The Courtship of Julian St. Albans by Amy Crook Page B

polenta. The chicken had been
flavoured with a delightful melange of exotic spices, and the meat beneath was
moist and delicious. “Your chef is really quite good,” said Alex,
glad that a sharp knife had been provided with the silver for this course,
along with a full-bodied, spicy red wine that complemented the chicken
perfectly.
    “I’ll pass your compliments along,”
said Julian, but there was pride in his voice. All down the table, men were
tucking in with enthusiasm despite the first four courses already served,
proving that Julian’s pride was warranted.
    “This is quite a unique dish for a
Courtship dinner,” said Pembroke. “Your chef has a bit of an Asian
flair to some of his cooking.”
    Julian ate a bite himself before answering,
“Yes, he’s originally from Japan but he’s got an incredibly varied
repertoire. He’s been with us for years, but he still keeps up with the latest
trends.”
    “Does he visit home
often?” asked Alex curiously.
    “Once a year he goes travelling for a
month, but he’s got his staff well-trained,” said Julian. “We miss
him, of course, but he always comes back with new ideas.”
    “A forgivable absence, then,” said
Willoughby, “if it allows him to create meals like this one.”
    More compliments drifted toward both ends of
the table, and for a while the talk was entirely of food with a slightly softer
edge, or perhaps just a more hidden one. Alex was surprised to hear that
Willoughby was a traditionalist when it came to food, despite his obvious
appreciation for this meal, while Pembroke seemed like the riskiest of the
bunch.
    Alex mostly kept his mouth shut, as he normally
ate whatever he could have delivered. His upbringing hadn’t prepared him to
cook for himself, and he’d chosen not to explore that avenue much despite its
supposed similarity to the brewing of potions. For one thing, cooking wouldn’t
have magic behind it to guarantee that once-noxious ingredients blended
together in a beneficial end product.
    He rather thought it might
go the other way, in fact.
    Victor was quite the stodgy traditionalist, and
so rare meals at home were full of exquisitely prepared sameness, without the
delightful originality that the St. Albans chef was allowed to display.
    Alex enjoyed the creamy polenta, finding it
owed part of its texture to some tangy cheese, and had been lightly laced with
garlic as well, making it an excellent companion to the rich bird and its
crisp, spice-dusted skin. He even let himself drink most of the wine, figuring
that there would be tea or coffee with the sweet course, though likely also
more alcohol in the form of a dessert wine.
    Soon enough his plate was taken away, though
he’d only managed about half of what was there. The conversation still swirled
and he was forced to participate, knowing that there was a good chance that, if
the murderer was a suitor, he’d be in one of the coveted top four spots, where it
was polite to engage Julian in conversation without having to talk through a
line of people.
    Of course, it could be someone with an inflated
sense of their own importance, too, or even someone who’d arranged to be closer
to the sister. Or even the sister. Alex mostly used magic, not people skills,
so he felt a bit at a loss thinking that he was trying to winnow a killer out
of thirteen people so used to polite deception that it was nearly a reflex,
like breathing.
    The next course was a single rack of herb-encrusted
lamb chops, leaning against a pile of cooked greens, with a swirling pile of
mashed something next to them. A taste proved it to be taro root, a very Asian
delicacy indeed and a delicious one, both sweet and savoury at once. The lamb
had its own sweetness, and was so tender it nearly fell from the bones, though
a second steak knife was provided. The greens were flavoured with juices from
the roasted lamb, as well as garlic and other spices, and the bitterness had
been cooked out of them, leaving them with a tangy