The Redwood Palace Read online

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Immortal

  Appropriate for Teens, Intriguing to Adults

  Immortal Works LLC

  1505 Glenrose Drive

  Salt Lake City, Utah 84104

  Tel: (385) 202-0116

  © 2019 M. K. Hutchins

  http://www.mkhutchins.com/

  Cover Art by Ashley Literski

  http://strangedevotion.wixsite.com/strangedesigns

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For more information email [email protected] or visit http://www.immortal-works.com/contact/.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-7339085-3-5 (Paperback)

  AISN B07T2TC9RW (Kindle Edition)

  To Eva, Lillian, Myra, and Dorothy

  Given that old Grandmother Sandpiper had fallen in her fire again, Father and I abandoned our regular route and hurried toward her house. He carried the bag of bandages and salves; I carried my satchel of cooking instruments and herbs.

  “Iris said her arm is the worst of it. What’ll she need for that, Plum?” Father asked. Even jogging down a lane, he tested me. Maybe it was force of habit.

  “Parsnips or kale will target the arm. Adding fish skin, vegetable peelings, hedgehog mushrooms, or onion will further target her skin. She’ll need sour for strength, which will dull the pain, and sweet for endurance to help her heal.”

  With how fast we were moving, I was grateful for the cool afternoon spring breeze on the back of my neck.

  “Ah, you make me feel old. Have you learned all I have to teach you?”

  “You’d be disappointed if I answered falsely, and now you bemoan that I answered well. Is it possible to please you?” I teased, a bit short of breath. Teasing helped me swallow the sour worry in the back of my throat.

  “I’m allowed to be cantankerous in my old age.”

  “When you reach old age, I might agree with you.”

  Sandpiper’s house came into view—we’d made good time. Both of us ran up the three creaking steps of Sandpiper’s porch, then Father called through the door, “Sandpiper! We’re here! May we come in?”

  “Of course, of course,” she replied, her voice muffled and tired.

  She cradled her arm against her chest, so I couldn’t see how bad the injury was. But the inside of her one-room house was worse than last time we’d come. It reeked of mice droppings and soot. Ashes from the hearth had spilled over the floor next to her crumpled mattress and bedding. Her lovely circular table, made from the cross-cut of a mid-sized redwood, was stained with bits of yesterday’s hotpot.

  “I’m so glad you came.” Sandpiper was ancient—older than my nana had been. She gave a shaky bow, then nearly toppled over as she tried to sit on her own rush mat. Father dashed forward and caught her.

  He gave me a look, and without further prompting, I opened all the shutters, letting in some light and spring air.

  “Your children need to take better care of you than this,” Father said.

  Her wrinkled, sagging face was as proud as any queen’s. “I thought you’d come to treat my burn, not meddle in my affairs.”

  She stuck her arm out. She’d clumsily wrapped it in a dirty dishtowel. Poor woman. Father was right—she needed more help from her children.

  He gently unwrapped the towel, revealing a raw, red wound the size of my fist. Bad, but it could have been worse. Much worse.

  “Plum, get the crock heating with some water while I clean this.” He pulled out a flask of diluted vinegar from his satchel.

  “Can’t you just bandage it?” Sandpiper eyed the canteen suspiciously. “I’m not so young I’ll believe you when you say it won’t hurt a bit.”

  I opened Sandpiper’s clay crock, but the smell of cold, moldering soup wafted out. How long had it sat there?

  Sandpiper rubbed the back of her neck and mumbled an embarrassed apology. While she was distracted, Father dampened one of his clean rags with the vinegar.

  “Hold still,” Father said.

  I tried to give Sandpiper what dignity I could by hurrying outside with the crock, but thanks to the open windows, I still heard her cursing my father’s Ancestors for his existence.

  Twice, I scrubbed the crock with sand, then rinsed it with water from her rain bucket. A clean crock is the foundation of cooking. Nothing tastes good with dirt in it. I scooped a cup of fresh water into the clean vessel then stepped back inside.

  Father and Sandpiper sat across from each other on her moldering rush mat.

  “But it will heal? If I’m careful not to bother it for a while?” Sandpiper asked.

  I pulled my favorite obsidian knife from my bag, unwrapped the rabbit skin protecting it, then grabbed a dried fish from Sandpiper’s pantry.

  “Sandpiper, you need to talk to your children. I can’t do that for you.” Father folded the dishrag she’d used for a bandage and set it aside. “Did they forget that you raised them, fed them, clothed them? It’s their turn.”

  Given the state of her home, it had been their turn for some time.

  She bristled. “You might be yellow-ranked, but don’t lecture me. I’m still older than you. My children don’t want me to bother them. They’ve made that clear.”

