The Dragon's Tooth

Nolan pushed the grate up, ducked out, and held it open.

Cyrus and Antigone stepped into the largest kitchen they had ever seen.

A wall of windows faced the enormous ocean of a lake. Beneath them, a small army of aprons and caps were chopping and dicing and grating and rolling and mixing on a row of tables. Another wall held a dangling mountain of copper pots ranging from dollhouse small to boil-a-whale big. The center of the room was an island of flame. Fire spurting up through grills, fire roaring beneath spitted meat, fire licking pots and gobbling every sizzling slop. Men and women with flushed and sweating faces scrambled toward ovens with mittened hands and prodded meat with long-handled prongs still too short for safety.

“Nolan!” a voice boomed across the room. “You missed my lunch! Don’t tell me you’re here for an early supper. Back to your tunnels!”

Nolan ignored the voice and moved casually into the kitchen.

Cyrus shifted nervously. Antigone stood beside him.

Nolan stopped. Beyond the island of fire, Cyrus could see a big man moving toward them. His black-and- silver hair was tied down with a handkerchief, knot forward, and each of the cooks jumped out of his way as he eased down the line, dipping his finger in sauces and sneering at meat. He was dressed all in white, and his heavy black beard was bagged in a net. Small gold bells dangled from his ears, jingling like Christmas when he bent to sniff a pot or sip from a spoon, and as he finally moved completely into view, Cyrus felt his sister squeeze his arm in surprise.

The man had no legs.

Of course he has legs, Cyrus thought. They’re just … metal.

Below his apron, two thin, bending black rods ran down into a rubber-coated ball joint of an ankle. Beneath each of those, a small triangle hoof of rubber made contact with the ground. Cyrus tried not to stare. It was like seeing an elephant with antelope legs.

Standing in front of them, the big man put two hairy fists onto his wide hips, and he glared.

“You bring guests,” he said. “Invaders.” He raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Outlaws. And at this mad hour, too.”

Nolan didn’t seem put off. “This is Big Ben Sterling, lord of the one-acre kitchen. Ben, behold the last two Smiths of Ashtown — Cyrus and Antigone.”

“Nice to meet you,” Antigone said, elbowing Cyrus. She held out her hand. Ben Sterling swallowed it with his.

“I know all about you two.” He winked. “Oh, the chatter today. Billy Bones picked himself quite a pair. Your ancestors were living outside the law before Skelton’s great-granddad had his first thieving thought. Rogues to the bone, you are. Bones’s new rogues.”

Cyrus opened his mouth, confused, but Sterling waved him off. “Oh, don’t fret yourselves. Be it true or false, the kitchen hears everything, the kitchen knows everything, and I … am the kitchen.” Slapping Cyrus on the back, he whistled sharply between his teeth. “Make a hole at the rail! Three stools!”

Immediately, the lineup at the windows compressed, and a man who had been shaking potato peels into a can scurried off after stools.

Bells ringing, Sterling walked them toward the newly empty space. “I’ll stop and chat as chat can,” he said. “But your tour guide chooses the devil’s worst moment.”

Three stools were shoved in place. Sterling pulled one out for Antigone and stepped aside for Cyrus. “I have a rule for you two,” he said, eyeing them both. He rubbed his netted beard and then leaned down, lowering his voice. “If there’s a light on in my kitchen, you come in and make free. If there’s not, well, you come in and make free. Night or day, you two duck in. My breakfast crew will catch the crumbs. And don’t feel as if you have to use the tunnels, like some I could mention.”

He grinned and straightened.

Cyrus laughed. The man’s eyes were sharp and knowing. His teeth were gapped but brilliant white. His netted beard was thicker than a bundle of black hay. But no matter where Cyrus looked, his eyes snapped back to the man’s bouncing earrings, catching and spraying the chaos of kitchen light, chiming with every step, breath, and smile.

“Thanks,” said Cyrus. He wasn’t sure what else to say.

Nodding, the cook turned away. “Melton!” he bellowed. “Look to your sauce, man!”

A woman in white slid three bowls of fine noodles onto the rail, followed by a platter mounded with well- sauced skewers of grilled beef.

Cyrus inhaled slowly.

Antigone looked at her brother and smiled. “I’m surprised I’m this hungry,” she said. “You probably aren’t surprised at all.”

Cyrus shook his head. Nolan was scraping beef onto his noodles. “Is he for real?” Cyrus asked. “We can come in any time we want?”

Nolan nodded. “But don’t make enemies on his staff. Always clean up after yourself.”

A chuckle came from the man chopping vegetables next to them.

“How did he lose his legs?” Antigone asked.

“Lake shark,” Nolan said. “Midair collision. Motorcycle racing. Or he lost them to Thai pirates. Or he cut them off and cooked them for a cannibal chieftain. Depends on the day and on how much wine is in him when you ask.”

Cyrus shoveled in a large first bite, and the flavors swam together — soy and cayenne and peanut sauce. His eyebrows climbed in surprise. It was a combination he hadn’t tasted in more than two years — his mother’s combination.

Antigone set her fork down, swallowing. She looked at him with wide eyes. “It’s exactly the same.” She looked at Nolan. “It was our dad’s—” Her eyes flooded. Tucking back her hair, she looked up, breathing evenly. “This is stupid. I’m just tired and hungry.”

Cyrus cranked around on his stool. Ben Sterling was hugging a tall, smiling, ponytailed girl who had just pushed through a swinging door into the kitchen. But the big cook was looking back over his shoulder as he did. He flashed Cyrus half a grin and winked. The girl tugged his netted beard to get his attention.

Cyrus turned back around. “It’s not like he could have known.”

Nolan rubbed his welted neck, chewing. “Oh, he knew. Your father was here. The kitchen knows everything.”

“Dan should be here,” Cyrus said. “That’s the only thing that could make this taste better.”

Antigone winced, knuckling the corners of her eyes. “Don’t, Cy. Please. I’m trying not to cry. I already feel like a puffy-eyed moron.”

Cyrus twisted up a mass of noodles and wedged it into his mouth.

“These are the new ones? You’re letting ’Lytes into the kitchen?”

Cyrus and Antigone spun around on their stools. The ponytailed girl was standing immediately behind them, wearing glistening, oiled boots, trousers, and a white linen shirt almost identical to Antigone’s — although she was a year or two older, inches taller, and hers was spotless and fit perfectly. Her hair couldn’t decide if it was red or brown or gold, and her tan face and arms were sun-freckled. Her sharp eyes were bright blue at the rim, but her pupils were haloed with brown. The big cook loomed behind her. It was the girl from the plane. Cyrus knew it was. The girl pilot.

Cyrus felt sweat forming on his forehead, and he almost choked, gulping down his load of noodles. Peanut sauce dribbled out the corner of his mouth. He wiped it quickly, but more kept coming.

“Are they Acolytes?” Ben Sterling asked. “How’s a cook supposed to know a thing like that?” Shaking his head and smiling, he retreated to Fire Island.

The girl scowled, but then she saw Antigone’s worried face. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, her eyes widening. “I was only joking. It must have been a long day, and I’ve heard Cecil Rhodes has been a prat. The Rhodeses always are. But you’ll be fine. I grew up thinking Smiths could do anything. Sorry I wasn’t there for your presenting, or I would have yelled something rude about Cecil’s mustache. I’m just getting back from a longish trek. Do you mind?” She snagged a piece of beef off Antigone’s plate and popped it into her mouth.

She turned to Cyrus. He managed another swallow, wiped his mouth, and straightened.

“Already heard a story about you,” she said. “My cousin says he thrashed you in the hall after you tripped