The Six of Cups

By the end of the day, Clara's newfound resolve was already unraveling like a dropped spool of thread. The exam, the talk with Lue and Zarek, the pressure of her own inadequacy—by the time the castle's evening bells chimed, she felt more untethered than before.

Clara had expected Celia to find her. To appear, as twins so often did, with a cryptic smile and some scandalous pastry stolen from the kitchen. Instead, Celia was nowhere. Not at lessons, not in the family's private parlor, not even in the east garden where the fireflies had started their evening ritual. The absence gnawed at Clara in a way she refused to name. She checked the west tower, the seamstresses' annex, and the shadowy corridors off the main gallery. At each dead end, her pulse sped, then faltered, replaced by a hollow echo. Eventually, she gave up.

Clara considered sulking in the library, but the echo of failure was still too fresh. Lue was out on training with the other guards—she'd seen him earlier, in formation, armor gleaming, face set in the implacable mask he wore for public duties. Her brothers were busy; Theodor had been sent to the city for diplomatic something-or-other, and Atlas… she hadn't seen Atlas at all today.

That left the kitchen. Or, more precisely, the domain of Marcus Blackwood.

The farther Clara got from the royal wing, the more the castle's character changed. Here, the floors bore the scars of centuries, the air carried a hundred-layered aromas, and people spoke in voices above a murmur. She ducked past a laundry maid, dodged a rolling cask, and finally pushed her way through the heavy, oak-studded doors of the central kitchen.

It was a world apart from the rest of Solaria. A half-dozen hearths roared, each with its own fleet of undercooks, apprentices, and servants. The sound was an orchestration of clanging pans, the rhythm of cleavers, and the rush of boiling water. Saffron and roast meat, warm bread and charred pepper; the kitchen had its own weather and its own seasons.

Marcus Blackwood was, as always, at the center of the storm. He did not just command the space; he owned it in the way a thunderhead owns the sky. Marcus was a mountain of a man, every muscle forged from decades of work, with skin the color of night and a head polished to a perfect sheen by kitchen heat and his own relentless energy. He wore the chef's whites as if they were a general's dress uniform, and his booming voice cut through the kitchen's din with the precision of a whetted blade.

"Move! If you're not stirring, you're burning!" Marcus bellowed, and a nearby scullery boy snapped to attention, nearly upending a crate of turnips.

Clara sidestepped a flour-dusted apprentice, making her way to the main butcher block. "I don't think the turnips mind being a little scorched," she called out.

"Princess!" Marcus thundered, the word carrying over the whole room. Heads turned, then quickly turned back, all except Marcus's, which leaned in like a mountain peering over a valley. "Are you here to inspect the troops, or just to watch a grown man cry over burnt pudding?" His grin was continent-wide.

"I was hoping for pie, but sabotage works too." Clara set her elbows on the end of the worktable, feigning nonchalance.

Marcus snorted, then beckoned her closer with a flour-caked finger. "You want pie, you peel the apples. That's the rule." He gestured at a basin overflowing with blushing fruit.

"What if I want steak?" Clara eyed the pile.

"Then you shuck the peas." Marcus's eyes gleamed, amused.

Clara plucked an apple from the top and spun it in her palm. The noise and bustle, the heat, the endless motion—after the marble stillness of the rest of the castle, it felt like stepping into a living heart.

Marcus returned to carving up a joint of pork, blade moving with such speed that it blurred. "What brings you down here, little queen?" He did not look up.

Clara considered lying, but the kitchen had always coaxed the truth from her. "It's quieter than upstairs," she said. "And I'm hiding from everyone else."

"Kitchen's not quiet, girl," Marcus said. "You just notice different things." He pointed at the apples, then at her hands. "Start peeling. And if you drop one, you eat it."

Clara made a show of rolling her eyes, but she reached for the paring knife and got to work. The rhythm of it was soothing, the scrape of blade against skin, the clunk of discarded peels.

For a few minutes, they worked in companionable silence. Marcus dispatched the pork with a reverence usually reserved for holy relics, and Clara, determined not to embarrass herself, managed to peel five apples before drawing blood.

She winced, then sucked at the finger.

Marcus, eyes still on his work, said, "If you cut yourself, hold it up and curse at it. That's the only cure." He told her.

Clara snorted, but she tried it: "You miserable little—" She stopped herself before the word got her banned from the kitchen for a week. The cut stung, but the pain was a relief. Something real, something she could control.

Marcus finished with the pork and turned, wiping his hands on a cloth. "You know, when I was a boy, I got thrown out of the palace kitchens three times before I learned not to chop like an idiot." He admitted to her with a grin.

Clara looked up, surprised. "You grew up here?" She asked in surprise; she'd known him for many years, since she was a kid, but she had only recently started paying attention to the kitchen in the last few years.

