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“I’VE GOTTEN WORD from Fen,” Jensen said, his voice low so it wouldn’t carry. He had turned his back to the rest of the room so no one could read his lips either. “His mission was successful, so he’ll be back tonight.” Char grinned, very happy to hear that, but then Jensen continued. “Fen…er. He wanted me to tell you they were able to heat the mac and cheese last night and it was delicious. Used an entire line in the missive, too,” he added, grumbling.

“He was able to heat it!” Char breathed out, ecstatic. Fen was returning safely and he had liked Char’s food!

Jensen abruptly stopped grumbling, looking at Char sharply for a moment before letting out a sigh.

“Anyway,” he continued. “I expect him to be back in time for dinner. Don’t do anything special, since we’re supposed to pretend he was never away on a secret mission.”

“Right,” Char replied.

His dinner plans were for semi-deconstructed chicken pot pies, which were normal enough. Start with a roux on the stove. Add in milk and spices, particularly a lot of sage. Then shred chicken breast poached in stock from one of Char’s bouillon cubes. Add in partially cooked vegetables and stir together. Pour all that into massive baking dishes and dot the top with chunks of uncooked biscuit dough. Once baked, the biscuits expanded to create the illusion of individual portions.

“I was thinking of making chocolate cakes anyway. Since my cold box is currently stuffed full with raspberries, I’ll do a raspberry coulis. Nothing too fancy, and as long as we only tell Fen and his group they’re celebration cakes, no one will ever know.”

“Sounds delicious to me,” Jensen replied, swallowing saliva reflexively. “I’ll make sure to tell Fen you made the cakes for him.”

“Thanks. And thanks for letting me know he’s coming back soon.” Char took a deep breath and let it out. “I had two visitors this morning,” he said when Jensen looked at him curiously. Jensen immediately scowled.

“Who?” he snapped, somehow managing to keep his voice low even as anger threaded through it.

Char shook his head. “I have no idea. I noticed some food had been moved around in the pantry and was heading over to check the cold box when a person offered me rather a lot of money to agree to work for their master.”

“Wait. Someone moved around food in your pantry and then tried to hire you?” Jensen asked, his quizzical expression saying he was trying to figure out what Char was explaining.

“I think I had two separate visitors,” Char said, trying to explain clearer a second time. “The first was sometime overnight. They were only tall enough to reach the lowest shelves in the pantry and the cold box. I was wondering if children are allowed in the complex.”

“Generally no. There is a small section on the exact opposite side of the complex from here where high-level leaders can choose to live in houses with their immediate families, and a school and such to serve for any children. But you’ve got to be at Fen’s level—a commander—or higher to be eligible. The kids generally stay around there, although occasionally one will get lost and wander around. Never heard of one pilfering food before. What about the person who offered you money? Can you describe them?”

“No.” Char shook his head. “They purposefully stood in the shadows, and it was before five this morning, so the sun hadn’t risen yet. They were wearing all black and might have had something covering their face too, but I couldn’t tell.”

“And they offered you money?”

“‘Riches beyond belief’ were the words they used. Said I’d never have to work another day in my life or step into a kitchen again.” Char scowled, running his hands down his apron in proprietary pride.

Jensen snorted out a laugh. “Offering you a new kitchen would have been more effective.”

Char sighed pointedly in exasperation, although he did offer a grin for the joke. “After I refused, they said they would return for my answer, and if it wasn’t what they wanted to hear threats would be next.”

Jensen was quiet for a few long moments, frowning as he presumably mulled over Char’s words.

“I’m assigning you a bodyguard,” he said finally. “Someone who isn’t distracted by washing dishes or food prep, one whose only job is to make certain you’re safe. That should help with the unwelcome visitors threatening you until your newness and connection to Fen has time to blow over. I’m not certain what to do about the food thief though.”

“Tell me about Karl,” Char requested first, trying to get as much fact to support his supposition before telling Jensen his idea.

“If Karl had stolen food, he would have taken from higher shelves,” Jensen replied immediately.

“Agreed. I’m wondering about his home situation before he was taken in by the courts.”

Jensen frowned at Char again but answered readily enough. “He was a street kid, as far as I’m aware. No home life to speak of.”

“Everything I’ve ever heard about street kids indicates they struggle to survive alone. I’ve seen the news articles about street gangs, or the so-called thieves guild...”

Jensen was already shaking his head as Char trailed off. “He was checked for any tattoos or any of the sashes or other clothing worn by those group members, and there weren’t any signs he was a member of a larger group. Besides, even if one of the gang members targets the military, they’re always sent to regular court instead. Only the unaffiliated ones go to a military tribunal. Karl’s not part of anything like that, but you’re probably correct that he was part of some kind of group, just to survive. I can look into it if you think that might be helpful.”

Char shrugged. “I’m wondering if any of his group members followed him here, perhaps someone small enough they can only reach the bottom shelves.”

