Neil never liked it when someone accused him of being “just a kid.” Lane hadn’t said that exactly, but Neil still felt as if he were being mocked.

“Lord Lane is quite a champion of the theater,” said a woman to Neil’s left. “He has supported many productions, and actors.”

Lane smiled. “Well, let us rather say that I have been blessed with numerous good friends who have made names for themselves on the stage. And the study of Shakespeare can make one, quite simply, a much better person. Much better, in fact, at whatever one calls one’s job.”

Neil smiled, but he felt incredibly ill at ease. It wasn’t that Lane was judging him, exactly. Or was he? Neil couldn’t say what it was . . . there seemed to be a kind of implied suggestion that Neil wasn’t doing all he could with his life. He shuffled uneasily. The conversation had so quickly shifted from his area of strength, cooking, to his great weakness, school.

Neil gave a small, nervous cough and turned back toward the kitchen doors. “Well, I just came out to say hello and I hope you enjoyed your starter . . .”

“Very much so, old boy!” Lane called, making his way back to his seat. “And we await the second act with keen anticipation!”

Neil felt the confidence begin to return. He’d just been congratulated on the food. Good. Things were swinging back his way. He turned around. “The main course will be ham, but no ordinary ham! I have infused the salted meat with honey. The ham will be sliced razor-thin and served over a spiced potato and sweet potato compote.”

There were numerous oohs and aahs.

Neil gave a short bow and turned back toward the kitchen.

“Exit, pursued by a bear!” Lane called out just as Neil reached the doors. This was followed by more laughter. Neil frowned and pushed the doors open.

Larry saw the look of confusion on Neil’s face. “Everything cool, cuz? You look a bit weird . . . weirder than usual even.”

Neil seemed to be staring into midair. “Does ‘exit, pursued by a bear’ mean anything to you?” he asked.

Larry smiled and said in an English accent, “Of course! It’s Shakespeare, old bean—a stage direction from one of his plays, The Winter’s Tale. You were supposed to write an essay on it last term, weren’t you?”

Neil shuddered as he remembered the incredible pile of homework that sat on his office desk. He had promised to complete it all on time. His parents had issued a number of threats should he fail. He felt a headache creeping back.

“At least they like the food,” Neil said quietly as he walked back to the ham. He looked around and didn’t see Gary, although he could smell freshly opened honey.

“Gary, where are you? How goes the liquefying?” Neil said.

“Um, actually, Neil. You know how you said ‘two cups of honey, not a molecule more, or less’?” Gary had a weird tone to his voice, a voice that seemed to be coming from around Neil’s feet. Neil looked down and saw Gary on his hands and knees, sweeping shards of broken, sticky glass onto a dustpan.

“Gary, what happened?” Neil said, doing his best to quell the rising panic in his chest.

“It was an accident,” Larry said, walking up behind Neil. “The jar was so brittle it actually started to crack as soon as Gary picked it out of the water. There must have been an air bubble in it that expanded or something.”

“Or something,” Neil said, irritated. He rubbed his temples. “Gary, how much honey were you able to get from the jars?”

“Um, about a cup and a half,” Gary said, trying to sound hopeful. “But that’s okay, right? It’s almost two cups.”

Neil rubbed his temples. “No . . . no. Trust me, the whole balance will be thrown off if we don’t use precisely what I said we needed. I didn’t estimate. I determined exactly what was needed for the dish.”

“So, what do we do?” Gary asked.

Neil lowered his head and rocked back and forth. He just wanted to be a chef. He didn’t want to even come close to any more stupid mysteries. The one remaining jar of honey seemed to be calling to him from the top shelf.

“We could use a different honey to top it off,” Larry suggested.

Neil just shook his head and walked over to the shelf. Neil Flambé didn’t know the meaning of the word ‘compromise,’ and it wasn’t just because he never did his English homework. No. Perfection was what he had planned, and perfection was what he would achieve.

That only allowed one choice.

He reached for the jar of honey. Opening the jar would open up a range of possibilities Neil wasn’t going to think about right now. He just knew that he needed the incredible liquid that surrounded the mysterious note.