Chương 21: A Table for Three

My parents met in the eastern market on a wet spring morning. I had heard the story often enough to picture it. Mother carried a basket of folded cloth against one hip. Father came from the opposite direction with a wooden crate full of repaired cookware, loose hinges, and small tools. They turned the same corner at the same time. The basket struck the crate. A cooking pot rolled beneath a vegetable stall. Folded shirts landed on the wet stones. A paper packet opened, scattering nails across the street.

They crouched to gather everything before a passing cart reached it. Father rescued the pot. Mother collected the nails in the fold of her skirt. He wiped the worst of the mud from the shirts before placing them back in her basket. When they both reached for a brass latch, they struck their foreheads. Mother went home with a red mark above one eyebrow. Father walked several streets in the wrong direction before noticing. One of his screws remained at the bottom of Mother's basket.

She returned it to the repair shop the following morning. Father still kept that screw in the top drawer of his workbench. He claimed he kept it because it was a useful size. Mother never believed him. Neither did I. The first duck was too sweet. The second had burned near the wings while the skin across the breast remained soft. The third waited on the preparation table beneath a clean cloth. I had dried the skin overnight and rubbed the salt underneath instead of across the surface.

Sour plums, onion, ginger, and a thin shaving of redroot filled the cavity. The redroot worried me. Too much left a person warm enough to open a window. Too little disappeared beneath the duck fat. I had settled on an amount small enough to lose beneath my thumbnail. Nessa came through the rear door carrying her ledger and payment box. She hung her damp coat on its peg before looking toward the dining room.

"You moved the large table."

"Yes." She walked to the service opening. The table stood near the western window, separated from the rest of the dining room by two folding screens. One had come from Mara's bakery. The other had been buried in the restaurant's rear storage room beneath old shelves and a broken barrel lid. I had repaired the hinges and replaced the stained cloth. The screens created a private corner without closing it off completely. Warm light still reached the table. My mother's brown curtains framed the window behind it.

Nessa looked at the screens, then at the third duck.

"What's happening tonight?"

"My parents are coming."

"For dinner?" I nodded. She waited.

"It's their anniversary."

"Oh." Her face softened a little. She went into the dining room and adjusted the nearest screen.

"You could've said something."

"I just did."

"I meant before you moved half the furniture."

"It was one table."

"And three chairs."

"The chairs belong with the table." She looked back at me. I returned to the duck. After a moment, she asked, "Do they know?"

"No."

"Joe."

"They might say no if I ask."

"That's generally allowed."

"The food is already prepared." She let out a quiet breath through her nose and went back to the counter. I placed the duck in the oven. The heat needed to remain low at first. The fat would render slowly, carrying the redroot and sour plum through the vegetables beneath it. I would raise the temperature near the end and brush the skin with a thin glaze. Each step had its place. Dry. Render. Cook. Glaze. Rest. The first two attempts had suffered because I tried to hurry one part to reach the next.

I had done that before. The front door opened. Tomas stepped inside, took two paces toward his usual table, and stopped when he saw the screens.

"What's that?"

"A private table."

"I can see that." He leaned slightly, trying to look around it. Nessa placed a menu on the counter.

"Leave it alone."

"I'm only looking."

"For what?"

"I don't know yet." He turned toward me.

"Who's coming?"

"My parents. It's their anniversary." Tomas looked at the table again.

"Oh." His voice changed enough that I looked up. He rubbed one thumb along the edge of the menu.

"Are the cupboards staying open tonight?"

"Yes. The dining room closes after lunch."

"Right." He chose fried rice and tea. He did not ask about the duck. That lasted until his food arrived.

"Will there be any left over?"

"No." He nodded as though he had expected that answer. I fell from the roof of Father's workshop when I was eight. A wooden bird rested near the gutter. Father had repaired one of its wings for a customer, and I had placed it on the roof to see if the wind would make it move. I climbed onto a barrel, then a narrow crate. The bird's wings turned once. The crate shifted beneath my foot. I landed beside the rain barrel with my left arm beneath me and my knee open against a stone. For a while, I could not breathe.

Then I could breathe too well. Every breath came with a noise I did not want anyone to hear. Father found me sitting in the dirt. He carried me inside and set me on his workbench. My wrist was strained. My knee had pieces of grit inside it. Cleaning the cut hurt more than the fall. I watched Father's hands because looking at my knee made the room move.

"I'm not going up again," I said.