Jensen’s eyebrow lifted in surprise, and then he grinned. “That would be something if they could sneak past the guarded gate of the military complex and are hiding somewhere inside the barracks for the elite royal guard. That would be someone I’d want to hire.” He grinned. “It sounds like you might have an idea of how to catch them?”

“Not really. I was thinking they know this is a poorly guarded room at night with easy access to food, and no alarm was raised this morning after last night’s theft. I figure they’ll come back tonight, and I’d hang around until they showed up.”

Jensen thought about Char’s plan for a few moments before he nodded once sharply. “Right. I’ll have your bodyguard assigned by then, and I’ll brief them on the situation ahead of time. After you catch the thief, come upstairs to Fen’s office so we can figure out how to deal with the problem.”

“Will do,” Char replied.

Jensen clapped Char on the shoulder and went to go fill a plate. Char returned to the griddle, where he would turn out another platter of pancakes before starting lunch preparations, which required making a massive batch of mayonnaise for the tuna, salmon, chicken, and ham salads he was going to offer in a make-your-own sandwich bar.

The rest of the day passed quickly; Char too focused on making food to worry about anything else. He taught Karl how to make the mayo, giving him a tutorial on whisking eggs, which he seemed to enjoy, and then moved into the frenzy of keeping fresh trays of pot pie cooked and ready as the rush of hungry diners descended for dinner.

And then Fen walked into the room.

He looked completely normal, as if he hadn’t been anywhere in particular the past thirty-six hours. Dressed in the same white shirt and brown pants as everyone else, he would have blended in completely had Char not had some sort of sixth sense for when Fen was around. Something under Char’s breastbone relaxed at the sight, and Char smiled to himself even as he continued placing rounded chunks of raw biscuit dough onto the next pan of pot pie to go into the oven.

Fen went to the end of the serving line and picked up a plate. Char tried not to watch him too obviously, sneaking glances to check whether he had any bruising or a residual limp to indicate he had recently been healed.

Char removed a cooked pot pie tray from the oven, slotting the new one in its place, and let his crew haul the food out to the serving area. When he looked up again, Fen was standing across from him, the width of the serving area and stovetop all that separated them. Fen opened his mouth to say something, but then Zain’s voice echoed through the room.

“Hey, Fen, get your ass over here!” she yelled from the table on the other side of the room, where she sat with Jensen and a couple of the other leaders.

Fen closed his mouth on a grimace and let out a sigh, before mouthing, “Talk to you later.” He finished filling his plate and left, Char trying hard not to watch him walk through the crowded tables.

Char forced his attention back to his big pot, which had been delivered freshly cleaned and dried. He made a quick roux, added milk and chicken stock and waited for it to thicken and boil, before tossing in all the already cooked vegetables and chicken. He added spices, waited for the concoction to return to a boil and thicken properly, and then poured it out into another massive baking dish. He moved over to a counter to start dotting it with biscuit dough. By the time the new dish was ready, the cooking one was complete, so he swapped them. The rest of the evening continued in the same endless cycle, the pot pie vanishing alarmingly fast as diners returned to the serving area for seconds or even thirds.

Finally, the rush died down. Char slotted another pie into the oven, and when he stood, he took a moment to stretch his back. At this point of the evening, Karl and three of his four helpers were busy washing dishes while the fourth maintained the serving area and bussed the dish return station.

“Let’s take a break and have dinner,” Char called to them. He didn’t need to repeat himself as all five immediately stopped what they were doing and headed to fill their plates. Char followed them.

The beauty of pot pie was it was an entire meal in one bite. Vegetables, protein, and starch—everything hungry soldiers needed to refuel after a busy day—were all encompassed within the bake itself. The side salad Char had also served was almost untouched. That was okay, since the lettuce was fresh enough, so he could serve it again for lunch tomorrow. The chocolate cakes were almost gone, another dish for which people had gone back for more. He cut himself a small slice and added it to his plate next to the pot pie and then joined his crew at a table to eat.

Sage, garlic, onion, hearty cream, redolent chicken stock. Different textures between the springy chicken, soft potato, and gentle snap of the vegetables. The crunch of the biscuit, plus the buttery bread cutting through the heavy roux. Perfection in a pot pie. Char closed his eyes as he chewed, letting all the flavors meld across his tongue.

He hadn’t enjoyed the previous evening’s mac and cheese nearly as much, which was strange because he actually usually liked that dish better. The knot under his breastbone had unraveled at the sight of Fen, which made the pungent sage far more enjoyable in comparison to last night’s sharp bite of cheddar. Of course, at some point Char would have to decide what to do about his feelings and whether Fen actually returned them. That thought almost soured his taste buds, but the raspberry coulis in the cake was already sour, so Char didn’t notice too much.

