Keturah and Lord Death

“A lemon,” I said, continuing briskly. “‘Tis a fruit, dears. Grandfather spoke of it once, after he went to the king’s court with Lord Temsland.”

“A lemon!”

“They say it is as yellow as the sun,” I said.

“We know that,” Gretta said, “but …”

“And more sour than a crabapple.” My plan was becoming clearer to me as I spoke. “Yet with it I could make a dish that would cause Ben Marshall to forget all other dishes, a dish that would cause him to forget all other foods and all other women. It will make me the Best Cook of the fair, and he will ask me to marry him, and I will say yes.” I looked at my friends and smiled. “‘Tis said the queen has lemon in her tea at Easter and Christmas. I am hoping Cook has one.”

“So your true love is—Ben Marshall?” Beatrice ventured.

“Yes,” I said, “or at least the charm gives me hope that it is so. I shall do all in my power to love him. With all my heart. Undyingly.”

“Then we shall come with you,” Gretta said.

Once at the manor kitchen, I knocked, and old Cook came to the door. “Who is it, then?” she asked, peering at me. She was so farsighted she could not tell a face. She could smell, though. “Must be the Reeve girl. Much gossip about you today. You still smell like the forest. And Beatrice and Gretta are never far behind. Thank heavens you’ve all come.”

“Cook, we cannot stay.”

“You must stay.” As she spoke she herded us into the kitchen. “I have the aches today, and it is today of all days the lord receives a messenger of the king. Dinner must be ready, and it must be fine.”

“But Cook,” I said, “I came only to fetch a lemon.”

Cook stopped. “A what?”

“A lemon, Cook, so that she can win Best Cook at the fair,” said Beatrice. “So that Ben Marshall will marry her, so that—” Gretta nudged Beatrice, and she fell silent.

Cook laughed. Her teeth were all brown but strong. “A lemon!” she said to me. “Is that all, child? Well, let me check the larders for a stray one. But they are very dear. If I give you a lemon, first you must cook. You and your friends.”

She dragged me along, grinning ferociously, as if she were twice my size and not half of it. “You will do pastries today. I know you can do pastries. And watch the pig, too.”

As Cook led me into the bowels of her kitchen, I thought that this was how Jonah must have felt in the belly of the great fish. It was dark and hot, and slimy with blood and guts and grease. Smoke and fire filled the room, and the smell of rot and garbage overcame the smell of roasting. Someone shouted and someone else moaned.

Cook set me to my task, and I worked pastry and turned the spit until my back was a rigid board of pain. In the flames of the fire I thought I saw Death’s fine face, and sometimes I thought I heard his laughter. Cook set tasks for Gretta and Beatrice as well. I told myself the pastry was not a bad price for a lemon, the prize that would foil Death’s plan.

After what seemed hours, I grabbed Cook as she scuttled by me. “Cook, surely by now I have earned my lemon,” I said.

“No, not yet,” she said. “Keep going.”

“How do I know you even have a lemon?” I asked, knowing she was a sly old thing.

“Oh, I do, I do.”

“Let’s see it, then,” I said.

“Oh, I don’t show my precious lemons to just any village girl,” she said.

So I made pies until I had repented of every sin I had ever committed, including coming for a lemon before I had asked John to do something to stay the plague. I confessed every sin out loud to the roasting pig. Whenever the pastor spoke of death, in the same breath he spoke of hell and fire. If death was anything like Lord Temsland’s kitchen, I had no desire to go there. I wondered if Lord Death ruled the good or the bad, and while I could remember no evil in the darkness of his eyes, I could tell they had seen much suffering. But then, it mattered not whether he was lord of the happy dead or the sad; I wanted no part of either.

At last Cook came and declared the pastries fine and the pig perfectly done, and I collapsed onto a stool.

“Now gravy,” she said, putting a buttery finger under my chin.

“No,” I said resolutely. “I know nothing about gravy.”

“Can you not cook, then?” she asked. “Shall I tell this to Ben Marshall?”

“Please, no! I can do pies. Meat pies and fruit pies. Pies. Only pies, but I am better at pies than Padmoh.”

She studied me, realizing perhaps that she had met a soul as stubborn as her own. “Come,” she said. “With the face of an angel you will serve, then. You can walk and carry a tray, can you not?”

I stood. “Yes. But before I take another step, I shall have my lemon.”

“Nay, but only serve, lass, and I shall find you my greenest lemon.”

“Green! But lemons are yellow.”

“That is what I meant—yellow.”

“You don’t have one!” I exclaimed. I grabbed her by the nose. “Confess, old brown tooth, you don’t have any lemons.”