CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The heat that met Stephen on his way into the kitchen was intense, and so was the shouting. The rumors weren’t exaggerated. It really was chaos.

A thick blanket of smoke obscured the ceiling, and strange line cooks were darting past one another. What seemed to be a million pans and bowls and tureens—and yes, that was a cauldron—sat on every possible surface, steaming and bubbling and gurgling. The competing smells battled in his nose. The kitchen was a war zone.

“Dad?” he called into the melee.

“Papa, your enfant terrible is here!” shouted Tomas. He held a large flat pan in which various glassy, spiny things sizzled.

His dad emerged from the smoke.

Stephen had expected his dad to look overwhelmed, to be experiencing déjà vu of the nightmare scene in the dining room at Ambrosia. But he was back in his element, by all appearances, book or no book. He leaned over and dipped a spoon into Tomas’s pan, tasted it, and nodded with approval.

“Finally,” his dad said, reaching him. He put a hand on Stephen’s arm and steered him back into the relative quiet of the hall. He stopped them just past the threshold, though, where he could still keep one eye on the kitchen. “I was about to take a break and come look for you.”

Stephen didn’t need to ask why his dad would do that with the kitchen in such a frenzy.

“Everything looks like it’s going all right down here,” Stephen said.

His dad’s skin was red from the heat that filled the kitchen. And Stephen was sweating, too, literally and figuratively.

“I realized when I got back down here last night that if this is the last time I ever cook for supernormal society, I want it to be the best birthday bash a dragon has ever had. The kitchen staff rallied. Lots of chefs sent us recipes from their family books. Even Tomas is coming through,” his dad said. “I also knew that if I threw myself into cooking, it might keep me from doing something stupid that would just make things worse with the fae. Carmen told me to focus on this, and then the Manager might change his mind about exiling me. That way I’d be here, to help get you guys back if the worst happens.”

“We came up with a plan,” Stephen said, “to maybe trick them tonight.”

His dad’s eyebrows came up. “Really?”

“We’re going to pretend we have the book and see what they do.” If the feast went as well as the prep seemed to be, that would be another point that might work in their favor. At least part of what the fae wanted was to humiliate the Lawsons, obviously.

“Huh.” His dad shook his head. “I should tell you no, but Carmen said at this point nothing can hurt. I’m hoping the La Doyts come through, but I believe in you, buddy. If I can pull off this”—he paused and looked back into the kitchen—“then maybe you can pull one over on the snooty baroness. I meant what I said last night. I can’t even imagine losing you.”

A silence stretched between them. Stephen couldn’t imagine it, either. He and his dad were each other’s constants. Even when Stephen had been (more) overwhelmed by the revelation that all this existed and that his dad had kept it secret from him, he’d never doubted that his dad loved him.

But he still wasn’t happy to have been kept in the dark for so long.

“So”—Stephen swallowed—“if we make it through this, I want to know more about our family. And about my mom.”

His dad said, “I think that would be good.”

No reason not to start now. He was curious about something. “One question I’ve been meaning to ask: Do you know what happened with Baroness Thyme and Chef Nana? Why they didn’t like each other?”

His dad’s hand tightened a fraction on Stephen’s arm. “Your grandmother got in a battle of wills with a fae. I realized after that first night that it was the baroness. I knew she looked familiar. It happened when I was just a boy. Apparently it wasn’t the first time, just the worst.”

“What happened?”

They each took another step into the hallway. It was cooler out here, the din more distant: some trick of the architecture.

“Baroness Thyme didn’t like some of her court’s being too admiring of Chef Nana’s work in the kitchen. So she sent back a dish. And, well, no one had ever sent back one of Mom’s plates. She was a perfectionist and a much better cook than I am—especially of supernormal specialties. No way she was going to let it just pass.”

So far this sounded like an average rude diner story. “What could she do about it?”

“She sent out dish after dish to the entire table with her compliments. And some of these were incredibly rare. Your grandmother created one recipe specially for the occasion—Lark’s Tear Soup.” He tapped the side of his head. “That one I know by heart. Anyway, her companions couldn’t resist tasting them. And they were in rapture. Completely showed up the baroness.”

“Wait. All this is because she cooked them good food?” Stephen really didn’t understand this world.

“Because she injured her pride. Baroness Thyme took it as an insult.”

“Oh.” The fae sure could overreact.

“I just hope Chef Nana would be proud of what I serve tonight . . . and not too mad at me for screwing up and losing the book.”

