Then she’d kicked Lila out of her office before noon, shooing her back to the great house for lunch.
Lila didn’t complain; she’d intended to return all along.
She strolled back into the great house five minutes before noon and wiped her boots on the front mat, declining to surrender her blackcoat to Isabel. The workborn had been cleaning a vase when she entered. Isabel bowed nervously as Lila padded deeper into the house and closer to the worst sort of racket. The noise emanating from the kitchen rivaled the most petulant teenager’s room. A pop-punk tune blared through the speakers, each verse sung in French while the chorus blurred by in rapid-fire Spanish. Chef bobbed at the counter, tilting a large metal bowl, and whisked its contents in time to the beat. A bag of chocolate chips perched precariously on the edge of the counter.
Lila frowned, a bit annoyed that she had pressing business on the Wilson compound. One never missed Chef’s cookies.
Not ever.
Alex paused mid-chuckle from her perch on a barstool and turned down the music to a dull throb. “Chef’s making cookies.”
“I can see that.”
“Her cookies are so much better than Chef Louisa’s.” Alex’s fingers darted toward the bag for a chocolate chip.
“You can compliment me all you want. You’re still a vulture.” Chef smacked Alex’s knuckles with her whisk. Chunks of dough sprayed the counter.
“I stopped trying things like that when I was seven,” Lila said, and kissed Chef’s cheek. “Apparently you’re a slow learner, Alex. Chef’s sweet as sugar, but one does not steal nibbles from her.”
Alex slumped on her barstool and rubbed the back of her hand. “I take it back. Your cooking is horrible.”
“I wouldn’t say things you don’t mean. Chef has an annoyingly long memory.”
Chef measured out a space between her hands, then kept extending it and extending it.
“Yes, yes, I get it! Smartasses. Both of you.”
“I like our side better.” Lila grinned at Chef, peeking at the dough.
“I think Chef should open her own restaurant, don’t you, Lila? Then I could just buy her cookies no matter what I’ve said or done. She’d make twice the credits she makes now, maybe more.”
“I don’t have the money to go into business for myself.”
“I’ve told you a million times that I’d invest,” Lila reminded her, hopping up on the counter. “I’d even let you buy me out later as long as I get to eat free for the rest of my life.”
Chef fixed her with a glare, and Lila quickly abandoned the counter for a barstool. “Just say the word, and we’
ll go look at properties.”
“Why on earth would I do that? If I went bankrupt, I’d lose my mark.”
“So? Mother would buy you back in a heartbeat. She increased your salary by fifty percent after Chairwoman Holguín offered you a contract. There’s no way she’d let you go to someone else no matter how much anyone bid. You’d just have to stay with us for the rest of your life as a slave. How is that any different than now?”
“All I’d have would be pocket money from my slave’s stipend and no mark. I couldn’t even leave the compound or use a palm without permission. Owning a business is overrated. It’s a fool’s game, and I’m too old to play it.” Chef tossed a few handfuls of chocolate chips into the bowl and began to stir them into the dough.
“What if the Slave Bill passes?”
“What if it does? I’m happy where I am. My servant’s contract is exceedingly generous.”
“Yeah, but you’d be the boss,” Alex said. “No one would be able to tell you what to do or where to—”
“Except for every customer who comes through the door, complaining that their soup is too hot or too cold, that their entrée is too salty or not salty enough, that the cookies don’t have enough chocolate chips or that they have too many.”
“Blasphemy,” Lila interjected.
“Right now, I cook for the most influential family in all of Saxony, and not a one of them complains unless I cook liver.”
“Jewel complains all the time,” Alex pointed out.