Page 29 of Chef’s Kiss (A Knights Through Time #20)
Rachel took a deep breath, trying to organize her thoughts.
“Food safety—I can spot contamination, spoilage, deliberate tampering from across a room. Flavor profiling—I know how ingredients should taste, which combinations work, when something’s been altered or substituted.
Presentation techniques—I’ve seen food styled for cameras, plated for maximum visual impact.
Quality control—I can tell you exactly what’s wrong with a dish and how to fix it. ”
She paused, meeting Tristan’s gaze. “And I know when someone’s trying to sabotage a kitchen. I’ve reviewed enough restaurants where the line cooks were feuding or the sous chef was stealing ingredients or the dishwasher was deliberately contaminating plates. I know what to look for.”
Hugo’s booming laugh echoed off the stone walls, though it carried an edge of nervousness that hadn’t been there before. “The lass has a point. Takes a special kind of madness to face royal kitchens, and she’s proven herself daft enough for the task.”
“Daft indeed,” Isolde murmured, her gaze never leaving Rachel’s face. “Though perhaps... useful. Your... unique perspective... might prove advantageous in ways I had not considered. Especially if certain parties attempt to ensure your failure through... culinary interference.”
There was something in her tone that made Rachel think she was missing several layers of meaning, but before she could ask for clarification, Tristan stepped forward.
“Nay,” he said, his voice carrying the flat authority of someone who’d made a decision and would not be swayed. “I will not risk her safety for my redemption. The court is no place for?—”
“For what?” Rachel interrupted, her voice rising with indignation that had nothing to do with medieval propriety and everything to do with modern feminism asserting itself at entirely the wrong moment.
“For someone who actually knows the difference between good cooking and whatever passes for cuisine in royal kitchens? For someone who can spot culinary sabotage from across a room? For someone who’s spent years critiquing food prepared by people who think they’re god’s gift to gastronomy?”
The hall fell silent again, though this time the quality of the silence was different—charged with the kind of tension that preceded either explosions or revelations.
“Culinary sabotage,” Isolde repeated slowly, her eyes sharpening with sudden interest. “Now, that is a fascinating concept. And one that had not occurred to me, though perhaps it should have.”
“What do you mean?” Tristan asked, though something in his expression suggested he was beginning to understand the implications.
“I mean,” Isolde said, moving closer to Rachel with the focused attention of a predator scenting prey, “that if someone wanted to ensure your failure at this feast, they would have ample opportunity to... interfere... with your preparations. A pinch of the wrong spice, a substitution of ingredients, a moment of distraction at precisely the wrong time. Salt in place of sugar, spoiled meat presented as fresh, herbs with properties... unintended.”
The possibilities hung in the air like poison, and Rachel felt her blood turn cold as she realized the full scope of what they were facing. It wasn’t just about cooking a good meal—it was about surviving whatever attempts at sabotage Guy and his allies might devise.
“All the more reason why I need to be there,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.
“I know what good food should taste like, I know how to spot when something’s been tampered with, and I’m probably the only person in your acquaintance who’s paranoid enough about ingredient substitution to catch deliberate sabotage. ”
Tristan looked like he wanted to argue further, but Hugo clapped him on the shoulder with enough force to stagger a smaller man.
“The lass speaks sense,” he rumbled. “Better to have too many eyes watching for treachery than too few. And if someone means to poison your chances, literally or figuratively, you’ll want someone who understands such matters at your side.”
The conflict on Tristan’s face was painful to watch—the desperate need for every advantage warring with his obvious terror at the thought of putting her in danger. “Rachel,” he said quietly, his voice rough with emotion. “The court is... ’tis not merely dangerous, ’tis deadly. I could not bear…”.
“You won’t lose me,” she said firmly, moving closer to him and feeling the heat radiating from his body like a forge. “But you might lose yourself if you face this alone. And I refuse to let that happen.”
For a moment, something passed between them—an understanding that went deeper than words, a recognition of the choice they were both making. To fight together, to risk everything together, to trust in each other’s strength even when the odds seemed impossible.
“It’s settled then,” Isolde announced with the air of someone who’d just resolved a particularly complex negotiation. “Though I feel compelled to offer some... guidance... about what we may face.”
She began to pace before the fire, her emerald skirts swishing with each turn.
“Guy will not make this easy. Even now, I have little doubt he is positioning his own people within the palace kitchens, servants who answer to his coin rather than the crown’s interests.
Strange faces in familiar places, suppliers who deliver ingredients of.
