Page 17 of Gates of Tartarus

“Oooh, I love this song!” I start to hum and sway, wielding the spoon like a baton. Emlyn goes to the fridge and pulls out three beers, tossing one each at Kavi and Jorge. The beat picks up, and I give in to the rhythm.

“Ifyou are an arsehole,Andyour name is Se–ef,Thenyou’re abalsaky drol!” I bellow, whirling around and pointing the spoon at Jorge. Catching sight of the stripes going up the side of my manky sweatpants, he looks mildly revolted. I think I’ve offended his sense of good taste and giggle. “He’sa secret agent,Buthe is a wanker, AndI’mthe only one who knows!” I give a good wiggle and turn back to the stove, but not before seeing Kavi’s face break into a broad grin. “La, la, la, LA, la!” I holler, stirring the peas with what I like to think is a bit of Gallic flair. God, it feels good to just let it all out. “La, la, la, la, la, la, laaaa!”

“Christ, she’s screeching like an old besom,” I hear Emlyn mutter in an amused tone. I giggle again before deciding to get offended and spin around. “Aaareyou im-Ply-ing, that I suck atSing-ing?” I wave the spoon in the air, one lone pea flying off to hit Kavi in the chest. “Oops.”

Emlyn snorts. “Maela, did you mix wine with your painkillers?”

I think about it and nod solemnly. “Yes. But that’s just a myth.”

Emlyn quirks a brow, and I want to trace it with my fingers. I sigh, feeling put upon that he’s so dense. “They always say not to mix meds and alc–alcohol. Always. Because they’re killjoys.”

“They?”

“You know, the ma-a-a-a-a-n.”

“Ah. And how many glasses have you had?”

Who is he: my mother? “Sheesh! Dial down the dork, why don’t you?” I turn back to the stove, vaguely aware the potatoes are boiling over. Shite! Potato starch is a bee-yatch to get off the hob. Someone’s arms come around me from behind, and then Jorge’s taking the spoon from my hand.Mmm. I lean back, breathing deeply in the scent of black pepper and bergamot, and give a satisfied sigh.

“Maela,querida, why don’t you let us finish up?”

I turn my head and look up, bestowing an affectionate smile on him. “Jorge, that’ssu-u-u-persweet of you, but I’m cooking! You guys have been hard at work all day, and it’s theleastI can do. Now, shoo, all of you.” Pushing off, I flap my hands at them and bustle back to the stove.

Jorge tries again. “Really,querida, we’d be happy to help. My grandmother taught both me and my sister how to cook. I’ll be your sous-chef.”

I bend down to peer through the oven window at the chicken, teetering slightly, and grab at the door handle. “Woops! You go relax. But you can tell meallabout cooking with your grandmother over dinner. I’dloveto hear it. I can just picture you as a little boy, with a cute, little, serious face, standing on a stool and beating eggs in a bowl. I bet you were adoooorable. Awww.”

Straightening, I turn to treat him to another radiant smile, only to catch the dubious glances shooting between them. At that I give an exasperated huff. “Seriously, guys. Go away! You’re distracting me.” Pulling a pan off the hob, I look down and frown. “The potatoes might be a little overdone.”

Emlyn peers over my shoulder. “Yes, I can see that,” he pipes up helpfully.

“What part of ‘go away’ do you not understand?” I glare at him and then, for good measure, at Kavi and Jorge too, who are now just standing there like gormless oafs.

“The part where you set the house on fire for cooking under the influence.”

I sputter: “Under… under… I’ll have you know I amnotdrunk! How dare you cast such an aspers– an aspersion on my character!” I draw myself up to my full 5’3” and purse my lips, all angry librarian.

“Fret not, my little American. You’re pretty cute when you’re squiffy.”

For a moment, I can only gape at him, torn between gratification and outrage. Then the smell hits me, and I screech: “The peas! The peas are burning!” Hastily, I turn back to the stove, muttering under my breath. “Oh for feck’s sake! Everything was going fine until you lot trooped in. Well I hope you like blackened peas and mushy potatoes. Try to do something nice, and you throw it in a girl’s face. You’re just a bunch ofbalsaks!”

“Ouch!” Emlyn winces, and I twitch.

“Now you’ve done it,” Kavi observes, taking a sip of his beer andnot moving!Are they deaf!

“If you all do not bugger off to the conservatory immediately,” I hiss, “I will not be responsible for my actions. You can either eat dinner or wear it. You have five minutes to choose.”

Kavi’s eyes widen. “Ladki,” he says placatingly.

“Don’t youladkime! You’re in cahoots withhim!” Scowling, I jerk my head towards Emlyn, who’s leaning casually against the fridge, looking amused.

Throwing up his hands, he grins: “Alright! Alright! ‘Discretion is the better part of valor.’ Time to beat a retreat to the conservatory, lads.”

I breathe a sigh of relief as they shuffle out of the room.Finally! Cooking has never been my forte –Mamanwas hopeless, always trying to create elaborate concoctions that somehow never quite worked, and Daddy was too absent-minded, letting things burn while he lost himself in a book – and I could do without the peanut gallery. I give the peas a poke; they’re not really burned, I decide, just nicely caramelized. And the potatoes are salvageable. But I’d better get the chicken out – it’s looking pretty done to me. Right.

I serve up, arranging everything just so, like I’m Gordona Ramsey, carefully wiping off bits of potato so the rims of the plates are nice and clean. I take a swig of wine and nod. “Maela, girl,” I say aloud, ‘you have outdone yourself.E flamma cibum petere. Talk about plucking the food from the flames. Disaster threatened, but you kicked its smoldering ass!”

Picking up two plates, I sashay into the conservatory. Three – contrite, I decide – faces look up at me. Ahh. Clearly, they’ve been having a heart-to-heart and realize just how out of line they were.

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