Morning came with the sound of gulls wheeling over the cove.
Marron woke before dawn, her body refusing to sleep any longer despite knowing she'd need the energy later. The sky through the Seaglass Lounge windows was still wrapped in pale grey, but there was no rain. No mist. Just clear coastal air and the distant smell of baking bread from the royal kitchens.
She'd whispered a small prayer last night — not to any particular deity, just to the universe in general — that the weather would cooperate.
Apparently someone had listened.
She dressed in her chef's whites — the thick jacket with shiny silver buttons that the Queen had provided, complete with a nameplate that read Chef Marron in elegant script. It felt surreal. Official. Like she was someone who belonged in professional kitchens instead of someone who'd spent the last month proving herself in forest villages.
Fake it till you make it, she thought. Or — cook it till you make it.
Lucy was already awake, rolling excited circles around the room. "Big day! Big day!"
"Very big day," Marron agreed. She secured Lucy in her traveling jar — the slime had insisted on being present, even if she couldn't help with cooking directly.
Mokko appeared in the doorway, already dressed and holding a small basket. "Breakfast. You need to eat."
"I'm not—"
"Marron." His voice was gentle but firm. "You skipped breakfast yesterday. And the day before. Today you eat."
She took the basket. Inside: three warm rolls stuffed with spiced eggs and green herbs. Simple, portable, perfect.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
"You are welcome." He adjusted his glasses. "The sous chefs will already be in the kitchens. The Queen's attendants have been preparing the dining hall since before dawn. Everything is in motion. All you need to do is cook."
"All I need to do is cook," she repeated. It sounded simple when he said it.
It didn't feel simple.
The royal kitchens were already humming with controlled energy when Marron arrived.
The four sous chefs she'd trained over the past week moved with purpose — two wolfkin, two snakekin, working at adjacent stations without hesitation. They'd come a long way from the first day, when they'd eyed each other warily and stuck to their own sides of the kitchen.
Now they shared cutting boards, passed spice jars, tasted each other's preparations without a second thought.
Marina, the snakekin with emerald scales, looked up when Marron entered. "Morning, Chef. The pastry layers are prepped and resting. The fish is cleaned and ready for smoking. The citrus glaze components are measured out."
"Beautiful work," Marron said, and meant it.
One of the wolfkin — the one with the confident grin — saluted with a wooden spoon. "Sausage meat is portioned. Apples are diced. We're just waiting for your go-ahead to start the sauté."
Marron walked through the kitchen, checking stations, examining prep work. Everything was exactly where it needed to be. The herbs from both territories, sorted and labeled. The wines — both the young citrus white and the aged blueberry — chilling in the cold storage. The serving platters, polished to a mirror shine.
"Alright," she said, clapping her hands once to draw everyone's attention. "Last check before we start. You all know your stations. You know the timing. You know the menu."
Four heads nodded.
"But I'm going to say it again," Marron continued. "Talk to each other. If you see a problem, call it. Don't wait for me to notice. Don't wait for your partner to struggle. We've proven we work better together. Today we just do it faster."
Marina's mouth curved in a small smile. "Yes, Chef."
"And—" Marron paused, meeting each of their eyes in turn. "This is my first big service here. The Queen and Lord Jackal will be at the same table for the first time in thirty years. I can't do this without you. So I'm trusting you. Completely."
The younger snakekin straightened slightly. "We won't let you down, Chef."
The wolfkin grinned. "Besides, if anything goes wrong, we'll blame the weather."
That got a small laugh, and Marron felt some of the pressure in her chest ease.
"Alright," she said. "Stations. Let's get ready."
By mid-morning, the kitchen had found its rhythm.
The scent of roasting sausage and citrus glaze filled the air, curling into the hallways beyond. Marron could hear the distant sounds of the dining hall being prepared — footsteps, the clink of glassware, muted conversations.
Deliveries came through in steady waves: fresh bread from the cove's baker, extra pitchers of blueberry wine, last-minute garnishes. Each time the door opened, Marron's stomach tightened slightly.
"Chef," Marina called from her station. "Last tray of rolls going in now."
"Good. Keep them warm but not soggy," Marron replied, moving between stations, checking glazes, tasting sauces, adjusting seasonings.
Everything was perfect. Everything was ready.
She just had to not panic.
The Queen's attendant appeared in the doorway, posture ramrod straight. "The guests are beginning to arrive. You are to remain in the kitchen until Her Majesty calls for the first course presentation."
"Understood," Marron said.
The sous chefs exchanged glances, but the rhythm of prep didn't falter. Marron could feel the weight of the moment settling over the kitchen — the air going taut, like the whole palace was holding its breath.
She drifted toward the side door, unable to resist peeking down the corridor.
The grand dining hall was visible through the archway. Long table, polished to a mirror shine. Crystal goblets catching candlelight. The Two Crowns' banner — gold and indigo, Snake Queen and Lord Jackal's sigils woven together — hanging above the head table.
And then she heard footsteps. Two distinct sets.
The Queen appeared first, resplendent in deep blue, her golden scales sweeping the floor like a train. The crown on her head caught the light, emeralds gleaming.
The Lord Jackal followed — tall, broad-shouldered, his dark ceremonial cloak moving like liquid shadow. His expression was carefully neutral, but his eyes were sharp.
They stopped a few feet from each other.
The corridor didn't go silent, but it felt silent.
Marron saw the way the Queen's gaze lingered — assessing, almost wary. The way Lord Jackal's eyes softened just slightly when they met hers.
Neither spoke.
Marron's hand tightened on the doorframe. Then, very deliberately, she pulled the door closed.
It's going to be a long night, she thought.
She turned back to the kitchen, where her sous chefs were waiting, and took a steadying breath.
"Alright," she said. "Stations ready. First course plating begins in ten minutes. Let's make this perfect."
They moved into position, and Marron felt the familiar settling of focus that came before service. The nervous energy crystallizing into something sharper, more useful.
She'd cooked through isolation in Whisperwind. She'd brokered peace with a formal proposal. She'd worked herself to exhaustion and learned to ask for help.
She could do this.
The feast was about to begin.
And Marron was ready.