Page 16 of The Filigree Key

Mrs. Bilberry snatched up a nearby wooden tray, loaded it up, and hustled over. When she began setting me a place at the table, I dissuaded her and ate straight from the tray. My stomach wanted that half a game hen but my heart told me to save it for Sawyer.

The badger noticed me setting it aside and urged, “Eat whatever you want, milady. Better in your stomach than in that dreadful beast’s up in the great hall. He’s not fit for the scraps off Cernunnos’s table, if you ask me, but orders are orders.”

I nearly spat the piece of vanilla cake out into my hand. “What?”

“The Bear Prince? Cernunnos says the scraps of the day go to him at night. Sometimes he has to add in a steak to keep him alive, but it’s more than he deserves for kidnapping you like that.”

A second ago, the vanilla cake had tasted like a decadent cloud, but now it stuck in my mouth like mud. I forced the bite down and pushed the tray away.

“Milady,” the badger protested.

I shoved away from my slouch against the table and straightened my shoulders. My chin lifted and my hands clasped in front of my stomach in what I hoped was a regal gesture, and the companionable atmosphere between us vanished. Mrs. Bilberry immediately stumbled back a step and lowered her gaze.

“I want him alive and strong when he is defeated, Mrs. Bilberry. There is no victory if he is already weak. You will feed him according to his needs from now on and keep a water bowl down at all times. Am I quite clear?”

The badger cook nodded quickly. “A-and what should I tell Cernunnos if he asks, milady?”

“You tell him you are obeying his future’s queen’s command.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Bilberry. Now, shall we discuss the wedding feast?”

The badger practically dove across the kitchen to a little writing desk tucked away in the corner by the stairwell. She returned with a sheaf of parchment, an inkwell, and a quill. Her dark eyes darted from me to the table, silently inquiring if she could sit while she wrote.

“Join me,” I said, pulling out a chair for each of us. Once seated, I cut the badger cook off before she could barrage me with the usual questions. “I expect this to be a small affair, just Ossian and me, my friends, and the Brotherhood, but I would like you to prepare extra for the castle staff.”

Mrs. Bilberry clamped her jaw to keep from smiling. It meant more work for her, but it also meant she and the hobs and all the others wouldn’t be eating gruel for supper.

Her quill scratched along the parchment. “All your favorites, I assume? And what for the cake?”

“The cake will be anise and spice with lavender frosting and all the trimmings.” I wanted strong flavors to mask any tamperings. The Brotherhood couldn’t fight an uprising if their own bodies were rebelling out of both ends. “And there will be a seeded loaf according to my family’s traditions that the bride must make.”

That was stretching the truth a little bit—we traditionally had a seeded loaf for the bride and groom to break together at the start of the wedding feast, but who made it and brought it were irrelevant. Ever since the Seeded Sourdough Fiasco at Jay and Alyssum’s wedding, no one other than Aunt Peony made the traditional loaf.

My poor aunt had tried to pass on her baking prowess to her three children, but bodybuilder Boar had been too obsessed with macros, fashionista Lilac hated anything that might ruin her manicure, and wild Rose . . .. My adventurous, outdoorsy cousin was the reason for the whole fiasco.

She’d cultivated so much wild yeast in her starter that it had come alive. It’d become irate upon discovering its offspring (levain) had been force-fed (stuffed with seeds) and killed (baked) only to be desecrated (eaten) later. Turning predatory, the sourdough starter had hunted down (oozed with malicious intent) and tried to eat (smother) the flower girl, my niece Clover. It had even absorbed a few blasts of green magic with no ill effect until some wind magic from my father hoisted it into the air and my Uncle Stag blasted it apart like a clay pigeon with a lightning strike.

Now all I had to do was replicate it.

“Sounds lovely, milady,” the badger was saying. “I have a few seed types on hand, but if you don’t find what you need, I’m sure we can ask the hobs. They hoard better than squirrels.”

Hobs, not woodchucks. She was remembering more than just dishwashers.

The remark brought to mind Grandpappy’s secret whiskey cellar with all its bottles of brown liquor, hob grog, and jars of eggs pickled with beets. Oh my Green Mother, how are Rhett and the hens doing?

“Milady? I was asking if you needed any help?”

I shook myself, releasing my fingers which had clenched into fists. It was a small thing to worry about those hens and the rooster when there was so much more at stake, but I couldn’t help it. What other lives were forgotten or imperiled because of the Stag Man’s magic?

First things first, Meadow, and second things second.

“No, thank you,” I answered. “It’s a simple recipe. But it has a sourdough base, so I must start preparing it now. And I’ll need to feed it several times a day in order for it to be ready by the wedding. May I have your permission to—”

“This is your kitchen, milady. I only work it,” the badger said.

“I disagree.”