“Laudna, I don’t know about this,” Imogen whispered as her friend pulled her through the darkened hallway of Lord Eshteross’s estate.
“He did tell us to ‘make ourselves at home’,” Laudna replied over her shoulder, one long-fingered hand making an expansive gesture. “Besides, it’s just a cup of tea. It’s not like we’re waking the whole household.”
Imogen sighed and stared down at her feet as Laudna easily maneuvered down the dusty passage. It had only been a handful of days since Lord Eshteross had relented and opened up a few more guest rooms—far away from his personal chambers, of course—so that their little band of…mercenaries? Were they really mercenaries now? Anyway, so that they could all stay with him in relative safety instead of in one of the spires’ various inns.
“I brought a few of my own herbs,” Laudna was saying as she peered into a few of the doorways as they passed. “You know you always feel better after a cup of my special blend.”
She’d had a nightmare…not the nightmare, but a bad one nonetheless. It was probably a side effect of spending so much time around the same group of people now. Their minds didn’t scratch against hers so much anymore, and they were quickly becoming a comforting background noise, but the danger of being so comfortable with each other was that more emotions were slipping through. Imogen didn’t know which of their little party had originally had the nightmare (thankfully, no one seemed particularly prone to them, except for her), but she’d woken up gasping with visions of tangling webs and thorns and a man’s cruel laughter ringing in her ears.
There was no getting back to sleep after that, so Laudna did what she always did…and dragged Imogen off to the kitchen for a cup of tea.
“Here it is,” Laudna announced theatrically, thrusting the door open. “Now, you just…oh. So sorry. Didn’t mean to intrude.”
Imogen peeked around her friend’s shoulder to see Evelyn, Lord Eshteross’s servant, staring balefully up at them from a table full of baskets of groceries.
“Can I help you?” Evelyn asked tiredly. Her hair was in a messy braid down one shoulder, and there were deep bags under her eyes.
Imogen ducked under her friend’s arm and crossed the room to take the other woman’s hand. “Oh dear. You don’t look well at all, Miss Evelyn.”
Evelyn grunted and tried to pull away, but Imogen had already leaned forward to press one hand to her forehead. “I’m fine.”
“Not with a temperature like that,” Imogen countered. “Really, you should be resting.”
“Are you ill?” Laudna asked, leaning over Imogen’s shoulder now. True to form, her friend sounded more fascinated than sympathetic, but Imogen knew she meant well.
“I’m fine,” Evelyn repeated, pulled away from Imogen, only to wobble on her feet and half-collapse into a nearby chair. “Or I will be.”
“Yes, you will,” Imogen nodded and took the woman’s elbow in a firm grip. “Once you march yourself back to bed and get some rest.”
Evelyn tried to protest, but in her weakened state she was no match for the purple-haired woman’s tenacity. “But Lord Eshteross will need his breakfast…and you…”
“We’ll handle that.”
“We will?” Laudna looked up from where she’d been investigating the groceries on the table. At Imogen’s sharp glance she seemed to brighten. “We will! It’ll be…fun. To cook for everyone.”
Whatever progress Evelyn had been making toward the door halted, as she gave Laudna a long, hard stare. Imogen had to get both hands on her shoulders and shove her bodily out of the kitchen. “She means well, she just gets excited. We’ll be fine.”
She shut the door on Evelyn’s continued protest and turned to face the kitchen, only now realizing the monumental task they’d taken on. Breakfast for, let’s see…ten people, including Evelyn and Lord Eshteross? Well, nine…Fresh Cut Grass wouldn’t need to eat. “What do we do?”
“What do we do?” Laudna repeated gleefully, hands on her hips. “This was your idea, Imogen.”
“I-I know,” Imogen pressed both hands to her head. “She was just…she seemed so sick, and she really should be in bed if she feels like that. Laudna, I don’t know if I can cook something fancy enough for a place like this.”
“Let’s ask Dorian!” Laudna suggested. She leaned back and pressed the fingers of one hand to her temple. “Dorian! You’re needed in the kitchen!” she sang out, the spell carrying through the lilting tone of her voice.
“No, don’t,” Imogen waved her hands and lunged across the room to grab Laudna’s arm. “We don’t want to disturb anyone else.”
“Oh. Never mind, Dorian. Sweet dreams!” she let out a long sigh and let her eyes focus on Imogen’s. “So. What do you want to make?”
Imogen bit her lip and stared at the baskets on the table. “Well, we’ve got eggs. And it looks like there’s a hunk of bacon here, and some peppers. Maybe an omelet?”
“Have you ever made an omelet?” Laudna was watching carefully as Imogen began pulling food out and lining it up on the table.