"Good." I looked at him.

"Good?"

"Not today." He removed another piece of grit and dropped it into the wash bowl.

"I mean ever." Father wound a clean strip of cloth around my knee. He checked the knot, loosened it, then tied it again.

"You can decide that when it stops hurting."

"What if I fall again?"

"Then we look at what moved."

"The crate moved."

"I know." He finished the bandage and rested my foot carefully on the edge of the bench.

"Use the ladder next time."

"We don't have a ladder."

"We will." The following week, a short ladder appeared behind the workshop. Father had used scrap wood. The sides did not match, and one rung was darker than the others. It remained there for years. By the end of breakfast, four people had asked about the private table. By lunch, the number had reached nine. The flower seller wanted to know whether I had begun taking reservations. A courier asked whether the screens cost extra. Perry crawled beneath one of them and sat at the table before Nessa noticed.

She found him with both hands folded in front of him, waiting to be served.

"This is for tonight," she said.

"I'm sitting carefully."

"That's not the problem." Perry looked toward me while Nessa guided him out by the shoulder. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

"Who's coming?"

"My parents."

"Why?"

"It's their anniversary." He thought about that.

"Does everyone get one?"

"People who marry do."

"Every year?"

"Yes."

"That's a lot." Nessa turned him toward the window table, where Lysa had already begun eating.

"It happens once a year."

"It still sounds like a lot." He sat beside Lysa and reached for his bread. Mara arrived shortly before lunch ended. She carried the usual bread basket on one arm and a smaller covered dish in both hands. She looked toward the screens.

"Nessa told me."

"Nessa had work to do."

"She did it while I was paying." Mara placed the covered dish on the counter.

"What is that?"

"Pear cake."

"I didn't order cake."

"I know." I looked at her. She did not move her hands from the dish.

"How much?"

"Nothing."

"Mara."

"It's small."

"That doesn't make the ingredients free." Her eyes shifted toward the private table.

"It's for your parents." I started to answer. She lifted one hand.

"Let it be a gift, Joe." There was nothing sharp in her voice. She looked tired from her own morning work, with flour near one cuff and a loose strand of hair against her cheek. I closed my mouth.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." Amon arrived a few minutes later carrying two bottles of pear cider. Mara glanced at them.

"You found it."

"My father had a case in the back of the warehouse."

"Did he give it to you?" I asked. Amon set the bottles beside the cake.

"He said he would rather have the shelf space." That sounded like Jacob.

"I only need one."

"Keep the other."

"I can pay for it." Amon rested one hand on the counter. He looked as if he might argue, then thought better of it.

"Pay him next time you place an order."

"That is acceptable."

"I thought it might be." He looked toward the oven.

"Is that the duck?"

"Yes."

"The third one?"

"Yes." He rubbed his mouth with one hand, perhaps remembering the first.

"Smells better."

"That is a low standard." Amon smiled, but he did not answer. The lunch bell rang. Mara returned to the bakery. Amon took his usual table and stayed long enough to eat. The restaurant filled. For the next two hours, the anniversary became another part of the work. Orders came through the service opening. Nessa moved between the tables. The stew pot emptied. The fried rice ran low. A child spilled berry water beneath table five, and the automatic broom reached it before I did.

Nessa shut the array down before the broom spread the water across the room. Through all of it, the duck cooked slowly. The sour plum softened beneath the heat. Redroot moved through the rendered fat in a quiet, even line. The vegetables beneath the bird took in both. The mana pattern remained gentle. It would not restore a tired fighter after patrol. It would not replenish an emptied reserve. It eased small aches. Warmed the hands. Settled the body after a long day. That was enough.

The acceptance letter from the Caldris School of Magic arrived when I was eighteen. The silver seal covered half the front. I opened it in Father's workshop because I could not wait until supper. Mother stood near the doorway with a basket of mending beneath one arm. Father remained at his bench, still holding the file he had been using. I read the first line. Then I began again. Mother put down the basket. Father crossed the room and held out his hand. I gave him the letter. He read more slowly than I had.

"You got in," he said.

"Yes." Mother took the letter from him. Her fingers trembled against the paper. The enrollment payment was due within a month. Tuition followed after that. Books, robes, food, and examination materials were listed on the second page. I had already added the numbers in my head.

"We don't have to decide now," I said.

"I could wait a year." Mother looked up.

"Do you want to wait?"

"No."

