Page 41

A Simple Entry

The rapid beating of his heart didn’t abate, even as he fell into the rhythm of his work. He needed to do something while his mind worked furiously, trying to sort out what had happened while he had been … indisposed and sorting hi mself out.

Vassago was bound to make sure Eleanor won the competition. By the same token, Helena must have bound herself in the same way to take Eleanor’s place whe n she won.

How to get her out of this? How do we get ou t of this?

Those thoughts echoed in his brain as plans formed and disintegrated in his mind.

Call Agent Archon and Agent Sophia? Tell them what happened? It would not end the agreements, only d elay them.

Eleanor had only to win a different competition to fulfill the terms.

Or at least he a ssumed so.

Yet he couldn’t assume anything, he didn’t know what wording was used for the ag reements…

And once a demon was bound by such things, they were unable to break them or change the course of t he events.

He realized he understood now that the rules in regard to agreements and promises were the same whether demon or angel.

Only Eleanor could freely break them, but there was nothing Rafferty could bargain with that she had not already secured elsewhere.

Eleanor wanted thi s victory.

She wanted the prize money and the future it wou ld secure.

She wanted the acclaim that winning this highly publicized event could bring her.

None of those things, he could give her. No counteroffer came to mind that he was sure would dissuade her from her ch osen path.

So, he baked, and thought, and desperately looked for a new angle.

Withdrawing his shaped cookies out of his oven, the smell danced in his nose and his mout h watered.

“Those look beautiful,” the cameraman recording him noted in a familiar dry voice.

“Yeah, smells good, too,” noted the mic man b eside him.

They were Eleanor’s pair, Peter and Pedro.

Once Rafferty set the cookies on the cooling rack, however, they both turned without further comment to go back to Eleanor’s station. Each pair of tables had a cameraman and a mic guy. These two were apparently his to share with Eleanor. While they had been making sure to take footage of the important steps to both their processes, evidently following a shot list required by the production company, they still focused more on Eleanor’s creations.

Even without the demonic thumb weight on her scale, Eleanor’s creations were definitely something to contend with. She made macarons, at least three different flavors indicated by their colors. She was in the process of setting them up on a stand shaped like a cascading waterfall.

Rafferty glanced up at the judging tables, which were taking completed creations as they came. None looked as beautiful or artistic as Eleanor’s.

For himself, he didn’t bother doing anything so fancy. Instead, he brushed a simple glaze over his cookies, zigzagging slashes of the white paste, while brewing some herbal tea. When it was all ready, he intended to pour the tea into a cup in the middle of the plate and set the cookies around at a slant with a sprig of holly as a garnish. The whole look was cozy and homey.

Yet, despite all this, he didn’t feel cozy or homey. When he wasn’t doing the next step, his eyes scanned everywhere, looking for a glimpse of Helena.

He needed to ta lk to her.

Why was she making him wai t so long?

No torture he had ever endured felt as ba d as this.

“Going for a cottagecore look, I see,” Eleanor noted, coming back over, while the double P’s moved in to take final footage of he r plating.

“Come to spit on them?” he asked, the barb slipping out before he could think better of it. His worry for Helena had bled through h is tongue.

Eleanor closed and opened her eyes slowly, like a cat who couldn’t be bothered, then thrust out one of her macarons to him. He wasn’t sure what to make of the offering and didn’t get a chance to do more than take it before a helper suddenly appeared.

“Are you two ready to present your entries?” they asked, marking them off on a clipboard. The appearance was ver y suspect.

Probably trying to head off more issues between us, h e thought.

“Yes, yes, let’s hurry up,” Eleanor said, swirling back to pick up her macaron design, all her focus fixed on not destroying her presentation i n transit.

“Are you ready, chef?” the helper repeated, eyeing the plated cookies and the empty cups waitin g for tea.

“I have been expecting to speak to Ms. Rhodes, do you know when I can see her?” he asked again, even as he reached for his steeped teapot, pouring a steaming golden-brown stream into each cup.

The helper’s smile slipped. “Uh, I’m sorry. I will check while you’re doing your presentation. I’m sure she just got held up,” they said as they reached for the walkie at t heir side.

Rafferty didn’t like it, but he saw little choice but to let this inefficient system work. The last thing he wanted to do was cause unnecessary trouble for Helena at her event.

Following Eleanor up to the judge’s table on the stage, he waited as she presented her creation, then served eac h from it.

“Oh, this is fantastic,” one gruff judge said with a deep voice despite his overly thin frame. He had a scarf on despite the warmth in the room and glasses that seemed more an accessory than a need. He whipped them off as he spoke. “This is sophistication and taste all in one simple dessert.”

“And the presentation is delightfully whimsical,” a woman said, holding her manicured fingers over her mouth as she chewed and spoke.

