The Taste of Truth

By Jessica Wilcox

Laira, head chef to the Elven Courts this Solstice Night, stood at the center like the calm eye of a culinary storm. The palace kitchen buzzed with enchantment. Silver trays floated midair, spice jars rearranged themselves with murmured direction.

She adjusted her mask, a simple porcelain half-face glazed in pearled ivory, and surveyed her team. Her dress was darker than most ball attire, slate-blue and cut for movement, with an apron of charmed cloth that repelled stains. Her hair was pinned back, her cheeks flushed with the heat of the ovens, and she was acutely aware that though she blended in better than usual tonight, she was still not one of them.

Not tall enough. Not slim enough. Not elegant enough.

But her food spoke for her. And tonight, it had to sing.

The Solstice Ball was the most prestigious event in the elven calendar, and she had been hired to cater it—her first royal commission. The young prince, newly of age and eager to impress, had insisted on “a modern touch.” That meant her.

From the edge of the kitchen doorway, Laira caught a glimpse of the ballroom through the archway. Light spilled like honey across marble floors. Floating globes glimmered above, casting soft hues of spring across shimmering gowns and tailored tunics. Illusion magic wove gently through the air, just enough to enhance color, mask blemishes, soften voices.

And there, at the top of the great white marble staircase, stood the prince himself—nervous, stiff in posture, greeting guests as they entered.

Beside him, leaning against the carved banister with the casual grace of someone who gave not one fig about court expectations, was Keane, uncle to the prince, former diplomat and rumored heartbreaker.

His mask was obsidian edged in gold, his dark hair touched with silver at the temples. As he scanned the room below, his gaze paused on the archway—on her.

Their eyes met. He tilted his head slightly. A silent toast. Then he turned back toward the ball, as if nothing had passed between them.

Laira exhaled and stepped back into the kitchen. Whatever flirtation that might have been, she didn’t have time for it. Not tonight.

She moved through the prep line, checking trays. “Make sure the citrus-glazed pufflets stay warm but not hot. They’ll wilt,” she said. “And for moon’s sake, someone check the placement of the elderberry tarts. Last time they got served upside-down and caused a minor scandal.”

A junior server hesitated at the edge of the door. “Chef? There’s… there’s a guest who asked to speak to you. About the wine selection.”

Laira frowned. “I don’t handle drink. That’s the sommelier’s job.”

“She insisted.”

Reluctantly, Laira followed the server into the corridor just outside the ballroom. A tall woman in a shimmering green gown stood with her back to them, mask shaped like curling ivy leaves. When she turned, her eyes sparkled with amusement. Or condescension.

“Chef Laira,” said Lady Virelle, her tone silky. “I just wanted to compliment your work. I’ve heard you’re terribly accomplished… for someone without any magical pedigree.”

Laira’s spine straightened. “Thank you, my lady.”

“And I noticed the wine selection. A bold pairing with your early courses—especially the elderflower white. Unusual. Are you sure it won’t overpower the lighter canapés?”

“It was chosen to cut the richness of the goat cheese mousse,” Laira replied evenly.

Lady Virelle smiled thinly. “Of course. I suppose you’d know best.”

She swept away, gown trailing. Laira watched her go, unease crawling at the edges of her thoughts.

Back in the ballroom, guests began to behave oddly. One nobleman giggled at nothing and dropped his glass. Another stood rigid, eyes distant. A woman stumbled on the stairs.

Then the music screeched to a halt.

The prince stepped forward, panic masked in formality. “Stop the service. Something is wrong.”

He turned, scanning the room. “Where is the chef?”

Laira stepped into the light, chin high. “Here.”

“Explain this,” the prince demanded. “People are fainting. Laughing at shadows. What did you put in the food?”

The room simmered with unease.

“I put excellence in the food,” she said coolly. “Whatever is causing this, it didn’t come from my kitchen.”

Gasps. Whispers. Suspicion spread like spilled wine, fast, staining everything it touched.

Then—Keane stepped from the side of the stairs, hands folded behind his back, voice like velvet over steel.

“If you’re going to make accusations, nephew,” he said, “perhaps let the accused speak. Or shall I help her get to the truth?”

Laira met his eyes again.

This time, she didn’t look away.

***

The kitchen, moments ago a masterpiece of efficiency, had become a war room.

Laira stormed in first, ripping the ribbons from her sleeves and tossing her apron onto a hook. Keane followed at a slower pace, unhurried, the glint in his eyes betraying curiosity more than concern.

“I can’t believe he did that in front of the entire court,” she snapped, hands already moving—untying trays, examining storage seals. “Accuse me without tasting so much as a damn canapé.”

“He’s young,” Keane said. “And nervous. And entirely wrong.”

