Sweep in Peace (Innkeeper Chronicles 2)

The three men, Caldenia, and I walked into the dining room and we sat around the heavy old table. Tendrils slid from the wall and a plate gently slid in place in front of me. I blinked. An egg, cooked paper thin, like a crepe and folded into an elaborate purse filled with small chips of potatoes fried to golden perfection, crumbled sausage, and tiny pieces of mushrooms. A thin green stalk sprouted from the center of the mix, bearing delicate pink flowers, carved from a strawberry. A small basket woven of narrow strips of bacon sat next to the egg purse, holding a sunny side up egg sprinkled with spices and next to it a flower of cucumber petals bloomed with a center of egg yolk that had been piped onto it with a surgical precision. It was so pretty, I didn’t know to eat it or too frame it. The aroma alone made my mouth water.

“Eggs three ways!” Orro announced and retreated into the kitchen.

Eggs three ways were unbelievably delicious. Watching Caldenia sample them was an experience in itself. Her Grace daintily tried the filling of the egg purse, swiped the tines of her fork across the piped egg yolk, picked up the tiny bacon basket and delicately slurped the entire thing into her mouth. Sharp carnivore teeth flashed, bacon crunched, and she dabbed her lips with a napkin.

My seat let me glimpse a narrow slice of the kitchen from the doorway. Inside it Orro paused at the island, a kitchen towel in his hand.

Her Grace put down her napkin. “Exquisite.”

All of Orro’s needles stood on end. For a second he looked like one of those neon-colored spikey balls you can buy in the toy section. A moment later his needles lowered back into place and he continued to wipe down the island.

Lunch was served at twelve and featured something called “Simple Creme Fraiche Chicken and vegetables,” which turned out to be roasted chicken with crispy skin and meat so tender, it fell apart under the pressure of my fork, served with fresh spinach, citrus, almonds and some sort of unbelievably delicious dressing. I couldn’t possibly keep Orro. He was too expensive, but I’d be a fool not to enjoy it while it lasted.

By six thirty everything was ready and I waited on the back porch, wearing my robe. The designated point of entry was in the field behind my orchard, out of the way of the front road, and the brush and trees would block most of the flashy side effects of the guests’ arrival. I had gently encouraged six apples trees to move a few yards to the side, so we had a clear path through the orchard and from where I stood, I could see the field, its grass freshly mowed. The sky was overcast, promising an early, moody evening. A cold breeze came, swirling through the trees.

Almost forty guests, most of them high-ranking. One misstep and my reputation and the inn’s ranking wouldn’t recover. My mind kept cycling through the preparations: quarters, ballroom, instructions to Orro. At the last moment I had reactivated the stables. The inn had already formed the stables once, many decades ago, so all I had to do was move it out of the inn’s underground storage. Unearthing them strained the inn and me both, but it was better to have the stables and not need them than letting someone’s prized racing dinosaur soak in the cold rain while you made them available.

I’d thought of everything. I went down my check list and crossed off every item. Still I felt keyed up. If I was an engine, I would be idling too high. I could handle forty guests. I had handled more than that at my parents’ inn, but only for short time and none of them were actively at war with each other.

It would be fine. This was my inn and no amount of guests could change that.

I reached out and touched the post supporting the roof over the back porch. The magic of the inn connected with mine, restless. The inn was nervous, too.

The posts and the roof were a new addition the inn had grown on its own. I hadn’t realized this, but I had developed a habit of walking out onto the back patio, which used to be a concrete slab, and watching the trees. Sometimes I would bring a folding chair out and read. The Texas sun knew no mercy and after I burned for the second time by staying out a minute or two too long, the inn took the matters into its own hands and sprouted stone and wood porch posts and a roof. It also replaced the concrete slab with some flagstone and I wasn’t sure where the inn had gotten it.

“It will be fine,” I murmured to the house, stroking the wood with the tips of my fingers. The inn’s magic leaned against me, reassured.

“It will,” George said. He stood next to me wearing the same outfit as this morning, but now he also held a cane with an ornate top, a dark wood inlaid with twisted swirls of silver. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a knife in it. He also developed a mysterious limp. It appeared the Arbiter liked to be underestimated.

Behind us Gaston and Orro carried on a quiet conversation. The window was open and the sound of their voices carried to us.

“So if it was your first meal, why eggs?” Gaston asked. “Why not caviar or truffles or something complicated?”

“Consider Coq au Vin,” Orro answered. “Even the simplest recipe requires is a long process. One has to have a mature bird and marinade it in burgundy for two days. Once marinated, thick slices of bacon must be sauteed in a pan. Then the chicken must be browned, smothered in Cognac, which is then to be set on fire.”

This was definitely an Earth recipe, specifically French. Where in the world did he learn it?

“Then the chicken must be seasoned. Salt, pepper, bay leaf and thyme. Onion must be added, chicken must simmer, flour is to be sprinkled onto the whole endeavor, and then it will be simmered. More ingredients are added, bacon, garlic, chicken stock, mushrooms, until it all blends into a delicious harmonized whole.”