Carnival Souls

Roaring

Mitsi had been in the kitchen, as always, when Bebinn led Lira from the funhouse. He had been trying, in vain, to scrub the sleep syrup from his sauce pans, but in the heat the substance had caramelized into a thick goo that had since hardened and was now impossible to get off. His fingers were red and raw from being submerged in scalding water, and now they ached from trying to scrap it from the pan with a knife. He had managed to get a handful of shavings off the top but there was still at least an inch left congealed on the bottom. Nothing was working.

He paused in his effort to watch the witch and the violinist pass. Though a bit far for him to be completely sure, it seemed that Lira was trying to keep her face a controlled mask. The set of her jaw was like to break her teeth, and her stiff gait and the awkward way she held her instrument—at odds with how it became a graceful extension of her arm when she played—betrayed her extreme unease. Her curly blonde hair, the lavender highlights hidden in the glare of the lamps, fell free about her shoulders and face, and she touched it unconsciously over and over under the pretext of brushing it from her eyes.

Bebinn on the other hand, her gown concealing her feet, glided over the ground like a specter; the haughty set of her shoulders and chin spoke of someone comfortable and in command of her surroundings.

He recalled last night when she had stopped by to comment on how pleased she was with his work. He had found it odd, considering she had never paid him much mind at all—she usually sent any instructions or dinner requests via Atlas—but he hadn't spent much time mulling over it. Now he wondered if she wasn't as comfortable in her control of things as she seemed, leading Lira towards the carousel.

He left the ruined pans next to the sink, figuring Bebinn would provide him with new ones. Instead, he began to assemble ingredients for dinner. Bebinn had told him that Owen, Lydia, and Jacks were to remain in their rooms during the fighting for their own safety, but she wanted dinner ready for all of them when it was over. A kind of "victory" feast she had called it. She would even join them herself.

As Mitsi began to dice vegetables, Atlas walked into the kitchen.

"I don't think I've ever seen you not cooking," said Atlas by way of greeting. "Do you ever sleep?"

Mitsi shrugged and kept cutting. The knife made a dull thunk, thunk, thunk, against the cutting block with a pause in the rhythm every so often for Mitsi to sweep peppers, onions, and mushrooms into a pan of minced garlic and olive oil.

"I don't suppose you have anything I can eat at the moment?" the little girl asked. "I've been running my feet off the last Ebb and Flow."

"There's bread baking in the oven. It should be done soon," said Mitsi quietly, not looking up.

Atlas made a noise of agreement and went to perch on the stool that sat opposite the window that looked in on the kitchen proper. "It'll be nice when all this is over and things are back to normal, don't you think? You must be looking forward to it with all the cooking you had to do for the spirits," she said. She swung her feet back and forth, her heels banging softly against the wooden rungs of the stool, and looked around the room as though she couldn't decide what should hold her interest.

"Nice," agreed Mitsi. Although he didn't think "normal" was quite the word he would've used to describe things in Bebinn's carnival. He dashed salt, pepper, and a pinch of cayenne into the pan of vegetables and set it over the fire. The oil hissed as it began to heat.

"Will Lira be safe out there?" he asked. He was staring at the vegetables, moving them evenly around the pan with a wooden spoon. The handle was carved in the likeness of a tiger head; Owen had given it to him a few weeks ago as a thank you for all the cooking he did. Mitsi remembered being amazed at all the details, down to the glaring black eyes that had been set with chips of onyx and the tiny pointed fangs in its roaring mouth, which was open just wide enough for his thumb to nestle comfortably inside. He had asked Owen how he had managed it and the carver had replied, "The same way you manage to get all the right flavors in your cooking."