“You gave me all that I would need/ And made my wishes true/ And every night to me you'd plead/ And I'd decline to you.” Vanilla slumped in his den, unfocused eyes staring at nothing, least of all the book he had thrown to the ground. He was scarcely listening to the record he had put on, a slightly-older recording by hippogriff folk crooner Heather Lea. He had found it by chance in a shop on the third terrace and fell in love with the slow and often-contemplative tunes, old and new.
“You are not helping very much today, Heather. That's very unusual.” He closed his eyes and stretched a bit. He needed the distraction. He had to take his mind from the fact that he was being quite cruel. He had not made breakfast, and was near on to not making lunch. He did not feel the gnaw of hunger; as a chef that was one of the first things to depart. But he was basely, and blatantly, depriving Dee Dee. And though a cold-hearted opportunist and seductress, she was still a pony, and an injured one besides. She needed food. She was in no way deserving of suffering like that.
“My book is worthless, and this music is even less than that.” His horn glowed and took the needle off of the record, leaving nothing but a pressing silence to fill the room, cutting off the final verse. “You were not the beast at all/ I fear my-”
He next dragged up the novel and slid it back into place on the shelf. “She'll lie to you too, Herpy. She probably already is. There are other mares and stallions and other things after her. What makes you so special?” The book spine, amid a line of similar ones, was completely silent.
Vanilla stared up at the ceiling. No complaints. No shrill cries, not even the thump of hooves taking her to the facilities or to complain. A mare like that would be on a rigid, servant-served schedule of food. Even in convalescence he had remained fairly regular in his cooking and serving. She must have been... devastated. Or imitating as much. There were no guarantees in the masquerades of the upper class.
Wordlessly, he slipped into the kitchen and looked over his supplies. He had plenty of everything ready to hoof. He owed more than a simple salad and glass of water. He had a bunch of spinach cut and sitting in the crisper. And he had... “No. Not for her. Not for her. … if not for her then why... did... I..?” He pulled the refrigerator open and removed a wrapped package. He slowly opened it up and looked down on the large lump of pale dough. Puff pastry. He had taken hours carefully rolling the layers out, adding butter in small amounts, folding, making layers over and over again. It would turn into a flaky treasure that practically melted in the mouth.
“You still can. You always could. But why did you never?” The package floated back into the refrigerator, and the spinach floated up and over to the counter, along with an onion and container of cream cheese. His santoku came out almost unbidden, drawn over by the grip of his horn and some motion of his own mind. The spinach went to pieces under the blows of the knife while he watched it happen, wondering what was the matter with his life.
Double was, at that moment, thinking about nothing. She had considered dosing herself to forget what she could not have and to silence the snarling beast that cried to be fed. A chemical haze to leave the swarm and Vanilla's refusal far behind, to hide her from her shame. She had failed to adapt and infiltrate. She had read all the signals wrong and presented the wrong face. She had shamed herself and her station.
But she would not. Easy solutions were fine for the thoughtless and weak. The ones to be culled. She was not fit to be culled. She would not be so. She was still strong, still cunning, still alive. But she needed time to think about something. Before that, she needed to think about nothing. The sting of failure and the gnash of hunger had to be drowned out. It was harder than she expected, given the clutching grumble of bodily hunger. Her stomach was empty. She had hardly noticed but it was long past the time of normal feeding.
“What have you done? You should have known better.” She opened her eyes and stared hard at the ceiling. So blatant and base. She thought that was the way. It should have worked. Odds were in her favor. But there still had been that sliver of a chance she was wrong. Her ill luck struck at the wrong moment. Like some of the upper terrace types, this one was not lustful and rapacious.
She had read him wrong because she assumed he was what he was not. He was also, by his own admission, no noble or elevated wealthy one. He was a chef. But she had assumed, by virtue of skill and good payment, he had become one of the wealthy elite.
“The infection is imperfect. Those useless parasites usually are so good at making more of their own, but they failed to turn this one into a similar thing. Like that blue-maned buffoon I could never seduce. Just the radiance of his feelings for that twig of a mare was delicious.” Double rubbed her stomach for a moment, then her head just below the horn.
Would he ever feed her again? She had insulted him on a deep level, and imposed herself on him in a most fundamental way. He could just leave her there, helpless, weak, growing weaker day by day, never realizing that she was draining two sorts of reserves. Could he? She had thought she knew him inside and out. But perhaps his generosity only stretched as far as his trust. And she had destroyed it completely.
The idea faded away before she had even finished fully contemplating it. Ponies were ponies. And the less like the upper terrace ponies they were, the more generous and open-hooved they were. However angry they may become, and however their trust may be battered, they would remain generous, especially to the helpless. She would not be forgotten. But, intentionally or not, she would pay for her mistakes with her hunger.
Her lower legs pulled up slightly as her back arched. Her belly felt so empty. She had always had a little something, whether it be honey in the swarm's living space or food served to the pony she was imitating. There was always plenty to keep her belly filled and her energy up.
