"Under the sink. They rolled during the attack."
He drops to the floor, sweeps six shallots from behind the pipe housing, and has them peeled and minced before I finishmy turnip pile. His fingers dwarf the tiny bulbs. He uses the flat of his cleaver to crush them, then rocks the blade through the pulp with a speed that sends a rhythmic percussion through the kitchen.
Chop chop chop chop chop.
My knife answers.
Tap tap tap tap tap.
The kitchen fills with the music of two people cooking at the outer limit of their ability. No wasted motion. No repeated steps. I reach for the vinegar and it's already in Boris's outstretched hand. He turns toward the stove and I slide a loaded cutting board directly into his waiting palm.
We don't speak. We don't need to.
The first pan hits smoking point. Boris drops the parsnip chunks in and the oil screams. He tosses them with a flick of his wrist, his arm absorbing the twelve-inch skillet without tremor, and the parsnips flip in a golden arc before settling back onto the searing surface.
I build the garnish. Pickled turnip ribbons, shaved thin enough to read through. Microgreens from the one container the sprites missed, tucked behind the sanitizer bottles on the top shelf. A dusting of black sesame that I toast in a dry pan until the kitchen smells like something ancient and warm.
Boris pulls the charred parsnips and slides them onto my plating station. I arrange them in a tight spiral, alternating the caramelized faces upward so the color gradient moves from pale gold at the center to deep amber at the edge.
"Glaze is next," I say. "The final layer. Everything hinges on the glaze."
Boris nods. He reaches for the upper cabinet where we stored the jar. The heavy glass container with the brass lid. The one holding the Korathian fire salt we spent three days calibrating into the perfect ratio for the fusion dish's signature finish.
His hand closes on the shelf.
Empty.
He pats the surface. Sweeps his palm left, right. Pulls the entire shelf out of the cabinet and holds it up to the light.
A fine dusting of ash coats the wood. Tiny claw marks score the surface in frantic, overlapping circles. The brass lid sits in the corner of the cabinet, chewed open. The glass jar beside it is intact but hollow, its interior coated in a thin black residue that smells of woodsmoke and something volcanic.
Boris holds the empty jar up between us. The light passes straight through it.
"They ate it. Every grain."
The dish sit behind me. Beautiful. Complex. Ninety minutes of flawless execution. And completely incomplete without the one ingredient that neither of us can source within a hundred miles of this town.
CHAPTER 16
BORIS
The empty jar catches the overhead light and throws a pale circle onto the ceiling. My hand tightens around the glass until the ridges bite into my palm.
Gone. Every last grain.
Solene's face goes white. She grips the counter and stares at the hollowed jar, her lips pressed into a line so thin they disappear.
"Boris."
"I know."
"That was the last of the stock from your supplier. He's three days out by courier and the festival judging is in—" She checks the clock on the wall. "Ninety-seven minutes."
The charred parsnips gleam behind her. The miso glaze sits in its ramekin, dense and lustrous, waiting for the final component that will transform it from excellent to transcendent. Without the fire spice, the dish collapses. Good but ordinary. A pleasant meal in a competition that demands revelation.
I shove the jar down. Glass meets metal counter with a sharp click.
The cliffs.