  She managed to keep the pride in her voice as she said that. I wished her willpower alone could change reality and make it so. Carefully, I scraped just the fish’s skin into the crock.

  “They might feel differently if they knew you’d burned your arm tending the fire.”

  She glared at my father, like she was debating throwing us out. Hastily, I finished prepping the food. I added a drizzle of sour-sweet blackberry molasses, then chopped up a parsnip and tossed it in. A pinch of salt and a thin slice of ginger followed, for balance. I shoved it onto the coals—I’d taste and reseason after it simmered.

  Then I grabbed a broom.

  “Stop that!” Sandpiper snapped at me. “You’re a chef, not a maid.”

  “I’m a very proud chef. I’m afraid I have to sweep,” I said with a melodramatic sigh.

  My father gave me a quiet, encouraging smile.

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Sandpiper said.

  “Of course it does. If you trip over something on the floor and bruise your hip, or get a cough because the air’s bad, what will happen to me? People will say I must no
t be good at cooking, because, why, Plum visited Grandmother Sandpiper the other day and now she’s worse off than before.”

  “Rubbish. You’re as good a chef as your father, and anyone who says otherwise hasn’t tried your food.”

  I shrugged. “Rumors burn through small towns like flames through chaff. Besides, a chef is supposed to support health and longevity. If I can do that while I wait for the crock to simmer, shouldn’t I?”

  She shook her head, but the tight lines around her eyes and mouth were already softening. “You’re going to marry into that former Master Chef’s family in Westbank, aren’t you? Then you’ll be an even better chef.”

  My stomach fluttered and my cheeks burned. Maybe. Maybe Sorrel’s father would accept the proposal my father had written. Then I could read their vast recipe library and use their greenhouse gardens. “You just proved my point about rumors and small towns. How’d you know that?”

  Sandpiper smiled, prim and smug at the same time.

  “Fine, fine, keep your secrets. I’m just glad we’ve agreed that if you don’t like me sweeping your floor, you’ll have to talk to your children about helping you, instead.”

  Sandpiper reluctantly nodded—she’d do it. Good.

  “I can’t believe you look so calm about it,” Sandpiper said. “I’d be in knots if I was waiting for a response.”

  I swept the crumbs and dust out the front door. “Well, the courier’s still a week out from Clamsriver. Not much point in working myself up now, is there?”

  My father hurried to the hearth. His voice sounded oddly tight. “How’s that soup coming?”

  “Courier’s supposed to come tomorrow,” Sandpiper said. “Who told you Elek would take so long?”

  The bottom of my stomach dropped away. Tomorrow? Tomorrow?

  My father sampled the broth. “Perfectly seasoned, as always, Plum,” he said, far too innocently.

  I pursed my lips. I couldn’t question him here with Sandpiper listening.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I demanded outside. We stood behind Sandpiper’s house, away from the road, where only her pen of ducks could eavesdrop.

  The spring wind wasn’t cold, but goosebumps still ran up my arms.

  “Because I knew you’d fret. Master Chef Yarrow’s response might not come tomorrow.”

  He left unspoken another possibility: it might not be good news.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have written Chef Yarrow in the first place. He’s green-ranked, Plum. I don’t know how he’ll take my suggestion.”

  I fiddled with the ends of my sleeves—they draped half-way to my elbow. Yellow-ranked sleeves, a rank below Green. The rank of an honored citizen able to hold a number of lesser offices. Like that of village chef.

  Father squeezed my shoulder. “Sandpiper’s right. You’re a brilliant chef, and if Yarrow turns you down as a daughter-in-law, he’s a fool.”

  “Is he a fool?” I asked. Father had served under him in his youth, when he worked as an apprentice in the palace kitchens.

  “I hope not. But there’s nothing we can do now but wait.”

  For the rest of the day, I could think of little but the coming letter. I made sweet cranberry tea for Amari, who was expecting her fourth child next month. Then Father grilled sweet slices of acorn squash, right on the coals, for Hifal’s cough. We aided a dozen houses before evening, then briefly stopped at a dozen more to taste their suppers and adjust the seasonings.

  We’d nearly reached the porch of our house when someone screamed—it came from the gardens. Father and I ran.

  Mother lay sprawled on her side in the garden, trying to push herself upright with one arm and failing.

  Father reached her first. “What happened?”

  “My back...” She winced in pain, struggling through the words. “It seized up again.”

  My stomach churned. Last time—three days ago—she’d promised us she wouldn’t push herself.

  Fear and worry lined Father’s face. “You can’t heal if you don’t give yourself time to recover.”

  “I just had a few things to do,” she protested weakly.

  What a hypocrite I was—I’d silently criticized Sandpiper’s children for not taking care of her, and here my own mother was lying in the mud. Father helped her sit, then the two of us lifted her upright.

