Page 116 of Baking and Angels

“What do you mean?” Eleanor asked, giving nothing away.

“This takes a day to boil, to get all the impurities out,” he pressed.

“It was prepared beforehand. Don’t worry. It has been prepared appropriately,” she said, meeting his gaze with her own.

“But the second event was only changed a little bit ago,” he saidcarefully.

Her gaze didn’t waver.

So this move to sabotage the second round was planned all along,he thought. Either that, or she had Vassago manifest this pork for her.

As if she could hear the question, she sighed, “I prepared it entirely myself from a place I source pork from. I trust them implicitly. It is… untainted.”

Rafferty took a deep, fortifying breath. “You are a good chef,” he acknowledged, voicing what the feeling inside told him. It was the same as saying “I believe you.”

He nodded toward the wine bottles on her counter. “I’ll begin preparing the port jelly.”

She nodded. There wasn’t much more to say after that. Time was ticking.

They worked together seamlessly, as if they had worked in the same kitchen all their lives. He found the ingredients he needed already lined up on the counter, while she got her crust laid out and into the baking unit.

The other two teams that remained did not seem to be having the same poetry of motion. One set wasn’t even in the same library, their sharp words to each other carrying their stress across the space, while he and Eleanor constructed their layers.

Before he knew it, Rafferty was slicing and plating the savories, while Eleanor dressed each with a pickled walnut, dried prosciutto, and a crisp of fried cheese arranged artfully on top.

“These are perfect,” she approved. “They look exactlythe same.”

“Of course, they do,” he said as he set the last piece on the serving tray.

Eleanor laughed. “That’s your serious facade,isn’t it?”

“Oui, madame,” he said, the itch of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. A familiar pride settled into his chest as he stepped back from their work, wipinghis hands.

“You know,” Eleanor said, grabbing up her own towel to wipe with. “I did try to summon you after Helena gave me thecookbook.”

The ease Rafferty had felt immediately dissipated. Eleanor studied his reaction, smirking. “It didn’t work, of course.” She tucked a piece of rogue hair back behind her ear. “You know, this isn’t the first time we met? Do you remember me at all?”

Slowly he shook his head. “No.”

“From Nana’s kitchen? Really? I would have been a child then.”

He set down the towel as he tried to, but there was nothing.

“Well, I remember you. It was because of you I wanted to become a chef. You and she were preparing some food for some sick neighbor of hers, and you let me help.” The way her cheeks pinked up, he got the impression that he had done more than inspire her.

And if she had intended to summon him, he understood clearly what she would have wantedfrom him.

It was a… miracle… the cookbook had ended up in Helena’s hands, instead.

“Are you ready?” a helper asked, gesturing toward the stage. They were clearly the only oneswho were.

“Absolutely,” Eleanor said, gesturing for Rafferty to pick up the presentation tray like he was her servant.

Yes, he clearly understood what she wantedfrom him.

The judges’ praises were over the top and fairly worthless. They had clearly won the round, even without the other entrants offering up theirsavories.

It would come down to points to determine who would be the third to make it through to the final round. Rafferty wasn’t worried about that.

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