The Heir (The Selection #4)(56)

“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.