“One of these days I’m going to figure it out,” Naomi said, sighing heavily. The front of her apron was soaked, little bubbles still popping in the seams, from her stint at dishwashing.

“Figure what out?” Karl asked, his cheeks puffed out with biscuit, spraying crumbs.

“Hey!” Steve growled, raising a hand to shield his food. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, kid!”

“How Char goes from raw carrots and hard-ass potatoes to this,” Naomi replied, waving her hand over the remnants of pot pie on her plate and blithely ignoring Karl and Steve beginning to squabble. “If I was this good at cooking, my husband would be working in the military, and I’d be home with our kids. Luckily, he’s got a decent hand at keeping everyone fed and happy, because I sure don’t.” She sighed again.

“I don’t mind teaching you, although the best teacher is actually the doing, so everyone who’s been helping with cleaning and preparing the food is learning how to do it for themselves someday.”

Naomi laughed. “I volunteer for dish duty for a reason. You don’t want me anywhere near anything potentially edible until it’s on my own plate and halfway into my mouth. I promise you.”

“Which is why our Commander Fen went to his dad, the king, and practically begged for the money to reopen this kitchen,” Arnold added. He tapped his nose. “Or so the rumors say, at least. I don’t think any of the staff at the communal kitchen know what they’re doing either, let alone any of us. I think we were all desperate for a good meal, commander included.”

Char ducked his head, hoping they wouldn’t notice his blush despite the heat radiating from his cheeks. Fen had done that for him? Char could believe it, considering the way Fen had smiled when he saw Char in the courtyard outside the palace. Also considering their conversation before Fen had left on his mission. But Char wasn’t thinking about that right now. Since he was done eating and the dinner rush had passed, he ought to be plotting how to catch the food thief.

They cleared their plates and returned to work. Char removed his last dish of pot pie from the oven and turned it off. They wouldn’t need to make any more tonight. His helpers focused on washing dishes as the last few stragglers came in to eat. Char turned his focus to making bread dough to rise overnight, mixing his flour, salt, sugar, oil, and yeast from one of his starters he kept in the fridge. For the brioche, he added milk and butter without the oil, mixing until he had a dough formed, then started to knead. Karl wandered over from the sink, his apron and shirt plastered to his chest with water, and stood nearby to watch as Char pressed out the dough, turned it, and pressed again, forming the elasticity needed for the bread to rise properly in the oven. He made three separate batches, which he put into three different bowls. He set those aside to rise. The rolls were a very similar recipe with milk and butter but omitted eggs.

“Are your hands dry?” Char asked Karl when he was done kneading the last batch. By then, the first batch had risen for long enough.

Karl held out his hands and nodded. “Yeah. Why?”

Char pulled over the round pans he used to bake the rolls. “Take a chunk of dough about this size,” Char explained, showing Karl. “move it gently between your palms, like this, until it forms a ball. Then place it in the pan, nicely spread out so they have room to grow.”

He left Karl to it, keeping half an eye on him, but moved on to cinnamon roll dough next as the main component for the morning’s breakfast.

The dough itself was similar to the rest, just with different proportions of everything. He made six triple batches, hoping that would be enough, and set the dough aside for the first rise.

By then the brioche was done rising. Char slotted the bowls into the cold box and marked them with the tag so the servants who started mopping at four in the morning knew to take them out and put them onto the counters or racks to give the bread time to come to room temperature before Char baked them in the morning.

He made his cinnamon sugar recipe next, at which point the cinnamon roll dough had rested enough. He rolled out the first batch until it reached the correct thickness, then dotted it liberally with butter and coated it with cinnamon sugar. He rolled it up into a log and cut the log into slices using some sewing thread. A knife would squish the dough, making them oblong rather than round. He placed them in a baking dish, covered it, slotted it into the cold box, tagged it, and then returned to roll out more dough.

This might be mindless, fairly monotonous work, but he enjoyed the slowdown at the end of the day, without the rush and bustle. Arnold came over to wipe down the countertops when Char took the last batch to the cold box, Karl following behind with his rolls. They had to dodge around Naomi and Stan, who were fitting the leftovers into the cold box as well. Sheryl was turning off the lights in the dining area. Pretty soon the kitchen was dim and quiet, as if all the appliances were children settled under the covers in bed, drifting off into dreamland.

Speaking of children and bedtimes... “Karl, head on to bed,” Char called.

Karl’s immediate scowl was cut off by a wide yawn. He scuffed his feet a few times on the way, but he went. The rest of Char’s helpers headed off to their own evening activities soon after. Char made himself a cup of tea—plain chamomile for this time of night—turned off the rest of the lights, and settled into a chair at one of the tables where he was out of the direct line of sight from the doors.

Only twenty minutes later, the set of double doors leading to the dorm where Char lived slid open. Char tensed, freezing in place and straining his ears in the dark for the slightest sound. A moment later, Fen stepped into a beam of moonlight shining through the courtyard windows.