I looked at old and young, fair and plain, tall and small. I gazed at fat and thin, hairy and bald, rich and poor. Almost all the men of the village were there, though only those rich enough to own a horse would venture into the wood for the hunt. The rest cheered them on, made bets as to whose arrow would bring the stag down, and told my stories of the stag and how he had eluded hunters in the past. Seeing them so animated made me feel the importance of my original errand more acutely.
Suddenly I saw Lord Temsland, though not his son, and I pushed through the crowd toward him. “My lord!” I called. “Please, my lord!”
But before I could reach him, Lady Temsland came on a horse and spoke urgently to him.
“A messenger!” I heard Lord Temsland exclaim. “But we’ve never had a messenger from the king, nor any visitor at all.”
“Husband,” she said, “the hunt must wait. The king has sent his most trusted servant, Duke Morland, and I have persuaded him to take his midday meal with us. Come.” Without waiting, she spun her horse around, and Lord Temsland followed her.
“Set traps for the hart!” Lord Temsland called as he rode away. Some men entered the wood to perform the task, but I sighed with relief as most of the men began to stream away toward the village, distracted from the hunt by a desire to see a messenger from the king. Somehow, in the press of people, I had missed John.
I turned back to the wood, thinking that the young lord might yet be there, but instead Ben Marshall stood before me, tall and comely. “Keturah,” he said, “you are still pale. You have not fully recovered.”
“I slept well,” I replied, and then realized the eye had stopped. No, not stopped, but slowed. It was rolling up and down in my hand as if it were taking Ben in, considering him from the top of his head down to his sod-stained boots.
I felt myself blushing, as if it were I myself who was looking him up and down.
“My, it is warm,” I said, though it was not. Stop, I told the eye in my mind. Stop. But it did not stop. It continued to slide in my hand, rolling up and down and side to side, as if it were trying to see around him, as if my true love might be standing behind Ben. It was all I could do not to squeeze the eye into stillness.
“Are you planning what you will make for the cooking contest at the fair, Keturah?” he asked. He said it flirtatiously, as if those were courting words.
“Oh, yes. Of course,” I said, and blushed again for my lie. Slow was good, I thought, thinking of the eye. Or at least hopeful. The eye needed only time, though time was, alas, in short supply.
“Come to the manor with me, and let us see the messenger from the king,” Ben said.
We walked, and he talked of everyday things, and speculated upon the marvel of a visit from the king’s messenger. I wondered at how mundane his concerns would seem to him if only he knew what I knew.
Through it all, the eye kept rolling. Perhaps it was not working properly, and would not until Soor Lily’s price was paid. Or would it not stop for Ben because one had to be Best Cook to marry him? I scarcely heard a word Ben said after that, so busy was I with thoughts of finding a foolproof way to win Best Cook. If only I had more time!
I looked up at the sky to see how much more day I had.
How had the sun, which moved so slowly when I was doing chores or waiting for the common fire, become a swooping bird of prey? I shadowed my eyes with my hand to look at it, my enemy, and in that moment I knew how to secure the prize of Best Cook for myself.
Ben was saying something about Farmer Dan and holy water, but I interrupted him.
“I must go!” I said. “Goodbye!” And I gathered my skirts to run.
“Keturah ...,” he called after me.
“I have a plan,” I called back, “to win me Best Cook!”
Along the way, Gretta and Beatrice intercepted me. “Do you go to find John Temsland, Keturah?” Beatrice asked as they matched their strides to mine.
“First I must go to Lord Temsland’s kitchen,” I said.
“His kitchen?” Gretta exclaimed.
“But why are you going to the kitchen, Keturah?” Beatrice asked.
“To obtain a lemon.”
Both Beatrice and Gretta stopped. “A lemon?” they asked at the same time.
“A lemon,” I said, continuing briskly.” ‘Tis a fruit, dears. Grandfather spoke of it once, after he went to the king’s court with Lord Temsland.”
“A lemon!”
“They say it is as yellow as the sun,” I said.
“We know that,” Gretta said, “but...”
“And more sour than a crabapple.” My plan was becoming clearer to me as I spoke. “Yet with it I could make a dish that would cause Ben Marshall to forget all other dishes, a dish that would cause him to forget all other foods and all other women. It will make me the Best Cook of the fair, and he will ask me to marry him, and I will say yes.” I looked at my friends and smiled.” ‘Tis said the queen has lemon in her tea at Easter and Christmas. I am hoping Cook has one.”
“So your true love is—Ben Marshall?” Beatrice ventured.
“Yes,” I said, “or at least the charm gives me hope that it is so. I shall do all in my power to love him. With all my heart. Undyingly.”
“Then we shall come with you,” Gretta said.
Once at the manor kitchen, I knocked, and old Cook came to the door. “Who is it, then?” she asked, peering at me. She was so farsighted she could not tell a face. She could smell, though. “Must be the Reeve girl. Much gossip about you today. You still smell like the forest. And Beatrice and Gretta are never far behind. Thank heavens you’ve all come.”
“Cook, we cannot stay.”
“You must stay.” As she spoke she herded us into the kitchen. “I have the aches today, and it is today of all days the lord receives a messenger of the king. Dinner must be ready, and it must be fine.”
“But Cook,” I said, “I came only to fetch a lemon.”
Cook stopped. “A what?”
“A lemon, Cook, so that she can win Best Cook at the fair,” said Beatrice. “So that Ben Marshall will marry her, so that—” Gretta nudged Beatrice, and she fell silent.
Cook laughed. Her teeth were all brown but strong. “A lemon!” she said to me. “Is that all, child? Well, let me check the larders for a stray one. But they are very dear. If I give you a lemon, first you must cook. You and your friends.”
She dragged me along, grinning ferociously, as if she were twice my size and not half of it. “You will do pastries today. I know you can do pastries. And watch the pig, too.”
As Cook led me into the bowels of her kitchen, I thought that this was how Jonah must have felt in the belly of the great fish. It was dark and hot, and slimy with blood and guts and grease. Smoke and fire filled the room, and the smell of rot and garbage overcame the smell of roasting. Someone shouted and someone else moaned.
Cook set me to my task, and I worked pastry and turned the spit until my back was a rigid board of pain. In the flames of the fire I thought I saw Death’s fine face, and sometimes I thought I heard his laughter. Cook set tasks for Gretta and Beatrice as well. I told myself the pastry was not a bad price for a lemon, the prize that would foil Death’s plan.
After what seemed hours, I grabbed Cook as she scuttled by me. “Cook, surely by now I have earned my lemon,” I said.
“No, not yet,” she said. “Keep going.”
“How do I know you even have a lemon?” I asked, knowing she was a sly old thing.