“You?” Stephen said before he could stop himself. “I think you mean me. I’m the one who let the book get snatched from under my nose, who almost got myself killed going to Transylvania, who had the bright idea to go see the fae.”

His dad gave him a concerned look. “I’m glad you’re willing to take the consequences of your actions, Stephen, but you may be being a little too hard on yourself. All this was new to you. All these rules—it takes time to learn them.”

“Time I hope we have.”

His dad pulled him into a hug. “Me too. Be careful tonight. Okay?”

“I promise,” he said.

“I’d better head back to the stovetop,” his dad said. “That Lark’s Tear Soup recipe is delicate. Getting the larks to cry is the trickiest part. Oh, and I also wanted to tell you I had your suit cleaned and pressed for tonight. It’s in your closet.”

“The party’s a big deal, isn’t it?” He knew it was, but not how big. Cindermass could be prone to exaggeration.

His dad’s lips quirked into a smile. “Huge. Nobody’s had to cook for a dragon’s birthday since before I was born, and nobody’s had to do it in America since Thomas Jefferson was president.”

Stephen asked, “There were dragons in America back then?”

“There was at least one. One of our ancestors was chief culinary alchemist on the meal, and it’s still talked about in the supernormal community. I just hope mine measures up.” A strange expression crossed his dad’s face. “I’ll see you at the party, okay?”

Tomas shouted, “Chef, if you ’ave a minute, your soup, it eez on the boil!”

Stephen’s dad sighed and took a step away, then came back and leaned in so no one would overhear. “Tomas is a great cook, but it turns out he’s never even been to France. Wants people to think he’s classically trained. He grew up in Chinatown in San Francisco; he knows a lot about fireworks.” He chucked Stephen’s shoulder. “Don’t be late tonight.”

While Stephen made his way up the stairs, he went back over the plan for the evening.

He was going to a party full of monsters, where he and his new friends—because Ivan and Sofia were his friends, and he was theirs—would have to outsmart the fae who’d managed to drag him and his dad into this elaborate mess.

His dad would never forgive himself for not doing more if they didn’t beat the fae at their own game. So they would just have to win.

Stephen emerged into the bustling lobby and hooked a right to get to the stairs that led to Cindermass’s lair, which he expected to be pitch-black, as usual. Instead he was met by the soft glow of ambient light from below.

He began his torchless descent.

Cindermass had a soft spot for him because of Chef Nana and his drawings. If there was any way he could convince the dragon to help them out tonight, it was worth a shot. Cindermass was obsessed with valuable things, and the Librum was extremely valuable. He might even have some tips on dealing with the fae.

The light grew brighter and the air warmer as Stephen walked down the steps. It was how he imagined it might feel to approach an isolated star in the night sky. At the bottom Stephen paused before the wide-open double doors. A loud harmonious humming had joined the light.

When he entered, Cindermass’s lair was ablaze with more torches than he would have thought could fit—did the fire marshal ever inspect the hotel?—though Cindermass himself was probably a fire hazard anyway.

The dragon was the source of the loud, rhythmic humming. He was getting dressed. A variety of giant bejeweled armored breastplates lay on the floor in front of him, and smoke rolled from his nostrils as he reached a talon to ping one of the options and then another.

The dragon picked up one of the breastplates and held it against his scaly red chest, his head tilting from side to side to get a view in a large reflective urn he was using as a mirror.

“Hmm,” the dragon said, unaware of Stephen’s presence.

Stephen figured it was more of a risk if the dragon caught him and assumed he was spying. “Cindermass, excuse me,” he said. “Is now a bad time?”

“Just considering the paucity of suitable wardrobe options available to me.” Cindermass unceremoniously dropped the breastplate onto the ground. As he turned, he dislodged some coins from a stray heap behind him, but he didn’t bother with them.

He beckoned Stephen in with a long claw. “My boy, it is so good to see you looking like yourself. Much more so than the other evening, I should say.” Cindermass stopped where he was. “If you’ve come to look at my art collection again, I suppose I can accommodate you, although it is a very busy day. . . .” He let the silence stretch out meaningfully.

Stephen rushed forward. “Happy birthday!”

He wondered if he should burst into the song, but the dragon’s mouth opened in a wide, fiery grin. “You’ve heard! We only celebrate every five hundred years. I hear the festivities will be the grandest in this age. I barely remember the last party, though I do remember the song.”

He hummed a few bars of that same harmony again. Good thing Stephen hadn’t tried plain old “Happy Birthday” on him.

“When one’s life spans such a long time, and one is so isolated, the special occasions do become even more special. Just so long as there are no surprises. Surprises cause trouble. I shudder to think of causing another London— Though they did call it the ‘Great Fire.’”