“I know I don't deserve to be fed your love. But at least feed me more of your fancy salads.” Her body curled all the more. The memory of the rolls came back to haunt her. The sweetness, the buttery smoothness, the pure love, and smoky frustration. Love, restoring just a little of her supply. But the frustration telling her she had work to do. And she did it. That was where it all went wrong.
She still had work to do. But she could not force his hoof. He had to come to her, so she could supplicate herself to him. That would do the trick. If she could give the appearance of perfect submission and obedience then she could be acceptable in his eyes. It was perfect. Just what she needed. Proof she was still cunning, and a way to ensure he trusted her. Ponies were more likely to trust the helpless, innocent and completely harmless.
Her body calmed and her tension melted away. Even the gnaw of all her hunger from the void was quelled by the perfect peace that radiated from her after finding her next move. One that had no sliver of failure. It was all based on pony psychology, a subject with which she was intimately familiar.
Familiarity was the watchword with Vanilla at that moment as well. He was focusing on his tasks, as he always did, but it was starting to lose its luster, as ever. He wanted to be in control at all times. Yet all that control was creating nothing but tedium. The repetitive motions, the routine cuts, mixing and folding the minced onions and diced spinach into the cream cheese, with a dash of salt and pepper. Routine.
He rolled out his puff pastry slowly and carefully, smoothing it out into a long, thin sheet. He brought up his sharpest paring knife and swiftly slid it along the sheet, cutting the dough into large, regular triangles. Then a scoop of the mix onto each, which was then covered by folding the triangles over, the edges pressed down and sealed with a small dab of water and pressure.
The puffs went into the oven, while the stove top was lit up and set with a pot. He slowly stirred a portion of his favorite red wine vinegar, with a few sprigs of rosemary, basil and thyme floating in it. The reduction and infusion would take some time, but were, as usual, timed to perfectly coincide with the cooking of the spinach puffs. Even the tricky fiddly bits were routine and easy.
He was starting to repeat himself. Not in his cooking, he had never served Dee Dee the same thing twice. In the preparation. In any endeavor, there was practice involved, the repeated trying and trying in order to become a master of the craft. That was fine. But then there came the actual application. The big game, or a concert or an important dinner. In those moments, he had always heard of stress and uncertainty, the wild blind flying as skills were tested, to meet the challenges imposed by the circumstance.
That was not how things had been. It all felt like practice. A repetitive misery of focusing on all the same motions over and over again, every chop, cut, stir and fold. All the recipes in his memory reduced to a simply hoofful of motions. Mechanical activities. It was why each meal felt like practice, why all the passion had blown out of it. He was doing what muscle memory told him to do. That was, he surmised, why he held that focus, tedious as it was. It meant he was still in conscious control.
The time passed, as he expected, and following the skimming of the ingredients from the reduction he was done. The cream cheese spinach puffs were lovingly drizzled with the seasoned vinegar reduction and plated, with a further drizzle. He then bore them up to the second floor.
“My apologies for not bringing up breakfast. I was... very distracted with matters. As a means of apology, allow me to let you dine at the Chef's table.” Vanilla set down a modestly-sized table, with two plates of the puffs and a carafe of carrot juice.
“Oh my... this is very generous of you. Thank you.” She held the sheepish smile of a contrite individual. It was genuine and a disguise. She was sorry for having moved in the wrong way, and knew the thing to do was to appear as apologetic as possible. “It is a great honor to have the Chef's table. But is that not normally restricted to the kitchen?”
“It would have been rather improper to ask you to come down to the kitchen. I don't think you're quite there yet.” Vanilla gave a half-smile that was, unlike the many he had been using, genuinely enthused. “And I thought it would be a nice gesture, to make up for forgetting breakfast.”
Dee Dee manipulated a fork to cut into one of the puffs, unleashing a glorious aroma with the steam, which she inhaled with an almost rapturous delight. She had not realized just how much her missing of breakfast had affected her. It was almost frightening how much the mere smell of it moved her. “They smell delicious. I can only imagine...” She dragged the cut portion through the sauce and maneuvered the morsel into her mouth. She closed her eyes as she chewed, a symphony of flavors flowing over her tongue. “Glorious...” She whispered, after a slow swallow.
Vanilla could tell she was in earnest. No practiced mendacity could be so good. Another twinge of guilt ran through him, as he considered that she was probably so appreciative because she was quite hungry. “I'm glad you like it. It takes a bit of effort to get the puff pastry just right, but it's all worth it when it comes off like that.”
Dee Dee tasted the love. He had made that pastry with care, though what sort she didn't know. She just knew he had infused it with his feelings, unlike the rest of it. It was all delicious, of course, he never failed in that regard. But it was all a bit routine. Rather like the boiled mush some ponies complained about in lower-end restaurants, from an emotional context. “How do you manage to make such delicious things so regularly?”
“I have talent, and rigorous control,” He said, devoid of conceit. It was not a matter of ego, but fact. “I never let my focus waver, I never let myself be seduced by the easy solutions or the mechanistic shortcuts that might steal away what is mine.”