“Not really. They’re harder than they look,” Imogen shrugged. “Well, maybe everyone likes fried eggs? And we could do a little salad, maybe?”
“I’m afraid I wasn’t much for cooking. Before,” Laudna waved one hand, and it was only because of their years of friendship that Imogen barely even noticed the joints pop. “But I’ll happily follow your lead.”
Imogen nodded, focused on extracting the eggs from their basket. None were broken, and when she lined them up on the table, they were at least close to the same size. “How many do you think we should make?”
“Oh…all of them!” At Imogen’s glance, Laudna’s face split into a bright (if ghoulish) smile. “Most of those boys look like they could use a feed. Meat on the bones, as they say.”
“I don’t…” Imogen’s voice trailed off as rapid footsteps sounded from the hall. There was a brief pause, then the door to the kitchen was flung open to reveal Dorian, immaculately dressed as always, glance darting between the two women as he leaned into the room.
“Is everything all right?” he asked, his eyes now focusing on the food spread out across the simple worktable. His hair was a little mussed, and if he hadn’t been an air Genasi he might have been winded from sprinting through the manor.
“Oh, Dorian,” Imogen sighed. “I’m sorry, Laudna shouldn’t have bothered you. Evelyn was just feeling poorly this morning and we were taking over breakfast for her, that’s all. Just didn’t know what to make.”
“I see.” Dorian stared at the table for another long moment, then straightened his tunic and gave the women a dazzling smile, though he seemed reluctant to meet Laudna’s eyes for some reason. “Well, I’m here now, and I’m not getting back to sleep after…uh…getting dressed. How can I help?”
Imogen didn’t quite know how to answer that—she didn’t really even know what they were doing—but Laudna stepped right in. “Do you know how to make…omelets?” And, really, she meant well. She just couldn’t help the way she emphasized things sometimes.
“Ah, no, I’m afraid not. My cooking skills are a little…amateur,” Dorian admitted, but when he saw the brief flash of disappointment on Imogen’s face, he hurried forward with his hands held out. “But I can make scrambled eggs with vegetables and cheese! I know Fearne and Orym won’t know the difference.”
“But would that be good enough for Lord Eshteross?”
“Well…” Dorian hedged, running the tips of his fingers over the edge of one basket. “I’m sure he’ll understand given the circumstances.”
Imogen considered this for a moment, then gave a brief nod and slid the basket of vegetables over to the bard. “Think you can chop these up? I’ll start beating the eggs, and Laudna can make some tea.”
“Right,” he brushed his hands together, tugging a bright red pepper out of the basket. “You know, Orym really would be better at this sort of thing. Cutting, I mean.”
“Yeah, well, we don’t want to wake him up,” Imogen replied.
“Oh, he’s already awake, I’m sure he…” Dorian half-turned to look over his shoulder. “There he is! Orym, come in!”
The halfling stumbled into the kitchen, sword already strapped on, and stopped to lean against the table at Dorian’s hip and stare blearily around the room. “Everything all right?”
“We’re making breakfast!” Laudna announced gleefully. Imogen was sure she didn’t mean for it to sound like a threat, but her new friends hadn’t been around her oldest friend for very long, so she rushed to explain.
“Yeah, sure,” Orym nodded when she finished. “Sure you’re up for cooking for so many?” he asked, stretching up to elbow his friend in the side.
“It’ll be fine,” Dorian blustered. “Here…take a seat right here. Or maybe…do you think Lord Eshteross would mind if we took a couple of big books out of his study?”
Dorian easily dodged the playful swipe Orym made at him, while the halfling climbed up to kneel in the chair so he was at a better height to reach the table. “Why don’t you go make sure Fearne isn’t finding anything else she, uh, thinks is pretty?”
“Like what?” Fearne was shuffling into the kitchen now, her hair around her shoulders in disarray. She gave a huge yawn, only halfway hidden behind one hand. “Oh, are you having a party?”
“Maybe we should!” Laudna had a teakettle hooped over one skinny arm as she clapped her hands together in delight. “We can just pile everyone in here together! It’ll be fun!”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Orym volunteered from his perch at the table.
“Yes, I concur,” Dorian nodded. “It could get, you know, cramped.”
“Cramped, schmamped,” Fearne yawned again. She shuffled into a chair next to Orym’s and began toying with the slices of pepper he was cutting. “I think it would be cozy.”
“Dorian, if you can handle the eggs, I’ll help Fearne cut some bacon,” Imogen interrupted, seeing the faun start to sneak pieces of pepper to Mister, who looked out from the green tangles of her hair with a grumpy expression. “We can fry it up before you start making the…omelets.”