"Then we'll manage." I looked at Father. He read the cost page again. His face gave nothing away, though he folded the corner beneath one thumb.

"We have some saved," he said.

"How much?"

"Enough to begin." That evening, they bought a small cake from a bakery near the eastern market. Father brought home ginger beer and three new pencils. Mother found a blue ribbon and tied it around the acceptance letter before placing it beside my plate. I talked through most of supper. I told them about the lecture halls, the practical courses, the libraries, and the silver certification pin I would earn after graduation. They listened. I did not understand then how long they had been saving.

I did not know Mother had stopped replacing her winter coat. I did not know Father had accepted work after sunset and repaired tools by lamplight after I went to bed. They never presented those things as a price. Years later, I learned to count them anyway. We closed the dining room after lunch. The hungry cupboards remained available. Nessa stocked them with rice parcels, bread, and stew before locking the kitchen service window. I cleaned the tables while she counted the payment box.

"You're done," she said.

"I still need to test the lights."

"You tested them this morning."

"The third lamp came on late."

"I didn't notice."

"I did." Nessa closed the ledger. My ribs had stopped aching unless I turned too quickly. I reached above the private table and adjusted the final conductor line. The third lamp responded with the others. Nessa watched from the counter.

"You're going to test it again."

"Yes."

"Of course." She gathered her coat but did not put it on immediately.

"They'll like it."

"I know." The answer came out too quickly. Nessa looked toward the table. Then she slipped into her coat.

"Go get them before the duck gets old." I checked the oven, the warming marks, and both doors. Everything would hold. I left through the front. The walk to my parents' house took a little over an hour. Evening settled over Caldris while I crossed the city. Market stalls closed. Lamps came on above shop doors. The western wall disappeared behind the roofs. Father's workshop remained open when I arrived. He sat at the workbench repairing the handle of a wide cooking pot.

Mother stood near the rear doorway, folding clean cloths. They both looked up.

"Get your coats," I said. Father glanced toward the street.

"Why?"

"I need you to come with me." Mother lowered the cloth.

"Is something wrong?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." Father put down the pot.

"Then what is it?" I looked between them.

"It's your anniversary." Neither spoke for a moment. Father turned toward the small calendar beside his bench.

"I knew that." Mother looked at him. He kept his eyes on the calendar.

"I did." She folded the cloth once more and placed it in the basket.

"We weren't planning anything."

"I was."

"You could have told us."

"You might have said no." Mother sighed softly. Father stood and reached for the leather tool bag beneath his bench.

"You won't need that." His hand stopped.

"Are you certain?"

"Yes." He left it where it was. Mother put on her coat. Father closed the workshop shutters, checked the lock twice, and followed us into the street. They were quiet when we entered The Second Spark. The dining room lamps had dimmed to their evening setting. The wall music played low enough to sit beneath the sound of the cupboards opening outside. Mother noticed the screens first. Father noticed that the nearest table had been moved. I led them into the private corner. Mother touched the curtain beside the window.

"You kept these."

"They fit the room."

"That isn't what you said when I bought them."

"I was working with less information then." She smiled and sat. Father placed one hand on the table. His fingers moved over the edge, then down toward the brace beneath it.

"It has held," I said.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to check." He pulled out his chair instead. Three places had been set. Mother noticed.

"You're eating with us."

"Yes."

"Good." I brought the broth first. Then the duck. The skin had remained crisp. Steam rose when I cut into the breast. I placed the roasted vegetables beside it and spooned a little sauce across each plate. Mother breathed in.

"This smells familiar."

"You had something similar at Orin Dask's."

"Years ago," Father said.

"You mentioned it for years afterward." Mother looked at him.

"He mentioned it." Father adjusted his knife.

"You liked it too."

"I did." They tasted the duck. I watched Mother first. She closed her eyes for a moment as she chewed. Father took a second bite before finishing the first.

"The plum is good," Mother said.

"It keeps the fat from feeling too heavy." Father cut through the skin.

"How did you get this part so crisp?" I began explaining the drying and temperature changes. Halfway through, Mother reached for the bread.

"You can eat while you tell us." I looked down at my untouched plate. The food was still hot. I ate. Conversation came slowly after that. Mother asked about Nessa and whether she still worked six days. Father wanted to know how often the hungry cupboards needed repairs. They told me the eastern market had raised its stall fees again and that a customer had brought Father a kettle old enough to remember a previous king. No one tried to make the evening important. That helped.