“I would be proud to have this served from my own kitchen,” another man said, dressed in chef’s whites with a very clean and jaunty kerchief tied around his neck and no toque on his head.

They heaped more praise on Eleanor’s entry, which didn’t surprise Rafferty in the least.

Finally, he got the signal to step up and set his own tray on the table. He then slid a plate to each of the judges and ste pped back.

All three stared at his offering for a full three seconds before reacti ng at all.

“What in the world is this? You call this a presentation?” the glasses and scarf guy said, turning the plate this way and that.

“I almost feel insulted looking at it,” the chef declared. “You do realize this is a competition of some of the best patisseries in the city, do you not?”

“It is my entry,” Rafferty replied, tucking the tray under his arm, willing for this part to just finish quickl y already.

The woman didn’t say anything, simply plucked up one of the cookies and took a bite. She chewed twice, then paused, rolling the crumbs around in her mouth, then reached quickly fo r the tea.

The glasses and scarf man picked up his own cookie and started playing with it, crumbling off the edges. “This is terr ibly dry.”

“It is meant to pair with the tea,” Raff erty said.

“That is not an uncommon approach,” the chef said chidingly at the ot her judge.

“I am aware,” glasses judge shot back, “but a dessert that relies on the customer even liking tea is a ris ky move…”

“Oh, Heavens, that’s good,” the woman sighed, completely oblivious to the back-and-forth banter around her. A moment later, she blinked as if coming awake and aware of all the eyes staring at her. She then refocused on Rafferty. “I have to say, this is not the most elaborate or even decadent dessert I’ve had today, but it is just so… satisfying.” She turned to her fellows. “It really is satisfying. The flavor is so light and clean. I feel… almost renewed.”

The other two men quickly ate their cookies and sipped their tea while she talked, trying to catch up to her impression. Both their eyebrows popped up.

The other chef nodded. “Yes, yes, I see what you did there. You used the simplicity of the flavors and the more easily digestible recipe to create a specific ex perience.”

“But this is hardly suited for impressing a discerning audience,” glasses and scarf judge said, even while plucking up a seco nd cookie.

“No, this shows more forethought,” the other chef insisted. “We have been sampling sugary, rich dishes all day, and even more to come. You knew that, di dn’t you?”

Rafferty blinked once, realizing the question was being directed at him. He cleared his throat. “Yes, yes, I did,” he answered. “I knew that such an endeavor would be stressful on anyone’s systems, so I thought to make up something that is both easy on your stomachs and cleansing for your palates.”

The chef judge pointed at Rafferty rapidly. “You see, you see there, that is the sign of an accomplished chef,” the other chef declared. “Considering not just the outcome of the final creation, but the audience who would be sampling it. The cohesion of the relationship between chef and diner. Well done.” He slapped the table as if that were the final word, and no one could argu e with it.

Rafferty could not understand what was happening here. He had not really tried to impress them, there was no point if Vassago was going to try to rig things against him, so he had just done what felt right. Glancing over at Eleanor, her face remained schooled into neutrality, with only the smallest flare of her nostril giving away what she t ruly felt.

“This is an impressive entry, Chef Rafferty, thank you for this pick-me-up,” the lady judge declared before finishing of f her tea.

The other chef nodded as well, while the glasses and scarf judge looked disgruntled by the other judges’ praise. “Not to contradict or disrespect my fellow judges in any way, I’m going to need to see something more in the next round,” he dismissed, popping the rest of the cookie into his mouth instead of setting it back on the plate. “T hank you.”

Which implied that there would be a n ext round.

“If you will come this way,” the helper said, and as they filed off the other end of the stage, Rafferty saw a flat screen where the points given by the judges were tallied behind each name. Only his and Eleanor’s were blank in the two remaining entries at the bottom of the screen. It was clear that the lowest half would not make it on to the next round, indicated by the thicker black line bisecting the grid. Some of the contestants were already despairing at their loss, others congratulating one another on clearly passing, and at least three entries stared hard at the last two blank slots, waiting to see where those scores would land them.

Eleanor waited beside him with her arms crossed, not saying a word, as the blanks began to blink, their scores being uploaded. Then the entries shot up to the top of the list.

1. Raff erty Lares

2. Elea nor Rhodes

Groans and cries accompanied sighs of relief as the rest of the entrants realized what had happened.

Rafferty could o nly stare.

It didn’t make any sense. He had ta ken first.

“But how?” he asked out loud.

It was only when Eleanor huffed as she whipped off her blue kerchief and spun away that he came back t o himself.

“Eleanor…” he called after, but she didn’t stop, and he had no idea what he would have said ne xt anyway.

What game is Vassag o playing?