"Here and not here," Marcus said. "Long story. But the point is, you keep at it." He inspected her pile, nodding in approval. "Those are almost round." He grinned. "Next time, try not to peel your finger too."

Clara gave a little bow. "Master Blackwood, I am but a humble student at your feet." She said in a playful tone.

Marcus's laugh boomed. "If you were humble, you'd be on potato duty. Want to try?" He questioned as he gestured with a hand.

Clara nodded, and he pointed her to a mountain of potatoes by the second hearth. "Every spud is a new beginning. The first will break you, the rest will only bruise your pride." He told her with a grin.

Clara took a seat on the nearest stool, plunged her hands into the pile, and started peeling.

Marcus hovered, arms folded. "Most of the fancy people upstairs think food appears by magic. But even the best meals come from work and repetition." His gaze softened for a moment. "A lot of life's like that."

Clara scraped at a stubborn lump. "You ever wish you could magic away all the work?" She asked as her hands worked.

"Maybe. But then you'd never taste what's real. The hard part is where the flavor is." Marcus paused, then added, "Same as people. If you could magic away your pain, you'd never find the good bits in between." He explained.

Clara kept peeling, focusing on the motion. "It's been a strange week," she admitted. "The whole castle is… weird. Everyone's looking at me. Or avoiding me. Even Celia's off somewhere, and she never misses a chance to tease me." She vented with a sigh and took off a bigger chunk of potato than she intended.

Marcus didn't answer right away. He moved around the kitchen, doling out instructions, tossing a handful of salt here, catching a pot just before it boiled over. "You know, when I get worried, I cook," he said, returning to her side. "Can't think about the bad stuff when I'm making something good."

"Does it work?" Clara asked.

Marcus considered. "Not always. But it gives my hands something to do, so my mind doesn't make trouble." He pointed at her rapidly growing pile of peels. "You think too much, girl. Sometimes you need to let your hands do the thinking." He pointed out.

Clara peeled in silence for a while. She could feel the other kitchen staff watching her, not in a mocking way, but with the curious respect they reserved for anyone who braved Marcus's realm. The air was warm and thick with the scent of roasting garlic, the chatter of the staff rising and falling in waves.

Clara remembered, suddenly, how as a child she used to sneak into the kitchens after lessons. Marcus would hand her a cookie or a candied plum and tell her stories about dragons that lived in the oven, waiting for naughty children. She would devour the treats and the stories, and for a few minutes, the world would be as simple as a full stomach.

She looked up at him now, the scar on his cheek catching the firelight. "Why did you stay, after all these years?" she asked. "Why cook for people who don't even notice?" She asked with a raised eyebrow.

Marcus's expression shifted, the usual mirth replaced by something steadier. "I don't cook for the lords and ladies. I cook for the guards who march all night and the maids who work two shifts, for the kids who never see their fathers because they're off fighting some war." He gestured at the kitchen. "I feed the ones who build the castle, not the ones who sit on top of it." He answered her truthfully.

Clara mulled that over. The last few days had been a parade of nobles and sycophants, every one of them looking at her as if she were a prize animal or a dangerous artifact. But here, no one expected her to be anything but what she was: a tired, apple-stained girl with a bandaged finger and too many worries.

"You should worry less about yourself," Marcus said, not unkindly. "Start worrying about the ones around you. Makes the rest easier." He suggested with a gentle tone.

Clara set down the peeler, rubbing the ache from her hands. "I don't know how to do that. Everyone expects me to… fix things. But all I ever do is break them more." She sighed softly.

Marcus laughed, softer this time. "That's every cook's story. Ruin enough pots, you learn to make them better next time." He leaned in, his face close to hers, and added, "Perfection is for statues. People need messes to feel at home." He said in a warm tone.

Marcus straightened, then clapped his hands, and the kitchen snapped back to life. "Now, out of my domain, Your Highness. You'll spoil your supper if you keep eating the trimmings." He pointed to the door, a warm smile coming across his lips.

Clara glanced down. At some point, she had eaten the better part of a peeled apple. She grinned, a genuine, unfiltered grin, and hopped off the stool.

"Thank you, Marcus," she said, and meant it.

Marcus waved her off, already barking orders at a hapless apprentice. "You did good, Clara. Don't be a stranger." He stated as he glanced towards her one last time, before returning back to work, and commanding his domain.

Clara left the kitchen, the warmth and noise echoing in her ears. As she made her way back to the royal wing, the gold inlays of the corridor didn't seem quite so cold, and the memory of failure no longer stung as sharply.

Later, as she entered the dining hall for supper, she caught a glimpse of Celia, seated at the far end of the table, deep in conversation with Queen Zia. For a moment, Clara hesitated, then squared her shoulders and walked in—ready to face whatever came next, even if it was just another mountain of potatoes.