Alkimiya - A Fantasy Mystery Series

ELEVEN - Drunken Promises

As Zenetra left the dining hall, she saluted a perturbed Clemence Pocket and gave the dour Mr. Murkwood a sly grin as they passed each other in the hallway. With a quick hug to Paloma, the longtime family cook, Zenetra heated a pot, poured in five bottles of dark red wine that were made from the boysenberry bushes on the grounds of the estate, and added an entire bottle of high-quality whirl. Tossing in cloves, ground ginger, molasses, juniper, and Marzhanian bay leaves, she stirred the pot until the wine began to simmer. The kitchen filled with the aromatic scent of spiced alcohol and sweet desserts.

As she broke cinnamon bark into chunks and added it to the simmering pot, Paloma set out trays laden with dozens of glass mugs. A dried orange slice was at the bottom of each.

Zenetra rubbed her fingertip lightly over the rim of one mug. Delicate was not a word to describe them, for the glass was thick and hardy. That meant they were winter mugs imported from the Glass City. "Where did these come from?"

Paloma, a short and plump woman in her late fifties who always mispronounced Zenetra's name as Zen-aye-tra, waved the dishrag that hung over her shoulder at the wall of kitchen cabinets. "They've been here a long while, Miss Zenetra. We haven't a use for 'em since Ms. Noire was runnin' the place."

The cook meant Xuxa, Zenetra knew. Not their late mother. Paloma had never called Zenetra's sister anything other than Ms. Noire because that was what she already was when the cook joined them.

"They're lovely."

Paloma gave Zenetra a crinkly smile and began to lay out an impressive spread of desserts. There were apple tarts smothered in a cinnamon glaze, bread pudding only served during the cold season, and purple yam mini pies.

Zenetra nicked one of the vibrant pies off the tray and took a bite. The crust consisted of crushed almonds, flax seeds, and sweet dates. She gobbled the rest down as Paloma shook the dishrag at her in mock outrage.

Once the mugs of howl—an ancient drink named for the wolves that howled to the moon—had been distributed, Zenetra joined her father and an intoxicated Governor Ewald to dessert. It was half-past nine when Zenetra snuggled into a plush leather armchair in the general study. A fireplace crackled beside them, mingling the faint scent of smoking firewood with the sweet air from the kitchens.

"I'm tellin' you, Orton," said Governor Ewald, sipping his third glass of howl. His words grew slurred as the evening waned on. "This nation is car'wheeling downhill! We need to do something about it before it's too late."

Orton tapped the rim of his glass. "What exactly is it you want, Gustav?"

"S'pport! Vocally and financ'lly. Too many jobs are being outsourced to foreign workers."

Zenetra took a sip of her wine. "Noire Transport employs hundreds of foreign alchemists, Governor Ewald. We rely on them to keep our production running smoothly."

"Yes, yes," placated Governor Ewald with a wave of his glass. Dark liquid sloshed over the rim. His teeth had become slightly purple from the wine. "But have you ever wondered why we haven't started producing nationally trained alch'mists? There's no Alchemic Academy here, which means we have to hire them from the Kingdom of Marzhan or the Qoman Empire."

"A fair point," said Orton. "Something we can no doubt explore the options of in the near future."

Governor Ewald set his glass on the end table and pulled himself forward in his chair, swaying unintentionally from the sudden movement. "It's not only the alch'mists, Orton. Other jobs—simple jobs that anyone can do!—are being outsourced to foreign workers. Why's that? I'll tell you why! To pay employees bare min'mum. It's their right a' course, these workhouses, to pay foreign employees less than a national, but issit morally accep'able?"