She paused. “You’re awfully calm for someone who just watched half the royal guest list go glassy-eyed.”

“I’ve lived through three coups and a troll infestation. Mild mind magic at a dinner party hardly cracks the top ten.”

Laira snorted, despite herself. Then she grabbed the delivery log and flipped it open.

“The food is clean,” she muttered. “We prep everything in-house. If there’s a spell in play, it didn’t come from my kitchen.”

Keane’s gaze lingered on the crates lining the pantry. “What about the wine?”

She froze. “It arrived late. Crates were sealed with a palace sigil, so I didn’t think—”

He stepped forward, knelt beside one of the unopened bottles, and passed his hand an inch above the cork. A faint shimmer sparked, then died.

“That’s glamour residue,” he said quietly. “Subtle, but not benign.”

Laira swore under her breath.

They opened another. This one gave off a faintly sweet, earthy scent—wrong for an elderflower vintage. She touched the rim with her finger, then tasted a drop.

“Fennel. Myrrh. Something bitter underneath,” she said. “It’s not in the wine itself. It was added.”

Keane raised an eyebrow. “You can taste enchantment?”

“I can taste everything,” she said flatly. “It’s my job.”

He grinned. “Remind me never to lie to you over dinner.”

They moved quickly after that. Laira drafted a list of herbs with grounding properties—bitterroot, fireleaf, sobering sage—and began working them into small tartlets and cordial shots, using savory and sour flavors to cut through whatever haze the hex had spread.

Keane rolled up his sleeves, helping without needing direction. He fetched, chopped, and stirred without complaint, though he ruined three pastry shells before Laira nudged him gently aside.

“Stick to garnishes,” she teased. “You’re prettier than you are useful.”

“I’ll take that as flirting,” he said smoothly, brushing an herb against the back of her neck as he passed.

She shivered despite herself.

As the first tray of antidote-infused pastries cooled, Laira leaned against the counter, brushing flour from her fingers. “This is calculated,” she said. “Someone enchanted the wine to disrupt the ball—but not to kill. A glamour-siphon, maybe. Pulling clarity, focus. Feeding on attention.”

“Making everyone too dazed to notice if something… shifted,” Keane mused.

Laira nodded. “Someone wants power. Or cover.”

Keane frowned. “Lady Virelle?”

“She was sniffing around the wine earlier. Asked too many questions. But I’m not convinced. She’s smug, but not stupid. If it’s her, she has a back door planned.”

“What about those peacock twins? Aluren’s boys. I saw them swapping glasses and whispering before the first stumble.”

“They’re idiots, not saboteurs.”

“And the woman in the fox mask?”

Laira hesitated. “She’s not eating anything. Just… watching.”

Keane leaned closer, one hand on the counter beside hers. “How do you always sound so certain when you’re thinking out loud?”

She looked up at him. “Because I am.”

A charged silence stretched between them.

His eyes, sharp and dark, flicked to her lips. “You’re covered in flour.”

She raised a brow. “You’re the one hovering near a hot oven like it’s a stage.”

He laughed softly. “Then maybe I’m just trying to get burned.”

And then he kissed her.

It started gentle—curious. His lips brushed hers once, twice, testing. She answered with a low hum of satisfaction, hands curling into his sleeves, pulling him closer. The heat between them rose like warm dough, impossible to stop, hungry now, mouths opening, breath catching.

He lifted her onto the edge of the prep counter, and she gasped against his mouth as her legs wrapped instinctively around his waist.

His hands found her hips. Hers threaded into his hair.

The kitchen door banged open.

They broke apart instantly.

A sous-chef blinked in, spotted them, and turned around with mechanical precision. “I’ll tell the Prince you need another minute,” he muttered, disappearing again.

Laira flushed, breathless. “We are not doing this in front of the mushroom risotto.”

Keane, still inches from her, smiled. “Noted.”

They steadied themselves, straightened clothes, and re-focused.

“Let’s start with the nobles least affected,” Laira said, regaining control. “Anyone who didn’t drink the wine won’t be compromised. That might narrow our list of suspects.”

“Smart,” Keane said. “Also, I’m going to need the recipe for that tart.”

She threw him a look. “Which one?”

“The one that made me lose my mind for ten seconds.”

A grin tugged at her mouth. “You’ll have to earn it.”

***

By the time they returned to the ballroom, the crowd had shifted from dazzling to dazed.

Some guests clung to the edges of the room, pale and blinking. Others still meandered across the marble floor, laughing softly to themselves or weeping into embroidered sleeves. The staircase gleamed under faelight, but even the music—once light and glittering—had faded to a strained, off-key hum.