“Of course!” the bard moved on to start cracking eggs in the bowl with a flourish, and if he paused every few seconds to fish out a bit of shell Imogen didn’t mention it. She had enough on her plate now that Fearne was “helping” cut the bacon…which in her case meant trying to taste it.
“We can’t eat raw bacon, Fearne!” Imogen hissed, pulling the cutting board away.
“Why not?” Fearne asked, licking her fingers. “It tastes good cooked…I just wanted to see if it was good raw.”
“You’ll make yourself sick.”
“No, I won’t.”
Orym leaned over as far as he could to catch Imogen’s eye. “She really won’t, you know. But still,” he added, when Imogen shot him a look. “Fearne, you shouldn’t eat raw bacon.”
“Why?” Fearne turned her eyes on him, still licking the grease off her fingers. The halfling gave a shudder.
“Uh…ask Imogen.”
Imogen started to reply, but a new voice at the door startled her into dropping her knife and nearly shooting back out of her chair.
“What the hell are you lot doing in here at this ungodly hour?” the newcomer demanded from the doorway. Dorian dropped the egg he’d been cracking into his bowl with a squawk of alarm, Fearne took advantage of the distraction to stuff a long piece of raw bacon into her mouth, and Orym’s knees slid sideways and he barely managed to catch himself on the tabletop.
“Ashton!” Imogen pressed a hand to her chest. “You startled us.”
The earth Genasi studied the group with a long stare, one corner of his mouth twitching up. “I can see that. Making breakfast?”
“Do you want to help?” she offered, pushing another chair out with her foot.
“Fuck no!” Ashton strode over to another corner of the kitchen and opened cabinets at random until he found a tankard, which he started to fill from an ale barrel against the wall. “Just came for some breakfast ale, but I’ll gladly stay for the entertainment.”
He took the seat Imogen had offered and stretched out lazily, one foot on the chair next to Orym’s knees. “So. The hired help take off for the day?”
“Evelyn’s sick,” Imogen replied, focusing back on her task. Fearne seemed satisfied with her sampling of bacon and had wandered over to watch Laudna sort herbs to make a pot of tea. “We’re just trying to do something nice.”
“I can see that,” Ashton’s eyes seemed to take in the mess that had slowly accumulated as they’d worked—the messy eggshells discarded by the bowl at Dorian’s elbow, the bits of pepper and shreds of raw bacon Fearne had left scattered on the table. “Need any help?”
“I thought you said you didn’t want to help,” Orym said, pausing with his knife in the air when Ashton wiggled a foot against him to try to knock him off balance.
“Oh, I don’t. But Fresh Cut Grass would.”
“I don’t really know that there’s anything they can do,” Imogen said hesitantly. “They're not really that kind of automaton.”
“We can tie a cheese grater to their arm or something. Hey, think you can get FCG down here?” he called over his shoulder.
Laudna looked up, still crumbling tea leaves between her long fingers. “Of course! Anything for you, Ashton.”
Ashton shuddered at the smile she sent his way. “Gods, I love that woman,” he muttered to Imogen. “I hope she never gets less creepy.”
…
Chetney stumbled his way into the kitchen, largely following the delicious smell of fresh-brewed tea, to find his seven new friends all gathered around the center worktable, obviously trying to make some kind of breakfast concoction. Dorian seemed to be in the middle of a heartfelt apology to Imogen, who was using a spoon to fish bits of eggshell out of a bowl. Orym, who seemed to be sitting on one of Ashton’s feet, was laughing at something the green-skinned man had said, while their little automaton friend was happily mangling a block of cheese with something tied to one of their…pincers or whatever. Fearne had found a bunch of grapes somewhere and seemed to be tucking some into her hair, while Laudna held court over a teakettle wafting out one of the most heavenly aromas he’d ever smelled.
But this…this was shocking. What kind of breakfast was this?
“So!” he announced, taking just a little glee in the way they all jumped at his voice. “All of you in here, and not a speck of oatmeal to be seen.”
“Do you want oatmeal?” Imogen asked. She started to move away from the bowl but hesitated when she realized her hands were dripping with raw egg. “We can make you some.”
“Don’t bother,” Chetney shuffled into the room, reaching up for one of Evelyn’s aprons to tie around himself under his arms. “Probably load it up with all kinds of newfangled super foods. Clearly can’t trust you youngsters with a decent breakfast.”
He muttered to himself while he found a pot in one of the cabinets and hefted it onto the stove (with Dorian’s help). Just needed oats, a little bacon grease, maybe a few hazelnuts, and a dash of hot sauce. Just what they all needed to get off to a good start on a cold morning.
“Hey, old-timer,” Ashton’s irreverent voice broke into Chetney’s musings. “Know how to make an omelet?”