Waiting for the Queen by Joanna Higgins Page A

perhaps seeing what you tell yourself to see?”
    â€œI do not think so, Maman.”
    â€œ Oui , I believe you are. Now. Ready yourself. The Du Valliers visit us this evening.”
    â€œOh, Maman. He is so boring. Besides, he likes only himself.”
    â€œEugenie. I beg you. At least give him an opportunity to prove himself.”
    A sad day, after its good start. But that is how it often is, I’m learning. Starting well, ending badly. Or starting badly and ending well. Like weather.

Hannah
    â€œHannah Kimbrell, I require you to make three fine cakes. These may be of the same variety but must be exceptional. I have been told that you are the best baker in this settlement, so, mademoiselle, I am obliged to compromise and bow to your superior abilities even though you refuse to return the courtesy.” Mr. Talon bows, which causes heat to rush to my face. “The fête is in honor of our Queen’s birthday. We celebrate it three weeks late for the simple reason that we were not here on November 2, but now here we are! Rachel Stalk will come for the cakes. You are not to go near the nobles and cause offense. I also require you to make your venison stew. Others will come for it.”
    As he turns away, his cloak creates a breeze.
    In our large storeroom I make an assessment. Apples. Cinnamon. Mace. Pepper. Salt. Cornstarch. Arrowroot. Smyrna raisins. Black walnuts. Chestnuts. Cornmeal. Wheat flour. Maple syrup. Mushrooms. Potatoes. Lard. Dried beans of several sorts. Onions. Carrots and turnips in sand. Smoked fish, smoked venison, and ham. Many of these supplies have come from Mr. Talon, like the wheat and spices, the cornmeal and lard and raisins, so that I can cook for the workers and the Aversilles. The maple syrup is our own, and the potatoes, beans, turnips, and carrots, these coming from the garden we planted here last spring. The dried fish and venison, too, our own. The walnuts and mushrooms aswell. We keep an account of all we use for ourselves and for the others. Each month Mr. Talon asks for these accounts so we can settle up. I do like not doing sums, but ’tis at least good practice.
    I pack a basket for a little meal and walk into the woods behind our cabin and up the hill a ways, passing the springhouse Father and John built. It sits atop the bubbling spring that gives us our fresh water. Here we keep our milk and eggs and the butter I make weekly.
    Apple cake, I decide, with black walnuts, cinnamon, and ground chestnut meal. Thick cream poured over the top. Or, whisked into frothy peaks.
    I hurry farther up the hill toward the grove of black walnut trees. There’s been wind enough to blow even the trees themselves down. John will be yodeling in protest when he learns that he is “required” to shell more black walnuts. So many more! They are the hardest nut of all to shell. John has to smash them between flat river stones. The shells we use as kindling, but they are sharp enough, surely, for use as tools of some kind.
    Right off, I see jugfuls and begin to pick. They are everywhere amid the fallen leaves. I am making such a ruckus, I only faintly hear a crackling somewhere nearby. Then I know, even before I look up. My heart knows. It fairly stops beating and then pounds on in my ears.
    A mountain lion. She has dropped down not twenty feet away. Tawny as the leaves, and with the sun and shade playing over her fur, she is almost invisible.
    To run will mean death. Kneeling, I keep very still, the basket before me.
    â€œGo,” I say quietly.
    Her long tail twitches a little and flicks from side to side a bit. Her eyes do not leave me as she steps slowly forward, each large paw crunching leaves. Her whiskers glint in the sun like long silver needles.
    â€œ Go away , Mistress Lion.”
    She takes another step forward and pauses, her tail still flicking, her head quite still. At the tip of each ear fur stands up in tiny points of light.
    Hardly moving myself, I