Chapter 2 - The Queen of Burned Biscuits
The three months that followed were a war of attrition.
Evie didn't just cook; she invaded.
She brought in small pots of herbs that she lined up on the windowsill.
She played jazz music on a small radio that she refused to turn down.
She sang—badly—while she scrubbed the heavy cast-iron pans.
My captains, men who had seen blood and fire without blinking, started lingering in the hallway.
They weren't there for orders.
They were there for the smell of cinnamon rolls and the chance to hear her tell a joke.
But I remained in the shadows.
I stayed in my study, winding Claire's watch, watching the fog.
Until that afternoon.
I had been in a meeting with the heads of the coastal distribution.
The tension was high.
A shipment had been seized, and someone was going to pay for the mistake.
The room was silent, the air thick with the threat of violence.
Then, a sound erupted from the kitchen.
It wasn't a scream.
It was a thud, followed by a high-pitched giggle.
I stood up, my chair scraping harshly against the floor.
"Wait here," I told my men.
I walked toward the kitchen, expecting an intruder or an accident.
What I found was far worse.
The kitchen looked like a flour mill had exploded.
White dust hung in the air like a localized fog.
In the center of it stood Evie.
She had dough stuck to her elbows.
She had a smudge of flour on her nose that made her look like a confused kitten.
And on her head, she was wearing my largest stainless-steel mixing bowl.
She was staring at a tray of biscuits that looked like charred hockey pucks.
"I did it," she whispered, her voice trembling.
"Did what?" I asked, my voice cracking the silence.
She looked at me, and instead of being afraid, she beamed.
"I have finally achieved the impossible, Silas."
"I have created the world's first edible charcoal."
She struck a pose, the bowl wobbling on her head.
"Bow before the Queen of Burned Biscuits!"
It hit me then.
The absurdity of it.
The way she stood there, covered in failure and flour, looking happier than anyone I knew.
The pressure in my chest—the weight I’d carried since the night Claire went into the fog—suddenly snapped.
A sound came out of my throat.
It was rusty.
It was awkward.
It was a laugh.
And once it started, I couldn't stop it.
I laughed until my sides ached.
I laughed until the tears blurred my vision.
I laughed because for one beautiful, ridiculous second, the ghost of Claire wasn't the only thing in the room.
Evie was there.
She was alive.
And she was wearing a bowl.
I didn't see my captains standing in the doorway.
I didn't see the housekeepers stopping their work.
I only saw her.
"Don't you dare apologize for sounding alive," she said, her voice soft and serious.
The laughter died down, but the warmth stayed.
"Those biscuits are a crime against humanity," I said, wiping my eyes.
"They're a statement," she countered, adjusting her bowl-crown.
"A statement that says even the Queen can have a bad Tuesday."
I looked at her, and for the first time, I didn't see a cook.
I saw a woman who was slowly, methodically, tearing down the walls of my fortress.
"Clean this up," I said, trying to regain my authority.
"Yes, your Majesty," she chirped.
I turned to my captains, who were still staring at me like I’d grown a second head.
"Back to the study," I barked.
"We have work to do."
But as I walked away, I didn't feel like a boss.
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I felt like a man who might, one day, be able to breathe again.
***
