoots of onions in such a magical fashion that the concoction could be inserted into hollow straws of deep-fried butter and breadcrumbs, to be sucked through them before the straws themselves were eaten? It might, it would, and it did. Carrie, so enchanted by the results, picked one without a thought out of the pot and bit into it.

Tastes filled her mouth: crab, onion, garlic, pepper, salt and spices from the breadcrumbs. She stood in shock, her mouth full, not daring to chew, just letting the wonderful wave of flavors flow and break across her tongue until, reflexively, she swallowed. The flavors did not vanish; they lingered, reminding her what charms and delights a simple, single bite of anything at all could hold.

She reached into the pot for another, then another.

Then she heard Todd’s voice, Sage answering, Todd’s voice again, coming closer as he walked into the vault. He wore his sweet Stillwater face since the restaurant would soon be open. At other times, he did not know, or perhaps he didn’t care, what face Carrie saw. She turned to present him with her experimental crab bite, and found the pot had disappeared, along with everything she had made.

She stared at where it had been, then at the corner where it usually sat: it was nowhere to behold.

She still had a bite, she realized, in her hand. He looked surprised by the bare table, the silent machines.

“You haven’t started cooking yet? It’s nearly time to open. Business is doing well with all the knights coming in. They inspire me,” he said, with a faint, thin smile.

“I was experimenting,” she told him, glancing around again for the hidden pot. “I came up with this.”

She gave him the crab straw; he ate it the way she had envisioned: sucking the crab out like a mouthful of milk shake, then eating the savory little straw.

He nodded. “Good,” he said. “Very good. As always,” which was what he always said, without a flicker of expression, as though he had just tossed back a vitamin pill. “Make more,” he suggested. “And make it fast.”

She gazed at his back as he went out to the dining room. He had tasted nothing, she realized suddenly. He had never tasted anything. He had no idea what she could feed his customers if only she could find what she had made it in.

“Come back, pot,” she whispered, glancing under the table. “Where are you, pot?”

And there it was on the table again. She studied it a moment, wondering at this extraordinary vessel, able to change its size, wear protective coloring, see what she saw, imagine what she imagined, making it, then hiding itself at will from the cook whose machines transformed everything into illusion.

She made more, she made it fast, and she made it all in that peculiar pot.

Stillwater came in again to cook with her, later. She expected the pot to vanish again. But it stayed visible, all the while he worked with his machines and barely noticed what Carrie did. He looked straight at it a time or two, Carrie thought, but he did not comment. So why, she wondered, did it bother to hide?

She answered her own question finally, making tiny, braided loaves of bread out of white root vegetables and baked egg whites.

I can see you, she told it. Todd Stillwater, whatever he is, can’t. All he sees when he looks at you is another of his machines. Point taken.

Sage came in, for a taste, as she usually did. Carrie handed her a bite from the rows lined on parchment paper. Sage wondered aloud about the time; Stillwater, whose attention was focused down the gullet of a machine, did not seem to hear. Waiting, Sage popped the bite into her mouth.

She chewed once, then stood transfixed, as though she were listening to music she had not heard in years or remembering a life she had misplaced.

She closed her eyes, chewed again. “Chocolate,” she whispered. “Cherries. Licorice. Raw beef, raw onion. And one last— Oh. Yes.”

Stillwater raised his head. The utensil in his hand dropped into the working machine and it made a noise like metal wrapping itself into knots.

Then his hands were on Carrie’s shoulders, his face flowing in and out of other faces, other expressions, mostly furious and even more frantic.

“Where is it?” he shouted. “Where is it? It’s mine! I rescued it—it belongs to me!” Shocked, she couldn’t find her voice. His hands tightened; he focused an enormous, leaf-green eye on her that held a predator’s senseless, malignant glare. “Where?” He shook her, then let go of one shoulder and raised his hand, shrieking, “Where? Is? It?”

“Where is what?” Carrie gabbled back, terrified. “I don’t even know what it is! I just—I gave—I had it in my pocket—One of my bites from the Kingfisher Grill.”

“No. You come here first—”

“I went in early to help Ella make cherry tarts for supper. Things were lying around. I just— So I just made something. Ella liked it, so I brought a piece here. I don’t know why you’re shouting at me. I don’t have anything of yours. Everything in here is yours.”