Near the end of the meal, I looked at the table. Father had repaired it before the restaurant opened. Mother had scrubbed the kitchen and chosen the curtains. They had spent days helping me build a place I had not known how to believe in yet.

"I should've done this earlier," I said. Mother set down her cup.

"You were busy."

"That isn't—""I know." She waited. I looked at the remaining food on my plate.

"The school cost more than I understood." Father leaned back slightly.

"That was a long time ago."

"I understand the numbers now." Mother's fingers rested around her cup.

"We weren't lending it to you, Joe."

"I know."

"You say that." Her voice stayed gentle. I did know. Knowing did not always change the shape of a thought. Father reached for another piece of bread.

"You got hurt. We looked at what moved." I looked at him. He broke the bread in half and placed one piece beside Mother's plate.

"Then you found another way up." That was all he said. Mother looked toward the kitchen.

"Is there dessert?" I stood.

"There is."

"Good. Bring it before your father eats the rest of the bread." Father glanced at the half loaf.

"I wasn't going to." Mother said nothing. He moved his hand away from it. I brought out Mara's pear cake with two small candles. The candles did not match. One was blue and the other pale yellow. Amon had found the blue one. Mara had supplied the other after seeing it. Neither of my parents commented. I lit them and placed the cake between them. Then I touched the control mark beneath the table. The nearest wall lamp faded. A thin gold line moved behind the curtains.

It traveled along the wall, reached the first ceiling mark, and divided. Small lights appeared overhead. They formed slowly, one after another, like sparks rising and deciding to remain. Red. Gold. Soft white. The lights spread above the private table, reflected in the dark window and the polished cups. The final two traveled from opposite sides of the ceiling. They met in the center. The room warmed as the meal's mana settled through us. Mother flexed one hand, then rested it over Father's.

His shoulders had lowered. The deep line between his brows eased. For a little while, neither of them spoke. Father looked up at the lights.

"How are they linked?"

"Later," Mother said. He glanced at her.

"All right." She looked at me across the table.

"It's beautiful." The word made me uncomfortable in a way praise for a useful cupboard never did. I looked toward the control mark.

"The sequence still needs—""Joe." I stopped. Mother smiled.

"Thank you." Father's hand remained beneath hers.

"Good work, son." The candles burned lower. I cut the cake into three pieces. Father's was slightly larger. He noticed but did not mention it. We stayed at the table long after dessert. The cupboards outside went quiet. The western watchlights shone beyond the roofs. One by one, the ceiling sparks faded until only two remained above my parents. I left them there until they were ready to go. Record so far.

Joe Benson Age: 30 Wizard examinations attempted: 5 Wizard examinations passed: 0 Guild rank: F Restaurants opened: 1 Restaurants currently operating: 1 Parents successfully brought to dinner: 2 The Second Spark Time open: Roughly three months Indoor seats: 18 Outdoor tables: 1 Hungry cupboards: 2 Formal employees: 1 Regular guild orders: Active Current financial condition: Stable, with caution Three-Month Accounts Total revenue: 11, 280 kamera Total expenses: 8, 580 kamera Profit retained: 2, 700 kamera Average daily revenue during the first month: 114 kamera Average daily revenue during the second month: 144 kamera Average daily revenue during the third month: 176 kamera Current average retained after daily expenses: 46 kamera Tax reserve: 550 kamera Operating reserve: 800 kamera Staff-retention fund: 400 kamera District-meals fund: 150 kamera Building improvements: 600 kamera Joe's personal share: 200 kamera Rent currently owed: 0 kamera Employees paid late: 0 Unexplained ginger found in payment box this month: 0 Established Magical Food Monster-boar fried rice: Supports ordinary physical recovery Silverleaf porridge: May support mana recovery Clarity tea: Supports focus Travel parcels: Preserved, warming, and mildly restorative Anniversary duck: Gentle warmth, eased aches, successful skin Private Progress Recovery bed: Functional World-tree dreams recorded: 3 Meaning of dreams: Unknown Hidden equipment project: Ongoing People told about hidden equipment project: 0 Anniversary Dinner Ducks tested: 3 Ducks served: 1 Cake supplied by Mara: 1 Cider bottles supplied by Amon: 2 Guests expected: 2 People seated: 3 Repair tools brought by Father: 0 Tables inspected by Father: Almost 1 Revenue earned during private dinner: 0 kamera Value assigned to the evening: Not entered in the ledger Evening result: Worth repeating