Her Rightful Place

31: The Kitchen

"Is there any strong drink to be had here?" Xavier asks the Chief Royal Chef wearily as he pokes his head into the Royal Kitchen, perpetually a place of smoke, fire, and foul language. Xavier finds it a wonder that his mother does not spend more time here, but she usually stays in the Royal Torture Wing and leaves the Royal Kitchen to those more skilled in the culinary arts.

"O' course, ye blithering idiot. D'ye think me crazy, to not keep strong drink in a hoose where yer mother lives?" the Chief Royal Chef demands rhetorically, followed by a solid round of curses. "Bloody hell, methinks every man in the palace would've 'ung 'imself by now if there was no strong drink. C'mere, m'lad, an' taste fer yerself the fruit o' the old country." Xavier ventures further into the smokey kitchen warily, half afraid that he will be shoved into an oven or trip over something; indeed, a good deal of refuse and some knives litter the floor. A heavy bottle is soon thrust into his face by the Chief Royal Chef, a stout, ruddy-faced man with a powerful build and a heavily soiled apron.

"Thank you kindly, sir." Xavier moves to leave the kitchen only to be met with another round of curses.

"God's wounds, Yer Highness, but ye don't mean to be leavin' this 'ere kitchen with me best licker, do ye? I can't permit that. Pour yerself a drink, laddie, and then be off with ye. I'm sure yer mother ain't been wastin' no time in jailin' 'er servants fer no reason, an' ye best be rescuin' 'em again once ye've 'ad a good drink." Xavier obligingly pours himself a glass of the potent whiskey in the tumbler provided by the rough-tongued cook.

"I mean to take some to her, if you don't mind, in the hopes that perhaps it will make a change for the better in her."

The Chief Royal Chef roars with laughter and pounds his fists on the counter, a terrifying sight indeed. "Ye think that it'll knock some sense into 'er, now do ye? Me lad, ye'er the craziest feller I ever met, to think that she can be sensible. Licker ain't meant for puttin' sense into folks. More often 'n not, it knocks sense out of 'em. Givin' her licker ain't in no one's best interests. Ye'd best take yer drink an' hope that yer own sense returns to ye. Better chance o' that 'n the sense comin' back to that she-devil with a glass o' whiskey. God's wounds, what's she done worse 'n usual 'at's got ye thinkin' to give 'er strong spirits?" Xavier sighs and takes a swig of the whiskey before settling himself on a wine barrel in a corner, hopefully out of range of any chef-lobbed projectiles.

"You know that she is reinstating the Midsummer's Eve Ball, I am certain. I know we sent a request for a menu down here in the past few days," Xavier begins.

"O' course I know. She's been breathin' fire down me neck about it e'er since."

"Of course. The whole palace is in an uproar because of her outrageous demands and fits of temper, and I am at my wits' end trying to calm her down and undo all the trouble she causes. I constantly follow in her wake, cleaning up messes, and I cannot get any progress going on anything. I thought that maybe, just maybe, I could get her to drink herself into a stupor and make some headway while she was passed out."

"She'd 'ave some mighty powerful ale-head when the stupor come off, an' I ain't no man t' deal with that. Did ye think that far, laddie? D'ye really think ye'd solve anythin' by givin' 'er t' drink?"

"I had not thought so far, naturally. I only want a few hours of peace." He takes another drink mournfully, wishing for the millionth time that something had happened with Mireille's enchanted cottage to make his mother disappear.

"Well, laddie, keep yer chin up an' go back t' the good fight. The Lord rewards them that are persistent in doin' right, an' a more right-minded lad I ain't ne'er seen, e'en if ye do 'ave some crazy ideas from time t' time. Get back in it, lad. We all 'ave our crosses t' bear, an' ye'er the only 'ope the rest of us 'ave." Xavier gulps down the rest of his drink at the reminder of the awesome responsibility that rests on his shoulders.