Even with Marron waiting in the royal kitchens, the call came sooner than expected. She had been mentally running through the menu, hoping everything would go smoothly.
It was still hard to fathom that after about two days of going through the menu and prep work, they were now wearing white chef jackets. It was like the ones she saw on Earth--the thick white jackets with shiny silver buttons.
The Queen even made sure they had nameplates.
She has really amazing attention to detail--I wouldn't have thought of this. Mom wore a black and red chef's jacket. I guess it's because she's more than just a normal chef. Which is less pressure on me, I think.
As far as Marron was concerned, she was still a normal food stall cook trying to figure out where she belonged in Savoria.
"Chef Marron," the Queen's attendant announced from the doorway, "Her Majesty requests your presence in the dining hall for the presentation of the first course."
Her heart gave one hard thump.
Already? All right, it's now or never.
"Alright, team," she said, turning to her sous chefs, "this is it. Remember what we talked about—talk to each other, talk to me. If something starts to go wrong, I need to know immediately. This is my first big service, so I'm counting on you."
Four heads nodded, some with sharp determination, some with nervous resolve. The wolfkin sous chef gave her a quick grin. "We've got your back, Chef."
She straightened her jacket, smoothed the front, and followed the attendant into the grand dining hall.
+
It was even more imposing than she remembered—the long, gleaming table stretching nearly the length of the room, polished to a mirror shine, laden with crystal goblets and candlelit centerpieces.
At the far end sat the Queen and Lord Jackal. Though neither addressed the other, the air between them was taut as a drawn bowstring.
The rest of the guests—beastkin, snakekin, and human dignitaries—sat in carefully alternating patterns down the table. Their polite conversation barely masked the wary glances being traded between the two halves of the room.
Marron could feel it pressing in on her as she stepped forward.
"Your Majesties," she said with a respectful bow, "the first course: citrus-glazed flatbread with smoked fish pâté, prepared with herbs from both Snakewater Cove and Whisperwind."
The Queen inclined her head, eyes cool but not unkind. The Lord Jackal simply gestured for her to proceed.
She returned to the kitchen, and within moments, her sous chefs moved like clockwork, plating and garnishing the flatbread slices, passing them to the servers.
The first plates went out. Forks were lifted.
For a heartbeat, the dining hall held its breath again.
Then—small nods from both ends of the table. A quiet "Mm" from one of the snakekin delegates. A satisfied sigh from a wolfkin elder.
By the time the second course—a warm sausage and apple roll with tangy mustard glaze—was served, voices had risen a notch. Not in argument, but in conversation. The stiffness began to bleed away.
And of course, that's when the bottlenecks started.
"Chef!" Marina hissed, pointing at the tray of rolls. "We're missing the mustard glaze on three plates—servers are already waiting!"
Marron's pulse kicked up. "Glaze them now! Keep them warm until they go out!"
Before she could breathe again, another sous chef muttered a curse. A pan of citrus flatbreads meant for the next seating had gone too long under the heat lamp—the edges curled and browned.
A maid stepped in, returning two plates. "The guests at the far end said the bread was overdone, Chef."
Marron's stomach dropped. This was it—the spiral. This was where the whole thing fell apart.
She gripped the counter so hard her knuckles went white. I'm not a professional chef. I shouldn't be here. I'm going to ruin this for everyone—
"Marron." Mokko's deep voice cut through the noise like a cleaver through bone. He'd left table she'd reserved for him and Lucy.
She looked up, panic in her eyes.
"You've dealt with cooking duskmeat, and convinced both the wolf and snakekin to give you a chance. Plus, you've dealt with late ingredients. This?" He gestured around the kitchen. "This is just a busier version of the market. Same food. Same hands. Bounce back. You can do this."
Her breath hitched, but the panic eased. Same food. Same hands.
"Right," she said, more to herself than him. "Thanks," she whispered giving him a plate of freshly baked bread and butter. Marron then took a deep breath and recentered herself.
"Alright! Reglaze those rolls, cut new flatbreads, and swap out the burnt ones. Move!"
As she began to speak with more confidence, he smiled and returned to his seat. Lucy had been pacing back and forth nervously, cleaning the silverware.
"Marron ok?"
Mokko gave Lucy a bit of bread. "She's gonna be okay. Plus, they gave us more bread."
Lucy slowly blooped her way down onto her chair. Several books had been placed so she could see across the table.
"Bread!" She happily waited as Mokko buttered a slice and handed it to her.
+
The brigade surged forward again, shoulders brushing, voices sharper but no longer frantic. By the time the next course went out, the rhythm had returned—tight, but steady.
By the third course, a delicate lemon poppyseed cake paired with the Queen's blueberry wine, there were even faint smiles traveling the table. Marron caught the Queen speaking—actually speaking—to the Lord Jackal. His reply was short, but not clipped.
When the plates were cleared, and the candles burned lower, Marron glanced toward the head of the table once more.
The Queen's gaze lifted, just as the Lord Jackal's did. For a heartbeat, they simply looked at each other—no words, no gestures, but a thousand unspoken things in the space between them.
It was a look sharp enough to cut, heavy enough to anchor a ship.
And Marron knew the next moment could go either way.
We may falter, but we are going to finish this service!