Page 38 of The Death Wish

‘Thank you,’ Pitch was uncommonly gracious. ‘I know.’

Silas huffed with amusement. ‘Such humility. You are a gem.’

‘And you adore it.’

‘I do.’

His stomach ruined the moment with a growl. ‘Gods, man, will you eat something?’ Pitch jabbed his laden fork towards Silas’s mouth. ‘Try this. The salt to butter ratio is utter perfection in these potatoes.’

Silas leaned in, taking the mouthful, sliding his lips along the prongs of the fork with slow measure. Pitch bit at his bottom lip, watching Silas just as carefully as he was being watched.

‘Fucking hell, just eat your own food, ya makin’ me sick.’ Tyvain jabbed her elbow into Pitch’s side.

The fork clattered against Silas’s teeth, and he very nearly choked on mashed potatoes. Pitch’s crown slipped as he whirled to admonish the soothsayer, who merely sucked her teeth at him, before returning to her brussel sprouts.

Recovering quickly, Silas wasted no more time in filling his plate. He was the last to do so, but there was by no means a shortage of food. For some time there were only murmurings of conversation, comments as to the sublime nature of the meal; everyone too busy eating to chat much.

And then the kedgeree arrived.

Mr Churchill dispensed with the trolley this time, using two great padded mittens to carry a large, white porcelain terrineinto the dining area. His jaw clenched as he bent to lower the heavy dish to the table. Sybilla shifted her chair to give him greater access.

‘Righto! This has had our mouths watering in the kitchen, I assure you, but there’s a fair few more hot spices in it than I’ve ever know in this dish.’ He lifted the lid with a grand flourish, and at once they were bombarded by the richness of the seasoning.

Silas was struck with how familiar a waft it was.

He knew this dish. He’d eaten a huge bowl of it.

At The Atlas.

That meal came flooding back. Kaneko had been credited with its making then. But that was impossible now.

He glanced at the tiny Christmas tree, labouring under its laden boughs. A tree the cook just happened to have ready and prepared for this unexpected gathering.

The same cook who had managed to deliver a feast of preternatural proportions, at the drop of a hat.

Silas shoved back his chair, standing. He snatched his paper crown from his head and cast it beside his plate.

‘No one touch the kedgeree. Sybilla, put down the ladle.’

The angel frowned. ‘Silas? What is it?’

‘Want it all ta yaself?’ Tyvain chortled. ‘Well, I ain’t fightin’ ya.’

‘I will.’ Jane sent a playful breeze whipping around Silas where he stood. But he ignored them all.

‘Mr Churchill, take me to the kitchen at once.’

He was frightening the poor man, Silas saw it in the roundness of his eyes, the sudden uncertainty that gripped the normally assured fellow. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Now, sir. Do not delay. I need to see this cook of yours.’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE COOKwas waiting for them. Standing by the oven with a cloth over one shoulder, a smudge of black on one cheek of their familiar face. Silas stopped dead in the doorway, his pulses galloping.

‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.

But before the man could answer, Pitch’s voice rang out behind him.