Laira entered with a silver tray of small citrus pufflets dusted in bitterroot and sage crystals. Keane walked beside her, holding cordial glasses filled with her herbal counteragent.

“Let them take it voluntarily,” she murmured. “No force. Just gentle suggestion.”

He nodded and passed the first cup to a nearby courtier whose eyes had gone glassy. “For your nerves,” Keane said gently. “Courtesy of the kitchen.”

The man blinked. Drank.

Within seconds, he swayed, shook his head—and stood taller. “That’s… remarkably effective,” he muttered, blinking in surprise.

Keane flashed a grin. “Told you so.”

One by one, the guests were served—by hand, by tray, by quiet magic. Slowly, the fog lifted. Conversations resumed. Laughter grew natural again. The prince, looking both sheepish and relieved, nodded cautiously from the base of the staircase.

But something still gnawed at Laira’s instincts.

The spell wasn’t completely gone. She could feel it humming—dull, hungry, waiting. Somewhere nearby, its anchor still held.

She touched Keane’s arm. “We need to finish this.”

He turned toward her, solemn now. “Then step back.”

He raised both hands, fingers splayed. “Virellian Lux: Reveal what hides. Break what binds. Show me what steals clarity.”

Silver light flared from his palms and burst outward in a silent wave.

The ballroom responded instantly.

Several guests staggered as their masks flickered, revealing small illusions—nothing sinister, just harmless glamours.

The peacock-masked twins yelped as their elaborate feathers collapsed into mundane velvet. They glared around, clearly indignant but unenchanted.

The fox-masked woman blinked, startled—then shimmered. Her entire figure warped and dissolved, revealing a hollow glamour. Just an image. A decoy.

Laira’s heart leapt.

Then—a flare of violet light erupted from across the ballroom. Lady Virelle’s mask cracked down the middle, a jagged seam of light splitting it in two.

Gasps rippled through the guests. Virelle stumbled backward, one hand on her face.

“No—no!” she hissed, grabbing the mask as it pulsed in her palm. A sliver of crystal embedded in the inner lining glowed bright and malevolent.

“Hex crystal,” Keane said quietly. “That’s our siphon.”

Laira stepped forward, eyes hard. “You laced the wine to make them pliant. You were drawing off clarity and charisma—feeding it into that thing.”

Virelle snarled. “You have no idea how much power I need to hold this form.”

“And no idea how much power it takes to make a good tart,” Laira shot back. “But here we are.”

Virelle reached for a spell—too slow. Keane murmured a binding incantation and a shimmer of gold wrapped around her wrists.

Guards stepped in.

The prince looked pale but resolute now. “Take her to the cells. She’ll answer for this.”

The ballroom buzzed back to life as if shaking off a bad dream.

Laira stepped away from the spotlight, cheeks flushed, dress a little wrinkled, shoes sore from the hours.

Keane found her near the kitchen doors.

“You know,” he said softly, “I don’t think it was the wine that made me lose my head back there.”

Laira arched a brow. “What was it then?”

He leaned in.

“You.”

***

The final guests were filtering out, their laughter echoing softly under the moonlit arches. Magic still glimmered faintly on the chandeliers, but most of the glamour had faded, leaving only tired nobles and a palace that suddenly felt very large.

Laira slipped back into the kitchen, hands braced on the worktable, her mask finally set aside. A few staff remained—cleaning, organizing—but the rush was over. Her hair had come loose, flour dusted her sleeves, and her feet ached like they always did after a feast.

She hadn’t even had dessert.

The door creaked behind her.

Keane stepped in, holding two small honey pastries on a silver plate.

“I saved the last ones,” he said. “Thought you might not get to taste your own brilliance.”

She smirked. “I was too busy saving the party.”

He offered her one. “So was I. Which clearly makes us a team.”

She took it, brushing his fingers. “That’s one word for it.”

He leaned against the table, watching her. The light in the kitchen was softer now, flickering with gentle firelight and the distant hum of cooling wards.

“Most people in this palace would kill to wear a mask forever,” he said. “You… you only ever wore one because you had to.”

Laira turned toward him, the pastry untouched in her hand. “You always talk like you’re writing poetry on the fly.”

“I only do that when I mean it.”

She stepped closer. “So mean it.”

He did.

The kiss this time was slower, but deeper—an affirmation instead of a question. His hands slid around her waist, pulling her flush against him. Her fingers curled into his collar, and for once, she let herself lean into his warmth, the attention, the want of it all. Like drinking hot broth on a cold day.

He tasted of clove and honey and maybe—her.

When they finally broke apart, breathless, he rested his forehead against hers.

“When this night began, I was surrounded by enchantments… but the only real magic I found was you.”

He kissed her again, deeper this time—no masks, no doubt.