blur.”
“This meal will make you feel better. It is an old recipe from the French countryside. Adapted, of course, for your veganism. But I am nothing if not a gentleman. I had no idea a cassoulet could be so decadent without pig fat.”
“How did you learn how to cook?”
“From a chef.”
“Who was open to teaching a gargoyle?”
“It is complicated to explain …”
“If you hadn’t noticed, I have a complicated life.”
“I think the cassoulet needs more seasoning.” He left his spot next to me and resumed his position on the stepping stool in front of the stove.
“You’re avoiding my question.”
“Give the alchemist a prize.”
“I can better help you with the alchemy book if I understand your history.”
He sighed. “He was blind.”
“A blind chef?”
“He was not always blind.”
I waited a few moments, but he didn’t continue.
“The blind chef,” I prompted.
“Fine, yes, all right,” he said impatiently, still fussing with spices instead of looking at me. “There was a kitchen fire. This is what blinded him. He saved his staff, but was badly burned and lost his vision. He had been a successful chef who once had much power. He lived alone in a large house, where he was both lonely and angry for losing the adoration he once had. He was a friend of my father’s. My father knew of fame, and he felt sorry for his friend’s predicament. Since the man could not see, I was able to visit him with my father. In spite of the chef’s reputation for being difficult, we got along well. Father was nearing the end of his life and did not know what would become of me. He told his friend I was ‘unemployed’ and that I was wary of people seeing me because I was disfigured. The lonely former chef hired me to be his live-in assistant. He previously had people delivering prepared meals to him. Upon hiring me, he ordered uncooked food to be delivered, and taught me how to cook. I took to it quite well. Before he passed away, he wrote me a reference. I became a chef for other blind people who wanted good food and companionship at home. That is what I have been doing.”
“That’s lovely,” I said, imagining the gargoyle happily at work in the kitchens of people who had no idea of his visage. “Why didn’t you want to tell me?”
He turned to face me with a wooden spoon in his hand. “You of all people, Zoe Faust, know that speaking of the past brings up unintentional memories we do not wish to remember.”
eleven
I woke up to the scent of coffee. Coffee ? Why was there coffee in my house? I shot out of bed and promptly shivered. I’d sealed off the broken window as best I could, but painter’s tape wasn’t as robust as the fitted piece of wood. I found my thickest pair of woolen socks and crept downstairs.
“Where did you get that?” I asked, indicating the large contraption on the kitchen counter.
“I took the liberty of ordering an espresso maker. It is uncivilized that you do not have one.”
“How did it get here?”
“One of the benefits of American impatience is the rapidity of express delivery. C’est très vite. ”
“You have a credit card?”
“I am cooking for you,” he said, blinking at me, “should I not receive payment of some kind?”
I sighed and rubbed my temples. “No more taking my credit card without asking, okay?”
“I did not wish to interrupt you while you studied the pages of my book. I understand alchemists do not like to be interrupted.”
“Well, yes, that’s true—” I broke off when I saw a French-language newspaper spread out on the table. “You also ordered Le Monde ?”
“Yes, is it not agreeable that they offer this service outside of France?”
“Was it really urgent enough that you couldn’t ask? Is this how you treated the previous people you cooked for?”
Dorian sniffed and sipped his mug of espresso. “I was homesick.”
My mood softened. “Have you ever been outside France before?”
He shook his
“This meal will make you feel better. It is an old recipe from the French countryside. Adapted, of course, for your veganism. But I am nothing if not a gentleman. I had no idea a cassoulet could be so decadent without pig fat.”
“How did you learn how to cook?”
“From a chef.”
“Who was open to teaching a gargoyle?”
“It is complicated to explain …”
“If you hadn’t noticed, I have a complicated life.”
“I think the cassoulet needs more seasoning.” He left his spot next to me and resumed his position on the stepping stool in front of the stove.
“You’re avoiding my question.”
“Give the alchemist a prize.”
“I can better help you with the alchemy book if I understand your history.”
He sighed. “He was blind.”
“A blind chef?”
“He was not always blind.”
I waited a few moments, but he didn’t continue.
“The blind chef,” I prompted.
“Fine, yes, all right,” he said impatiently, still fussing with spices instead of looking at me. “There was a kitchen fire. This is what blinded him. He saved his staff, but was badly burned and lost his vision. He had been a successful chef who once had much power. He lived alone in a large house, where he was both lonely and angry for losing the adoration he once had. He was a friend of my father’s. My father knew of fame, and he felt sorry for his friend’s predicament. Since the man could not see, I was able to visit him with my father. In spite of the chef’s reputation for being difficult, we got along well. Father was nearing the end of his life and did not know what would become of me. He told his friend I was ‘unemployed’ and that I was wary of people seeing me because I was disfigured. The lonely former chef hired me to be his live-in assistant. He previously had people delivering prepared meals to him. Upon hiring me, he ordered uncooked food to be delivered, and taught me how to cook. I took to it quite well. Before he passed away, he wrote me a reference. I became a chef for other blind people who wanted good food and companionship at home. That is what I have been doing.”
“That’s lovely,” I said, imagining the gargoyle happily at work in the kitchens of people who had no idea of his visage. “Why didn’t you want to tell me?”
He turned to face me with a wooden spoon in his hand. “You of all people, Zoe Faust, know that speaking of the past brings up unintentional memories we do not wish to remember.”
eleven
I woke up to the scent of coffee. Coffee ? Why was there coffee in my house? I shot out of bed and promptly shivered. I’d sealed off the broken window as best I could, but painter’s tape wasn’t as robust as the fitted piece of wood. I found my thickest pair of woolen socks and crept downstairs.
“Where did you get that?” I asked, indicating the large contraption on the kitchen counter.
“I took the liberty of ordering an espresso maker. It is uncivilized that you do not have one.”
“How did it get here?”
“One of the benefits of American impatience is the rapidity of express delivery. C’est très vite. ”
“You have a credit card?”
“I am cooking for you,” he said, blinking at me, “should I not receive payment of some kind?”
I sighed and rubbed my temples. “No more taking my credit card without asking, okay?”
“I did not wish to interrupt you while you studied the pages of my book. I understand alchemists do not like to be interrupted.”
“Well, yes, that’s true—” I broke off when I saw a French-language newspaper spread out on the table. “You also ordered Le Monde ?”
“Yes, is it not agreeable that they offer this service outside of France?”
“Was it really urgent enough that you couldn’t ask? Is this how you treated the previous people you cooked for?”
Dorian sniffed and sipped his mug of espresso. “I was homesick.”
My mood softened. “Have you ever been outside France before?”
He shook his
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