“Don’t stand there steam-struck,” a sharp voice said. A bag of flour came at Daja’s chest; she caught it. “Take it to the cellar.”

Daja looked into black, snapping eyes. They were set in an olive-skinned white face crowned with masses of carelessly pinned hair as soft and as shadowy as dark wool. The woman’s face was square-jawed and straight-mouthed, divided at the center by a strong nose. Under a full white apron she dressed like a respectable housekeeper in brown wool with a plain band collar. The sleeves were rolled away from forearms nearly as muscular as Daja’s own.

“If you leave it on the floor down there I’ll put you in a soup!” the woman called as Daja followed the other laden workers through a door at the kitchen’s rear. “I could feed a whole ward on you!”

Looking behind her as she descended the stairs, Daja saw that Jory had been pressed into service with a bag of onions. Serg, behind her, toted a bag of rice.

He shrugged when he saw Daja. “They say, they tend horses and sleigh and nobody eats before supplies are brought down. I do not want sick people to starve.”

They made three more trips to the cellar storeroom, the last with the burden of an entire dead pig, wrapped in canvas. Daja was ready to go home after that. Instead she found herself seated at a long table, a roll in one hand, thick stew in a bowl in front of her, a plate with parsnips in beef broth beside that. Someone passed her a cup of milk. She had believed she was stuffed on cook-mages’ treats, but this food smelled so good. And of course she ought to taste what they’d given her to be polite. By the time she had finished tasting, her bowl and plate were empty, her roll crumbs.

“At least you know you need to eat with a body like yours,” said that sharp voice. Daja looked at its owner, who now sat across from her. “At court I saw girls with big frames, big muscles, eat like birds, faint, get sick, die. The Duke of Eileag’s youngest daughter starved herself to death. Don’t fight the body the gods send you, I told them, but did they listen?” The woman reached over and grasped Daja’s wrist, thrusting back her coat and shirt sleeves. “Good arms. Blacksmith arms.” She transferred her grip to Daja’s fingers. “Who are you, blacksmith? I am Olennika.”

“Daja Kisubo,” she replied, returning the friendly squeeze of the fingers before the cook-mage released her. “From Emelan. I’m here with my teacher, Viynain Frostpine. This is Jorality Bancanor. He’s Serg.”

“Bancanor?” Olennika raised straight black eyebrows. “You are a long way from Kadasep, Bancanor’s daughter.”

Jory was so overwhelmed by awe for this great mage that she was speechless. The girl stared at Olennika, transfixed.

“See that door?” Olennika flapped a hand toward a door set in the wall across from their table. “Bring to me an ounce of truffles, three saffron threads, a tablespoon of dill chopped coarse, a ginger root, a tablespoon of parsley, and a tablespoon of tarragon. There are trays and bowls there, and any tools you need.” She handed Jory a large, iron key. “Go,” she ordered.

Jory went.

Daja said, “We are looking for a teacher for her.” Somehow she knew that she didn’t have to tell this woman about Jory’s power.

“There are plenty of cook-mages closer to Kadasep,” Olennika commented. She beckoned to a girl who carried a teapot and a tray of handleless cups.

No glasses here, Daja thought with satisfaction as the girl served them. “I know. We’ve seen them today.” Daja held the filled cup under her nose and inhaled. Even the steam was refreshing. “Jory wanted to come here. She wasn’t sure you take students.”

“Almost never,” Olennika said. “That is my personal workroom, where I have sent her. No labels. If she is serious, she will know the things I have requested. I do not think the master of the Goldsmiths’ Guild will let his daughter study in Blackfly Bog. We do fine cooking maybe four times a year, when the hospital feeds the rich to get money from them. The rest of the time we cook for the sick and the poor. Quantity, no fancy spices or elaborate creations. She ought to study with Valerian.”

“Ravvikki Jory doesn’t want him,” Serg said gloomily.

Olennika looked Daja over. “What is your interest, Kisubo?” she asked. “How is it a southern mage takes Bancanor’s daughter to see teachers?”

“You know I’m a mage?” Daja asked. Then she winced at the folly of her question. Olennika had already shown that she recognized Jory’s power.

Olennika smiled one-sidedly. “I have a nose, girl,” she replied. “The ravvikki is a spearmint plant, crushed in the hand. You-you are a bed of it, half an acre at least, rolled on by a herd of horses. Why are you here?”

Daja explained. By the time she finished, Jory had returned with a tray full of tiny dishes and plates. Each had something in them. She set the tray down, wiped her hands on her skirts, grimaced, and brushed the places where she’d wiped her hands.

“Don’t fidget,” Olennika ordered, poking a finger through the contents of the dishes. Jory froze.

“Put everything back as you found it.” As Jory left, Olennika faced Daja. “I suppose she is not to be all day with one teacher. I suppose she studies music, and dancing, and books.”

Daja nodded. She was impressed by Olennika’s brisk handling of Jory. It would be good for the girl to study here. The soft-spoken Inagru hadn’t seemed up to Jory’s bouts of enthusiasm. “She can stay as long as you wish for a week,” Daja explained. “But then it’s mornings. As she advances, I think her family can be persuaded to let her stay longer. They’re sensible people.”