“Of course not...” Dee Dee said, after swallowing another bite and letting the sensation of bliss subside. “Of course you would not dare do such a thing. Though perhaps it is my ignorance of things chef-related. Do you mean 'mechanistic shortcuts' as in those clever devices to chop and mix?”
“No, no... those all serve a purpose. Every tool has a use.” Vanilla's slight smile fell into a hard look. “But I am not a tool. I am a pony. Sometimes my magic can almost take control and do all the jobs while I stand in the midst and let it happen. I cannot abide that. What reason do I have to be there if all I am is a conduit for this force?”
Dee Dee chewed and swallowed a few more times, to slake her hunger and taste the devotion while she thought carefully about what to say. Advice was a dicey business in most cases, but advice to a slighted figure was more so. She had a notion, but couldn't risk upsetting him more. But still... “Why not let it?”
Vanilla paused in his cutting of a puff, quickly looking up to the demure unicorn. “Why not... let what?”
“Why not let your magic take control and wield every tool and ingredient?”
“Because it is not me. I told you, if I am to be a conduit, what is it of me in it, what is it that requires I be there?”
“You practiced, for a long time, to get your skills. You put in the effort and trained hard, doing all the small jobs that made you into what you are.” Dee Dee hid her nervousness behind fast speech and a sip of carrot juice. She was describing herself. She understood professionalism, perfectly. “Your skill is so great you can do it all, standing at the center of the whole thing like a queen leading a swarm. Oh! Or like a... conductor... leading the orchestra! But even more than that. You are also playing every instrument, at once. Your skill shows in what you can do as the leader. Isn't that more impressive?”
Vanilla slowly dropped his utensils from his magical grasp, the field fading as he listened to the ersatz pony. “I never... considered that. It seems sensible... where does the magic come from? Me. The techniques became second nature. They are mechanical because I made them a part of me. Every action and motion is mine. I feel it inside and express it through my acts. And besides all that, I control the selection of the ingredients, the menu, all aspects are my domain. It is all me.” He smiled a bit to Dee Dee. “And it always was. They say it takes an outside perspective to make things clear. I see now that is true.”
Dee Dee gave a winning, if downcast, smile back, and toasted with her juice. “I only know frivolous things. But I also know you helped me. And if I have been unkind to know, understand it was only because things are different where I am from.”
“I know. I wasn't very kind to you either. I've worked in the same place from which you come. I know the rules. I should not have been surprised or reacted like I did.”
“It was not your fault, at all. I played a game I should not have. I expected a response that was not to be. I thought things of you... never mind. I know the kind of stallion you are now. I find that... touching. So different and unexpected.” Dee Dee daintily dabbed at the corners of her mouth. Confession was oddly suiting her. Admitting things to a point felt... good. She could let go, forget the playing and all the details. She could relax.
“You are certainly like none of the noblemares I knew before. And like few of the glamorfillies either. I could think of perhaps two or three of your like. If only I had known this about you before. We might have been much more comfortable.” Vanilla gave a loud laugh and started cleaning up the dishes. “Would you care you put in a dinner order, miss Dee Dee?”
Dee Dee covered a fillyish giggle with her hoof and waved Vanilla off. “No, no. You said it yourself. It is your domain. I just know you'll come up with something delicious.”
“Indeed I shall. I can promise you that much.” With a final smile, and a polite bow, Vanilla left the room.
Double spread out in bed once she was alone, rubbing at her belly. It was ever-so-slightly distended, and was no longer angrily demanding food. And the screaming void within, though never truly satisfied, was softened to more of a whisper by the feeling which had infused the meal. It wanted more. It would always want more. But she was content to a degree. Now her path was more stable.
Careful application of the truth, reasonable compromise and giving on matters, a friendly face and demeanor. It would all help her to last. She might even find her confinement pleasant, rather than tedious. With a friendly figure assisting her recovery she could avoid boredom and cabin fever. A smile spread across her alleged lips as heaviness overtook her eyelids. The food in her belly worked a drowsy magic on her, while she said, “Perfect...”
Down in the kitchen, with the pots and pans being washed, Vanilla flipped through his mental list of recipes, to find something suitable for an apology to somepony he had wronged. And as he recalled his own frustration and shortness of temper with her, he knew he had done it on purpose. Something of some quality would be necessary.
He thought back to the visit by the doctor, how he had cut up the bandage strips in a size like lasagne noodles. He had the semolina, and a very good pasta maker. He had plenty of tomatoes, seasoning and cheese. His eyes slowly closed, and he remembered his days as a plongeur at a modest little restaurant. The exact way to scrub a reduction pot to take off the traces of the previous sauce, as well as the amount of soaking time needed for all the other dishes. With a generous use of steel wool and a soft cloth he began to cut through the dishes, while his mind organized every step of the pasta, from the dough to the finished product.
When he was finished he could select the ingredients from the garden and then put his new liberty to work, to see if he could really just let go and be free with his control. As he completed his mental checklist, and noted that the dishes were completed, a smile spread over his face. “Perfect.”