“
“So it left Israel with Joseph of Arimathea and then came here? To Brittany?”
“This is one story. But there are many others.”
“What are the other versions?”
She blew air from her cheeks. “There is the one where it is not a cup or a chalice at all. This is a Celtic one. The grail is a graal or a cauldron.”
“A kettle?”
“For cooking? Yes.”
“And the quest for it was a search by Arthur?”
“By his knights. But it is more than a search. It is an obsession of all of his knights. But only Galahad succeeds. Because he is the most pure. And in the end, it kills him.”
“So it’s dangerous.”
“Obsessions are always dangerous. And this obsession takes away the best knights from the
“And leaves it undefended?”
“
“Morale?”
“No. The moral. The character of the kingdom. But remember, it is just a fairy story, Robert.”
“Maybe. But then people still search for it, don’t they?”
“I have a problem.” Cranwell probed me with insistent eyes.
So did I. I’d given myself ten minutes to put dinner on the table, and the meat was taking longer to cook than I’d expected. “What?”
“It’s too cold in my room.”
Don’t start with me. “Generally, fourteenth-century castles were built for defensive purposes, not for warmth. Have you tried wearing a hat?”
“Really. I can’t type.”
Turning my head, I glanced at him over my shoulder. To his credit, he was wearing moleskin trousers and a heavy cream fisherman’s turtleneck sweater. “Did you try-”
“A fire doesn’t help. Opening the flue only creates a draft.”
I didn’t have time for his complaints. I checked the meat again. Almost done. “Do you have any solutions?”
“Can I work down here?”
I dropped the pan. It banged onto the stove. Thankfully, it didn’t fall to the floor. “Here?”
“It’s warm. You have an outlet. I could just set myself up right there.” He was pointing at my desk.
There are limits.
“Cranwell, you can’t have my desk. You can bring down a table from elsewhere in the house, but you cannot have my desk.”
“Great. I’ll do it right now.” I was finally in a position to turn around to talk to him, but all I saw was his back disappearing up the stairwell.
The next morning, when I made my way down to the kitchen before dawn, I discovered that Cranwell was already hard at work, sitting at the table he’d placed at the back of the kitchen, in his robe and silk pajamas.
Lucy lifted her head when she saw me, then sighed, and dropped it back on her paws.
“Has she been out?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“About-” he paused to look at his watch. “An hour ago.”
“You’ve been here since four?”
“Yes.”
He hadn’t turned from the computer since I’d walked into the kitchen.
“Espresso?”
“No. Already got it.”
Really? Good for him.
After making my espresso, I carried on with my routine, rolling out croissants and then folding them. By 6:15, I was taking them out of the oven.
I put together Cranwell’s normal tray, with an espresso and two croissants, accompanied by a small pot of
“Thanks.” He looked up from the computer long enough to flash me a smile. “They’re talking to me, Freddie. I have to keep typing.”
Two weeks later, I was in the kitchen and working on my breads by 5:30, but Cranwell and Lucy were nowhere to be seen. It looked, in fact, as if they hadn’t been down at all that morning.
After I had shaped all six baguettes, placed them in the oven, and baked them, I took a break and had an espresso. Happening to glance at the calendar above my desk, I was struck by how quickly November had passed. It was already the 24th, Sainte-Flora day, which seemed odd. If you were going to dedicate a day to a person named Flora, why not give her a day in the spring?
A chill suddenly passed through my shoulders and down my spine. I decided to run up to my room and get a sweater. I took the central staircase because it came out closer to my room.
As I came back down, Cranwell’s door opened. Something made me hold my breath and shrink into the shadows. I saw Severine slip out of his room, clad in a black lacy scrap of nothing, and climb the back stairs to her own.
I felt like I’d been hit in the heart with a sledgehammer. Oh, but I’d been stupid. I stumbled back up the stairs to my room and jumped into the shower. I stayed until I’d stopped shaking.
It didn’t take much debate with myself to decide to tell Severine that I was sick. She knew enough about cooking to scrape together the day’s meals. I knocked on her door and shouted the message at her and then sprinted back to my own room before she had a chance to respond. I climbed into bed, wet hair and all, and pulled the duvet over my head. I pretended not to hear when she came and knocked on my door.
I’d known it from the beginning.
Cranwell was exactly the type of man I didn’t trust. Men are weak; that’s what my mother always warned me. She was right.
By the end of the day, I was beginning to imagine that I could be sick for the entire week. I found myself becoming very philosophical. It wasn’t that I minded Severine being his lover; I was humiliated at having let myself trust him.
In fact, I was glad they had found each other. It was obvious Severine needed a father figure in her life. And Cranwell was perfect for that role. He was old enough. He was forty-five.
That was the end of my crush on Cranwell.
I almost stayed in bed the next morning, but then I remembered what day it was: 25 November. Sainte- Catherine’s day. The day of Severine’s
What perfect timing.
A shower did little to rouse my spirits. I threw on my usual chef’s attire and then rooted around in the closet to find the bonnet I’d bought for Severine. It was tradition that a Catherinette receive one… and usually they were decorated in the worst Minnie Pearl style. This one was no exception.
After pulling back my hair into a ponytail, I slipped on my shoes and trudged down to the kitchen. Thankfully, Cranwell wasn’t there. I put some brioches in the oven and then made a plan of the dinner’s preparations.
The only thing I’d have to do for the
The lobsters I planned to cook at the last moment, although the tagliatelle I’d serve with them would need a little more preparation.
