Page 20 of Baking and Angels

They didn’t stop them as they approached. In fact, one of the busboys paused to hold the door open for Éliott as he passed through, slapping hands, then snapping as they passed in some sort of salute to each other.

Walking into that kitchen felt like walking into a long-lost home.

The bevy of smells, the clanks and clatters, the rushing sounds of water and frying oils. A sense of urgency danced in the air. It was the one room that Rafferty had always felt safe no matter what century it was—except for Helena’s bedroom, lying in her arms. There had been a different sort of safety there.

Rafferty stopped a few steps from the door and breathed it all in deep into his lungs. While he soaked in the atmosphere, Éliott continued forward, stopping next to a woman wearing a white jacket and apron with three buttons next to her shoulder. Her hair was tied back in a short ponytail under a white pillbox toque. She didn’t look happy to see the intruders, but she leaned in to listen to Éliott speaking in her ear. As soon as he was done, he planted a kiss on her cheek, and she finally, reluctantly, grinned at him, then gestured toward a corner while speaking softly. He then snapped a second surprise kiss on her other cheek before he turned to gesture for Rafferty to follow him to the counter.

“She said as long as you stay out of the kitchen’s way and clean up your mess, you may cook whatever they have in the kitchen,” Éliott informed him, tapping at the empty counter, then pulling up a stool to sit at its corner with his charcuterie board.

Stunned, Rafferty asked, “Truly?”

Éliott met his gaze, already chewing another morsel, and nodded. “Oui.” Then he gestured to the room. “I know the sous, and she owes me a favor for when I bailed her out of a different tight jam.”

“And you don’t mind using your favor for me?” Rafferty questioned.

Éliott spread his hands, including the one holding the board, with enthusiasm. “What else are favors for if not to helpa friend?”

A friend.

Again, that feeling of ease washed over Rafferty, urging him into motion. It inspired a grin to crack across his face as he eagerly grabbed up one of the aprons hanging from the end of the counter.

“Do you want me to help?” Éliott asked, slipping intohisfamiliar support role as easily as he slipped the apron overhis head.

“You’re sure?” Rafferty asked, obeying his naturalwariness.

“Of course, more than anything. I want to taste yourcooking.”

Rafferty nodded, accepting that answer. It was one he understood. When he finished tying his apron strings, he pulled a large bowl toward himself. Oh, to cook again, and this time, he would taste the food he made with his own hands. “I need steel-cut oats, butter, salt, sugar, nutmeg, and brandy.”

“Ahh, you are going to do it the way my grandmother would,” Éliott noted with a grin.

“Yes, the correct way,” Rafferty said as he moved to a small sink to washhis hands.

Éliott grinned wider and set off to find the requested ingredients.

Chapter 9

Dreams ofthe Future

Rafferty could not stop laughing. It was a deep belly laugh shared with this fellow countryman many generations removed. They had been laughing for so long that Rafferty had forgotten what they had been laughing about. It just felt good. His hands had continued, however, adding the final touches to his meal, passing his new friend’s bowl to him, steam wafting from the top.

“This tastes excellent,” Éliott moaned as he took another bite. “I think it’s been ages since I’ve had something like… Words fail me. No, wait! The brandy flavor sings! It is warm and savory-sweet, and…”

Rafferty agreed, but he couldn’t provide better words for it. He laughed then went still as he tasted his food. A memory, something he had thought he had lost long ago stirred up in his mind, drawn out by the taste. His mother making this for him, showing him how it was done over a real fire in their hearth.He couldn’t recall her name, but her smile was as beautiful as antique lace.

“What is that?” A woman’s voice, which was not his mother’s, interrupted histhoughts.

Another white-coated woman stood there, this time with a short bob under her white cap. From the looks of her, she had just murdered something made of chocolate, as she was spackled in blips and bits of thesubstance.

“Oh, hello, Eleanor,” Éliott said. She shot him an annoyed look, then directed her gaze back to inside Rafferty’s pot.

“What is this?” she asked, lifting up the ladle to pour some of the substance back in, examining its texture.

“Gruau,” Éliott said, unperturbed and, in fact, seeming rather delighted by her irritation.

“Gruel,” Rafferty amended, giving the English word for it.

“Gruel?” she exclaimed, wrinkling her nose at it. “Like what Oliver Twist ate?”

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