CH239 · Rewrite
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Chapter 239: Midnight Snack

After dinner, Anna carried a cloth bundle of Bird Beak Mushrooms into the kitchen.

Maggie had collected them at her request—spotlessly white, growing high on the trunks of old trees in the Concealing Forest, absorbing the tree’s own nutrients and impossible to reach without wings or considerable patience. They were the favorite food of several bird species, and their rarity came not from scarcity but from position. Most people would not climb for them.

Her mother always had.

For Anna’s birthday, every year, her mother would climb and pick what she could reach—sometimes more, sometimes less, but always enough for two mushroom dishes. Set against the usual diet of moldy bread and bland porridge, the unique flavor of those mushrooms had never been forgettable. And even now, when food at the castle was varied and plentiful and she had not gone hungry in a long time, she wanted to make this particular thing—this food that could only be found here, in the far west of the kingdom, at the edge of everything—and share it with Roland Wimbledon, who had been staying up too late working for too many nights in a row.

The kitchen fire was out. It didn’t matter. She took firewood from the pile and arranged it, called the black fire from wherever it lived in her chest, and a vigorous flame answered her almost immediately.

“Hey—what are you making?”

Nightingale stepped through the wall, looking the way she always looked when she had come looking for food but would not quite say so.

“Something for His Highness,” Anna said. “These days he’s always up past midnight. What about you?”

“Ahaha.” Nightingale touched the back of her head. “I just came to look for a snack. I’m a little hungry.” She studied the bundle on the counter with transparent interest. “What are you planning to cook?”

“Honey roasted mushrooms and mushroom soup.” Anna opened the cloth, revealing the pale caps within. “They’re a Border Town specialty. Would you like some?”

Nightingale nodded, then quickly: “Can you teach me to make them? I’d like to learn.”

“Of course.” Anna laughed. “It’s easy.”

She sliced the mushrooms and divided them between them. “First—butter on both sides, a thin even layer. Then roast on the fire until golden all the way around. Don’t rush it, but don’t leave them too long either, or they’ll burn.”

“Understood.” Nightingale took a mushroom cap and began spreading butter across it with the deliberate care of someone attempting a new skill for the first time. “Has His Highness really been working past midnight every night?”

“Every night. Refugee housing, new machine blueprints—when I’ve passed his office late, I can always see the candlelight under the door.” Anna glanced at her own mushroom, turning it over the flame. “You were gone more than half a month. Did you miss him?”

Nightingale’s hand trembled. The mushroom dropped into the butter. “Uh—actually it wasn’t so—”

“You were not alone in that,” Anna said. “Lightning, Lily, Echo, Wendy—they all wanted to come back earlier. They said there was nowhere to bathe properly.” She noticed the expression changing on Nightingale’s face—something shifting beneath the surface. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Nightingale picked up another mushroom, smiled at the butter dish, and said with a tone of careful naturalness: “Actually—yes. I was also looking forward to coming back.”

“I thought so.” Anna pressed her mushroom into the flame with her bare hand, feeling the heat the way anyone else would feel a spring breeze—present, neutral, informative. “If I had to leave His Highness for half a month—probably even just a few days would be enough before I couldn’t wait any longer.”

The first time she had met Roland Wimbledon was in a dungeon, and she had never found the right word for what the moment had been. Even now, years later, when she recalled it her chest filled with warmth and something that was not quite gratitude but was adjacent to it. If not for His Highness—even if she had somehow survived—it would have been a life of ignorance and waiting, like so many people she had known. He had shown her that the world was beautiful. The soy-sauce steak. The Theoretical Foundations of Natural Science. Strange ideas arriving in rapid succession, filling the hours, revealing that she was not the same as anyone else and never had been.

She was confident that her sisters felt something similar. You could not spend enough time with him and remain untouched by whatever it was he carried—that peculiar combination of cleverness and sincerity and an absolute refusal to regard witches as anything less than people. Given long enough, it was impossible not to become caught up in it.

“Did I roast it too long?” Nightingale held up the fork. One side of the mushroom had gone brown.

“A little.” Anna suppressed the laugh. “Bird Beak Mushrooms are very tender—they don’t need much time. Try again; you’ll get the feel of it. I’ll start on the soup.”

Nightingale examined the slightly burned mushroom, sprinkled it with honey and salt, and ate it.

“Well,” she said. “Still delicious.” She watched Anna begin measuring herbs, moving through the motions with the economy of someone who has done this since childhood. “Did you cook often, before?”

“Marinating food, grinding flour, going to the nobles to ask for seasonal work, helping wash and shear neighbors’ sheep.” Anna’s hands continued moving. “The usual sort of things. The exception was going to Teacher Karl’s college.” She paused. “But after my mother died, my father stopped allowing me to leave the house.”

“I’m sorry—”

“It’s in the past.” Anna looked up, and her eyes were clear, blue as shallow water in sunlight. “Compared with most of the other witches, I was already very lucky. Wasn’t I?”

Over the flame, the thin butter-coated mushroom slices began to curl at the edges, making a soft crackling sound. She sprinkled salt and let them go golden on both sides. The smell that came from the pan was extraordinary—warm butter, the particular earthiness of the mushroom, something sweeter beneath both. With the honey coating at the end, the mushrooms were done. Difficult to find, easy to ruin, worth the effort.

When the soup pot began releasing white steam, their roasting was complete.

“A success—or at least it looks good.” Nightingale ate another piece, and then made a small face. “That one was a bit salty.”

“The timing is right.” Anna glanced at the window. “We should bring it to him now.”

“Would you deliver mine for me?” Nightingale pressed her palms together. “Please.”

“You won’t come?”

“I can’t.” A laugh, brief and genuine, that didn’t quite cover something else. “Because I don’t know what expression I should wear when I see him right now.”

Anna was still forming her response when Nightingale stepped through the wall and was gone.

What kind of expression? She thought about this, setting the mushroom plates onto the tray beside the soup jar. A smile, bewilderment, a blank face—all of them were fine. When she had first walked out of the dungeon, barely able to keep her thoughts in one place, every expression she had worn had been some degree of wrong, and His Highness had not found any of them unwelcome. Why should she want to avoid him?

She shook her head. Picked up the tray. Walked toward the light under the office door.

Some things were simply incomprehensible, and you could not think your way through them in a kitchen at midnight.

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