The Kingmakers(82)

A teapot. His mind cast back to the memory of Adele making tea on the floor of the British Museum when she had been a prisoner of the dreaded prince of Scotland. It brought a quick smile about his lips. She had used a helmet to boil water then, but the teapot was ideal. He had seen many of his subjects use them. His mind made up, he proceeded to explore the rest of the kitchen with a curious Pet trailing along behind him.

He found drying herbs hanging from nails in a rafter, long bundles tied together with thin string. It wasn't long before he found an herb that was reminiscent of the one Adele used so long ago. The smell of mint was unmistakable. Their brittle leaves crumbled under his thick fingers, coating the tabletop in a rough dust. Grumbling under his breath, he painstakingly labored to separate a few whole leaves from the stalks and place them in the teapot. Soon the sharp scent filled the kitchen.

Finally he had enough to brew a decent pot of tea for Adele, and he had only to find water to boil. There was a spigot over a ceramic sink, and he filled the teapot nearly to the brim. He brought it over to a massive stove along one wall. Thankfully the stove was still warm. It was a large squat contraption made of cast iron adorned with elaborate nickel filigree work at the corners. He had a similar one in Edinburgh, though he had never had to deal with it. Morgana kept it running when needed. Pet flopped in front of it, stretching out on his back and basking in the warmth.

Stepping over the sprawled cat, he put the sloshing teapot on the stove and sat and watched. Half an hour later, with Pet languishing in his lap, he was still watching. The water was warmer, but not hot. Annoyed, he stood and lifted a circular lid from the top of the stove to peer in. The coals beneath were mostly grey ash with just the hint of a glow at the center. Growling, he seized an iron rod and jabbed them. The glow intensified, but it didn't get much hotter. He stalked about the kitchen until he found the coal bin. He grabbed as much coal as his hands could carry and dumped it into the hole. Gripping the iron poker tightly, he stirred the coals again, waiting for them to catch fire. When none did, he went back to the coal chute. As carefully as he could he added more coal, but the black soot was getting everywhere. Using the sleeve of his jacket he tried to wipe down the stovetop with little result. Pet sneezed violently as coal dust settled over him. He jumped up on the counter to get out of the way and yowled in displeasure.

To Greyfriar's delight, the heat was building and the coals were starting to glow. He put the iron lid back on the stove with his bare hand and then shoved the container of water directly over it.

“Ha,” he declared triumphantly to the dubious cat.

He remembered Morgana throwing eggs in boiling water to make a meal. He could take care of both things at one time. A basket of eggs sat meekly upon a shelf. He grabbed a couple of them, but immediately they crushed in his hand. Surprised by how delicate they were, he cleaned his hands as best he could, leaving a runny sooty mess in the sink, and everywhere else. This time, ever so carefully, his fingers plucked four eggs, as they seemed rather small, and gingerly carried them to the pot of water, which was just steaming on the stove top. He placed them into the teapot, and two eggs immediately cracked and exuded filmy whites.

Scowling, he left them to boil and located a loaf of crusty bread. Greyfriar used his own dagger to cut a hunk of it off. At least this action was familiar. He offered a piece to the cat, who sniffed and walked away. Apparently, Pet did not eat bread. Greyfriar was still pleased with his work, and he brought the nicely sliced bread back to the stove. To his annoyance the water still wasn't boiling, just steaming. He sat down to wait. Soon he had to remove his jacket, as the air was getting warm.

Standing by his empty dish, Pet was growing impatient and griped to Greyfriar.

“You've been here longer,” the vampire said. “You should know where things are.”

Pet just stared, emerald eyes boring into him. Morgana used to feed the cats milk when they stared like that. Wearily, Greyfriar went in search of milk, but found none. But he did come across a large haunch of lamb hung up high. He threw that on the cat's dish. Pet jumped about three feet in the air when the meat landed with a thud, then rushed back in sheer joy at his prosperous meal. Pet gripped the hairy thing with his claws and started to eat, growling and grunting at the effort.

Greyfriar went back to the stove and stared at the murky boiling water now swirling with mint leaves and bobbing eggs with greenish whites hanging out.

“Finally,” he murmured, gathering his jacket and gloves.

He had no idea how long to let them cook so he sat down to rest; the sweltering kitchen, along with the growing heat of early spring in Alexandria, was starting to impact his energy. He let the eggs bounce around for another few minutes before he proceeded to grab a tray and load it with what he had wrought.