  “You’re supposed to let Dami do the hard work,” Father said. I wasn’t sure if he was chiding her or apologizing for her poor health.

  He didn’t bother asking where Dami was. My sister often ran off in the middle of the day. I glanced at the mighty redwood forest that bordered our home, but of course I didn’t catch any glimpse of her in the shadows of those giants. She knew how to hide better than that.

  “It was important,” Mother protested as we helped her up the porch. She loved that garden; anything wrong within its boundaries was a crisis.

  “You are important,” Father insisted.

  I slid the paper-backed, lattice-screen door open with one hand. Together, Father and I got her into her room and onto her mattress.

  “I’ll go cook,” I offered. “You stay with her.”

  Father nodded. He trusted me.

  It was early to harvest the rhubarb, but I cut a few slender stalks from the garden anyway, washed them, and took them into the kitchen. The warm, nutty aroma of buckwheat twined through the air, mixing with wood oil, ash, and dried herbs. The shelves of knives and crocks stood as neat and clean as we’d left them.

  I simmered up some thin-sliced sweet-and-sour rhubarb and delivered it to Mother. I stayed long enough to see the pain disappear from her face, then returned to make a simple hotpot for Father and me.

  I needed the familiar, soothing movements of cooking. I tossed dried peas and smoked trout into a large crock. Both ingredients mildly targeted the torso, making this a good dish for already healthy people. My parents had considered hiring a girl from the village to help Mother, but they were too proud to actually do it. Especially with Dami at home and capable of the work.

  After the hotpot simmered, I tasted it. Not balanced yet. I sprinkled in some dried parsley, letting its bright acidity bring out the best of the peas and trout.

  When I left, if Sorrel agreed to marry me, I’d have to convince my parents that saving Mother’s back was more important than saving face. Father would be working longer days without me to assist him.

  I poured the first ladle of hotpot into the loveliest bowl in our home—white clay glazed with brilliant buttercups. I brought it to Father, and he placed it in our family shrine for our Ancestors. Then the two of us ate in the kitchen.

  We didn’t speak much—a comment here or there about the food and the cool spring weather. I couldn’t tell if he was thinking about Dami, Mother, or my possible engagement. My thoughts swirled between all three.

  When he went to bed, the shadowy blue of twilight blanketed the sky. I stepped out into the garden to see what Mother had been doing. Weeding. Of course. She loved these plants, from the humble radishes to the glorious azaleas she’d carefully transplanted from the forest. Mother was perceptive-of-touch, and gardening had always been a tactile joy for her. She loved her plants almost as much as her children.

  I knelt in the mud and finished her work. Still no sign of Dami.

  Pre-dawn darkness clung between the redwood trees, thick and syrupy as blackberry molasses. I stood on the porch, rubbing my chill fingers together, looking out in the direction the courier would come from, if he came today. My stomach felt like over-kneaded dough. Down the road in the village, bits of hearth light shone through the windows like stars fallen to the earth.

  Most days, I’d just be waking up now, but I couldn’t sleep. I’d already hauled four buckets of water from our well, started a crock of buckwheat on the hearth, and scrubbed the kitchen. Twice.

  Half an hour until sunup. Plenty of time to busy myself setting up a picnic for breakfast. Fresh air might do Mother good, after yesterday.

  I headed to the kitchen and st
arted a crock of salmonberry tea with a few dried rosehips thrown in. A warm drink would be welcome on a morning like this, and it might ease my anxiety—salmonberries and rosehips both targeted the stomach, and sweet granted endurance.

  Time to lay out the picnic. I wrestled our low table off its tightly-woven thrush mat, then carried the mat outside and spread it on the broadest part of our porch. It wasn’t my fault that the broadest part also faced the road.

  Heading back to the kitchen, I ran into Dami. Her lush, obsidian-black hair hung like a curtain, half-obscuring her face. Strong-of-arm, she carried our table flat on one hand.

  “You’re awake,” I said, surprised. I didn’t know how late she’d come home.

  Dami yawned. “You’re in the way.”

  I stepped back. Dami plopped the table down on the mat like it was as light as a basket of bluebells. That polished, circular slab of redwood probably weighed twice as much as me.

  “Thank you.” I wondered how to diplomatically tell her about Mother’s collapse. Not that such problems in the past had convinced her to worry about Mother, let alone help. “You couldn’t sleep either?”

  “Nope. Who broke and told you the courier’s due today?”

  I flinched. Apparently Father had enlisted the family’s help in his conspiracy.

  But Dami wasn’t waiting for my answer—she glowered at the empty road into Clamsriver. She looked like something out of a painting, with her moon-round face and dark eyes scorning the world. “Stupid courier.”