.. questionable quality... to the larders, cooks who might be persuaded to look the other way at precisely the wrong moment. ”
Rachel felt a chill that had nothing to do with the drafty hall. “How do we guard against that?”
“By being vigilant. By trusting no one whose loyalty has not been proven beyond question. By testing every ingredient, examining every implement, questioning every recommendation.” Isolde’s smile was sharp enough to cut glass.
“And by ensuring that our own preparations are so flawless that even deliberate sabotage cannot overcome skill and determination.”
“Speaking of preparations,” Hugo said, his jovial demeanor returning now that a plan was forming, “perhaps we should discuss what manner of feast you intend to prepare? The king’s tastes, the available ingredients, the scope of the challenge?”
Tristan ran a hand through his dark hair, and Rachel caught the slight tremor in his fingers—the only sign of how deeply this opportunity had shaken him.
“A royal feast requires more than mere competence. It must be spectacular, memorable, worthy of song and story. The kind of meal that proves beyond doubt that the cook possesses not just skill, but artistry of the highest order.”
“What does success look like?” Rachel asked. “I mean, specifically. What would convince the king that you’re not only innocent but deserving of complete restoration?”
Isolde’s expression grew thoughtful. “His Grace values innovation within tradition. Familiar flavors presented in new ways, exotic ingredients used to enhance rather than overwhelm, dishes that surprise and delight without seeming foreign or threatening. He particularly appreciates foods that demonstrate wealth and sophistication—the ability to acquire and properly utilize the finest ingredients from across the known world.”
“In other words,” Rachel said slowly, “we need to cook like we’re trying to impress the most demanding food critic in the world, using ingredients that cost more than most people’s yearly income, while avoiding being poisoned by competitors who want us to fail spectacularly.”
“Precisely,” Isolde confirmed with satisfaction.
“Though I would add that we must also navigate the social complexities of court dining—the proper presentation of dishes, the appropriate acknowledgment of hierarchy, the careful balance between confidence and humility that marks a true master of the culinary arts.”
The weight of it all seemed overwhelming, but she found herself thinking of every impossible kitchen challenge she’d ever faced, every restaurant crisis she’d helped resolve, every dish that had seemed beyond saving until the right combination of skill and creativity turned disaster into triumph.
“I can do this,” she said firmly. “We can do this. But I’m going to need a crash course in medieval royal etiquette, a complete inventory of available ingredients, and probably a lot of practice with these archaic cooking methods.”
“And I,” Tristan said quietly, his voice carrying the determination of someone who’d decided to embrace fate rather than flee from it, “shall need to remember what it means to cook not just for survival, but for glory. To channel every skill I’ve ever learned, every technique I’ve mastered, every instinct I’ve developed through years of pursuing perfection. ”
“Then we had best begin preparations,” Isolde announced. “Fourteen days may seem like an eternity, but in truth, ’tis barely sufficient time to plan every detail, anticipate every possible sabotage, and prepare for a performance that will determine not just our futures, but our very lives.”
As the small group began to disperse, talking in low voices about logistics and preparation, Rachel found herself standing beside Tristan in the dying light of the fire.
The scent of woodsmoke and Isolde’s expensive perfume lingered in the air, mixing with the underlying smells of stone and age that permeated every corner of Greystone.
“Are you certain about this?” he asked quietly, his voice pitched for her ears alone. “There is still time to reconsider, to remain here where you are safe. I could not bear it if my quest for redemption brought harm to you.”
“I’m certain,” she replied, though her stomach was doing gymnastics that would have impressed Olympic judges. “You’re not facing this alone. Not anymore.”
Something shifted in his expression at her words—surprise, perhaps, or gratitude, or something deeper that made her pulse quicken despite the gravity of their situation.
His hand rose as if to touch her face, then stopped, hovering in the space between them like a question he didn’t know how to ask.
“Then we had best begin preparations,” he said finally, his voice taking on the determined note of someone who’d decided to trust in possibility rather than surrender to fear.
“If we are to succeed, we shall need every advantage we can muster, every skill we possess, every moment we can steal to perfect our craft.”
As they walked together toward the kitchens, where Isolde was already beginning to outline her plans with military precision, Rachel tried not to think about all the ways this could go spectacularly wrong.
Instead, she focused on the warmth of Tristan’s presence beside her, on the scent of herbs and hope that seemed to cling to his skin, on the impossible fact that in two weeks’ time, she’d be standing in the royal kitchens of medieval England, helping to prepare a feast that would determine not just their futures, but possibly their lives.