Page 18 of Gates of Tartarus

“Dinner is served!” I announce grandly and plonk the plates down, one in front of Emlyn and one in front of Kavi, who are sitting nearest me. They glance down.

“This looks… good,” Emlyn says. His voice sounds a little strangled, and I shoot a sharp, suspicious glance at him, but he blinks up innocently at me, with a little smile.

“Oh yes,” Kavi adds. He bites that full bottom lip of his, cat’s eyes shining with sincerity. “A real, home-cooked meal. How delightful!”

“Hmm.” I hesitate for a moment, trying to decide if they’re serious or not, then nod. “Well, then. Enjoy!” I turn to go back to the kitchen, but Jorge forestalls me.

“You sit down, Maela. I’ll get the rest.” He ushers me to a chair, pulling it out for me, gentleman that he is, and I sink down.Come to think of it, Iama little tired.

I watch as Emlyn lifts a forkful of potato, studded with peas, to his mouth, chews, and swallows. “You know,” he remarks after a pause, conversationally, “this brings back fond memories.”

Kavi coughs mid-mouthful. “Yes,” he agrees, looking up from his plate. “I was just thinking the exact same thing.”

I can’t help it: I preen like a contented duck. “Huh. Well, you… are… welcome!”

“Mmmm,” Emlyn muses, “many’s the day I came in from the playing fields, in my shorts and jersey, tired and cold, to sit down below the high table for just such a meal.”

“On a wooden bench,” Kavi chimes in, “shoulder to shoulder with the other lads.” He takes another bite and closes his eyes. “Good old La Martiniere. I can almost hear the rustle of the palm trees and the cry of the peacocks. Do you know,” he turns to Emlyn, “our motto was ‘Never Give In’?”

“Nice,” Emlyn lifts his beer in salute. “Ours was:Stet Fortuna Domus. Not as inspiring.”

I stare at them, bewildered, and then a hot spark of outrage kindles within me. “Do you mean to say,” I squeak, “that you think my cooking tastes like a school dinner?”

“The verybestschool dinner,” Kavi assures me earnestly, eyes dancing with mirth. “Takes me back to happy times. Mrs. Burman always gave me a cardamom biscuit when I snuck into the kitchens.”

The utter… utter –I tense, preparing to launch myself across the table at him, when Jorge’s voice calls out sharply, “Kavi! Emlyn! Stop teasing Maela! She’s gone to a lot of trouble.” He sets a plate down before me. “Here you are,querida.”

Mollified, I settle, smoothing my ruffled feathers. “Thankyou, Jorge. At leastsomeonehere has the sense to appreciate me!”

“Iappreciate you!” Kavi protests, looking suddenly chastened.

“You’ve a very funny way of showing it.” I waggle my wine-glass at him, causing a few drops to splash on the table. “Oops.”

“Gravity!” Emlyn intones, straightening my glass. His fingers brush against mine, and even though I’m cross with him, I can’t help but feel a little frisson. Well that won’t do.

I set the glass down and turn to him, smiling sweetly. “Do you know, I’ve figured out what it is with you.”

He looks at me, hair ash-brown in the soft light, one lock sliding over his forehead. I can tell my sudden change of mood has confused him, but he raises one elegant eyebrow: “Oh, yes?”

“Yes,” I nod sagely. “You’re like the boy at school who pulls the girl’s braid. He doesn’t want to admit he likes her, so he resorts to teasing.” I tap one finger against my lips, adopting a thoughtful expression. “Hmm, and the funny thing is, when the little boy grows up to become a big boy, he does the same thing. I saw it time and again in my classes.” I roll my eyes piously and sigh with a shake of the head.

There’s a short silence, which is odd, as Emlyn is always ready with a quip, so I take a quick peak. He’s momentarily frozen, a light-pink tinge suffusing his cheeks, and my eyes widen delightedly. I’ve finally managed to get one over on him! “Ha!” I crow. “Ha! We-e-e-ll, it’s not surprising, after all,” I faux-whisper in a loud aside to Jorge. “I am pretty amazing. I’ve got it all, really: looks, brains, personality; it’s no wonder this poor chump’s sweet on me!”

“Maela!” Emlyn splutters, regaining the use of his vocal cords. “Y–”

“There, there, my adorable Englishman.” I pat his hand. “And this one!” I look at Kavi, fluttering my lashes. “Don’t worry, my little hair-puller. There’s plenty of me to go around. Just remember your school motto!”

Now they’re all staring at me, looking mortified.

“What’s the matter? Can’t take a joke?” I cackle wickedly: that’ll show ‘em! “Now, Jorge, darling,” I slur, “you were going to tell me about cooking with your grandmother.” I take another slug of wine, triumph coursing hotly through my veins. “I’m all ears.”

Looking strained, he clears his throat. “Sí, yes. Err.Sí. So, you know I grew up in a little village, just outside Segovia?” I nod, and he continues. “It’s beautiful in its own way, with its old stone church and red-roofed houses and the mountains in the distance, but there wasn’t a lot for a little boy to do. Only five hundred people, surrounded by farmland. My parents used to take us into Segovia, but after they…” He pauses for a moment, looking lost. “Well, anyway, we moved in with our grandparents. And my grandmother decided I needed to be kept busy.Cuando el diablo no tiene qué hacer…When the devil has nothing to do… I wasn’t allowed to play with my friends for a while after she caught me, err, smoking –” here, he now looks rueful – “so every evening, after I did my homework, I had to help her prepare dinner. At first, I resented it, all that chopping and peeling and stirring when I could be hanging out with my friends! But then I discovered that I liked cooking, and she began to teach me her recipes. I think my sister was a little jealous, because cooking had always been her passion. She liked reading old cookbooks and trying new recipes on the weekends. But I liked it too. We still argue over who is better in the kitchen.”

He smiles faintly and pauses to take a bite of the chicken, gulps, and says hastily, “So, yes, I learned to cook from my grandmother. When I got a little older, I was able to do more, of course, though, because of my empathy, small though it is, I needed time on my own. I liked to go hiking. There’s a trail nearby, the Camino de San Frutos, that winds through the fields. In the summer, they’re golden-brown, and the sky is sometimes filled with balloonists. But spring is my favorite time, when they’re pale green and dotted with poppies.”

“That’s just beautiful,” I say dreamily. “You’re so sensitive, Jorge.”

A curious look, almost of chagrin, crosses his face, but before I can process it, Kavi chides me, “Maela, you haven’t eaten anything! How about some potatoes and peas?”