The dragon finished with a guilty expression, lumbering back to make more room for Stephen.

“Even a good surprise?” Stephen asked, thinking about their plan.

After a moment’s consideration, the dragon said, “Good surprises are all right.”

“I keep surprising myself lately,” Stephen said. “And everyone else. And I think not in a good way. In the London way.”

Cindermass immediately showed concern. “Tell me what burden weighs upon you. That business with the Librum de Coquina still? I did happen to overhear a little of your meeting with Baroness Thyme and her party, and it did not seem to go well.” He blew a stream of fire on a teapot he had on a stove that was ludicrously small compared with his bulk and waved Stephen farther in to sit. “You need tea.”

Stephen eased down beside the row of finery on the floor. He was pretty sure the breastplate closest to him was set with real emeralds and rubies and diamonds. The gems glittered in the torchlight.

“Tell me everything,” Cindermass said as he set a teacup on a saucer.

“Sounds like you know. We have to get the book back tonight or else.”

Cindermass was surprisingly easy to talk to. He placed the tea in front of Stephen. “It is never wise to involve oneself in the fae’s trickery”—he paused—“even if one is part fae. You are nothing like them, Stephen, if you’re worried. Lady Nanette would have told you the same thing.”

Stephen sipped the tea. The oolong tasted smoky. “Do you—” He hesitated.

“Ask me anything,” Cindermass said. “It is an honor to inspire the trust of such an artist.”

Stephen asked, “Do you really think she’d feel that way?”

Cindermass closed his liquid gold eyes, then opened them. “Yes, I do. She was always so proud of you. Nothing could have changed that.”

It made him feel better. As if maybe what his dad had said that first night here were true: he was still himself, and being half fae didn’t change that. Courage rose up, and he asked what he’d truly come to visit Cindermass to ask: “Do you think maybe you could—”

“What is it? I will do anything within my power.”

He looked sincere.

“The fae said the book will surface at your party tonight. Do you think, if you get the chance, you can help us out? Me and Ivan and Sofia?”

Cindermass blinked at him. One nostril lit.

“I will of course do whatever is within my power.” He exhaled smoke. “However, I must warn you that there is a great deal of ceremony to be employed tonight, and I am bound by the rules of all my kind. This is the one time in which I do not add to my hoard by appropriation but through gifts. A dragon is forbidden from paying for items, you know, and is also forbidden from giving away gifts. It’s why building my art collection was so difficult. The loot flows to the dragon, so I couldn’t pay commissions to the artists.”

“I see,” Stephen said, surprised that knowing these rules actually seemed helpful. They might even be able to use them to their advantage during the plan. “Thanks, Cindermass. See you later at the party.”

“I cannot wait,” the dragon said, and set to humming once more.

Stephen had a busy afternoon. He had an ancient dragon’s birthday party to prepare for and the real possibility—scratch that, probability—that he was about to move to another dimension and take up his new job fetching and carrying for dangerous Baroness Thyme, devious Lady Sarabel, and deadly Lord Celidyl.

He got a reference photograph of the Empire State Building and studied it. Then he labored over several large pieces of parchment paper for a solid two hours, experimenting. None of the results were right for what he wanted. Every drawing either possessed a twitch of motion like his first sketch of Cindermass, or the image moved but then stalled out, like the cat he’d drawn earlier to the edge of the paper.

When he was about to give up, he stopped and remembered the way that the elements in the painting of his mother’s in the fae’s hotel suite had moved together seamlessly, almost as if they had been alive. He thought of what Ivan had said about his having the fae gift to make a drawing live on the page. The times it happened before, he hadn’t been trying.

A gift wasn’t exactly the same as a talent or a skill, was it? What if it was more like a superpower in one of his comic books?

Maybe he shouldn’t be straining to use his gift. Maybe he should just envision what he wanted to draw and let it flow through him.

He needed to embrace the gift as part of himself.

And so then, finally, he pictured Cindermass on the page in majestic movement. His colored pencil flew across the thick paper, stopping only when he needed to switch to a new color. He worked to capture the image in his head in as much detail as he could with red and green and orange and black, shading and fine-tuning, until it was pleasing to his eye, until the rendering of the dragon moved around the building the way he wanted it to.

Afterward he prepared the decoy Librum,wrapping his grandmother’s Almanack carefully in the paper so that the side he’d drawn on was hidden.

He took a bath and put on his suit. And when the time came, he went to meet his fate.