Chapter 11: Nine Courses

On the night before the Midwinter Feast, thirty people were crowded into Riko's kitchen, and every one of them was shouting.

Teruko had brought twenty village women with their own knives.

They sat along the long table peeling chestnuts, slicing radishes and arguing over how thin a mushroom should be.

Daigo ran between them with a scroll.

He wailed that nine courses for nine lords meant eighty-one plates, and that he had counted wrong.

"You counted fine," Riko said, "you're just scared."

"I am a steward of three hundred years' standing. I am never scared."

"Your tail is out."

Daigo looked behind him in horror.

A fat brown tail had slipped from under his robe and was fluffed to twice its size.

He stuffed it back in, and the women cackled.

The Elder's chef had arrived six days earlier.

He was a thin, polite man in a silver apron, who smiled at everything and touched nothing.

He had spent the week standing in corners and watching, and writing in a small notebook.

On this last night, he drifted toward the shelf of salt jars while Riko was busy with the soup.

She noticed it out of the corner of her eye.

She did not know why she turned.

Seven years at a grill taught you to feel when someone stood too near your station.

He had a jar in his hands.

He set it back on the shelf with a quick small motion.

Riko crossed the kitchen.

She took the jar, and pressed one fingertip into the white crystals, and touched it to her tongue.

Grit.

It was fine pale sand, sifted with a thin layer of salt on top.

The kitchen went quiet.

"This is sand," Riko said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You put sand in my salt," she said. "Eight lords. Nine courses. Tomorrow."

She lifted the jar so everyone could see.

"I'd have seasoned every dish with it."

The chef's smile slipped a fraction.

"A misunderstanding. I only moved the jar. How would I know what is in it?"

"You've been taking notes for six days."

"I am a guest in your lord's house."

"Then you won't mind if the ladies check your sleeves."

Twenty women rose from the table, holding twenty knives.

Teruko cracked her knuckles.

A small paper packet fell out of the chef's cuff and landed with a soft pat on the flagstones.

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