Was really hoping it wouldn't be four months before I updated this again, but this chapter was a BEAR! mostly because i did not expect it ^^ this one kinda cme out of the blue but it gave me a chance to explore one of my favorite characters and bring them into this story and also set up a huge part of the sequel :)

I actually finished this month ago, but my poor geta had final exams, and this chapter went through SO MANY edits...it was unreal!

so without further ado,,,,the next chapter of Timaeus!

Chapter LXVII: Cook

Bakura grinned triumphantly at the breakfast spread out before her: fish fingers crisped brown in breadcrumbs recycled from supper's leftovers, bowls of fresh berries with sweet cream pudding accompanied by eggs boiled soft, and loaves of fresh bread dripping with honey and butter. Apple cakes fresh from the oven cooled on the table, filling the air with a crispy, cinnamon-scented smoke. A large pot of mint tea and a freshly brewed batch of strawberry and dandelion cordial finished off the meal.

She didn't always cook fish for the morning meal. Some days she cooked apple and cheddar biscuits, or sweet buns filled with fruits and nuts. Other days she'd bake porridge, or hasty pudding with a side of spiced pears, and once a fortnight there might be sausage or a rescuer of bacon.

Shaking out her long, salt-white hair, she took three cakes for herself. The taste of sweet honey and bits of spiced apples filled her mouth. Delicious! The cook grinned and swept her gaze around the rooms that were her kingdom.

A series of enormous stone rooms just off the Great Hall, the kitchens were a hazy with the smell of cooked meats and fresh breads. Stew boiled over an open flame on the stove, thick with juicy vegetables and bleeding chunks of various animal meats. A massive fireplace dominated nearly the entire of the opposite wall where a cauldron and several kettles sat proudly in one of the two stone hearths; heat from the hearth, stove, and the hot springs below kept the rooms perpetually warm. Copper pots and steel tools hung from an iron chandelier above the large table that dominated the heart of the room. Knives, cutting boards and empty bowls in need of cleaning piled next to apple skins, heads of carrots and the remains of sliced vegetables crowded the space. Large baskets of fruits and vegetables in no danger of spoiling provided extra storage beneath the table, and a door off to the left opened to the darling herb garden between the kitchens.

The kitchens of the Palazzo were its own secret world, and she was the keeper of it. Masks were removed and personalities were revealed upon entrance. Dreams were fantasized while gazing out the tall windows of the easternmost wall that overlooked the back orchard, then ruined beneath the weight of the overcrowded wall shelves. Proposals were given in the view of the open hearth, and rendezvouses were consummated in the privacy of the pantry. Preferences and aversions alike were discovered amongst the bushels of dried herbs, the strings of onion, and the garlic hanging from the rafters. Notes were passed beneath the long, low tables that acted as work stations and extra storage, and secrets were told in between preparations for pastries and bread. Rumors began with breakfast, gossip spread with dinner, reputations were ruined by dessert; all things delicious and desirable were created and destroyed—and of all this, she was Mistress.

The Magistrate may rule the house, plan the meals and supervise the staff, but it was she who was privy to the kitchens' secrets and powers. The success or failure of a lavish ball, a private dinner party, or a meeting with powerful peoples depended entirely on her food. A wise Magistrate knew how to use the cook as an ally; a poor one foolishly made her an adversary. Bakura, however, had no idea which of these the new Magistrate was.

It had been a long time since the Palazzo had a true Magistrate to organize things, but the Magister refused a dutiful marriage. She certainly never expected him to bring home a Kemet prince who—rumor had it—stole the Dragon Knight's heart with his pretty eyes and dark powers.

Bakura met those fanciful rumors with a diminutive snort. She knew well the inconsistent and fantastical nature of gossip, yet it had been over a decan since the Trierarch returned home—nearly half of one since the end of his Redamancy—and not once since had the new Magistrate sought Bakura.

What could she possibly do with a mistress still green?

A chorus of chatter announced the arrival of the morning servants.

With ruthless efficiency, Bakura flapped around the room, gathering ingredients and barking random orders. She returned to the still-messy table and started work on the vegetables. Carrots, mushrooms and tomatoes disappeared under the blade of a kitchen knife only to reappear decimated in a sliced salad, then dumped into the still-simmering stew. "Someone fetch cheese from the spring house! You, there, loaves, now! We're going to have hearty stew for dinner! We'll need potatoes, carrots and green onions! Chicken and cheese biscuits too! Check the smokehouse and see if there's any more bacon and—put those shallots down you daft wench!" she yelled, causing one girl to jump, a cook to whimper, and a young page girl's hands to tremble. "When I say green onions, I mean green onions! Oh, nevermind, give me that! Start some tarts instead! Lemon tarts, I think. And make sure to use up the last of those berries—and fetch me some strawberry preserves!" The servants scurried toward the spring house and root cellars outside.

The morning staff piled in and out, dividing up portions of the morning meal and bringing them out to the Great Hall tables or taking them to those either too busy or too pompous to come down. Two women stroked the enormous hearth fire; wisely, they wore leggings beneath their skirts. The rest set to work: some gathered ingredients, cleared off the massive table, brought dishes to the washing sink in the corner, peeled vegetables and apples, and began making dough for breads and tarts. Others grabbed baskets and buckets, tossing vegetable remains into the garden, harvesting ripe plants, bringing up potatoes and carrots from the root cellar, and replenishing the spring water, goat milk and duck eggs Bakura had used up to fix breakfast. She surveyed them all with a critical eye—and caught someone tip-toeing towards the garden door.

A tiny wisp of a thing in a gray hood; Bakura nearly missed her, but she took note of her empty hands and the careful, quiet way her slippers toed the floor.

With a storm in her step, Bakura ceased her work. The workers parted, knowing her stride: quick, long-legged and angry.

The wisp's hand had just curled around the door handle when she spoke, her velvety rasp dripping with flamboyant derision. "And just where do you think you're going?"

The wisp jumped into the air with a swallowed shriek and whirled around. Wisp suited her, Bakura thought. She was a small thing, yet supple and slender as the curve of a wild flower, or perhaps a willow tree. Something about the light, lithe way she stepped told Bakura she was a dancer. Long slender fingers and delicate hands gripped tightly at the hood that concealed her hair, but there was a strength in their curl, their grip, the dexterity in her wrists and hands, that made them perfect for crushing herbs, wrapping bandages or stirring stews.

Sunshine yellow bangs peeked out from beneath her hood and curled cutely about a round, sweet face—a pretty face, she could admit: rounded cheeks tapered to a heart, honey gold skin spoke of hot sands and desert skies, and wide, expressive eyes were the deep blue of night skies or twilight seas. Those same eyes were wide and mortified with shock; those round cheeks were flushed with it. She blushed prettily, Bakura thought with dull resentment. Petty, but prettiness did not excuse shirking duties, and it certainly didn't grant any special privileges. If this little waif thought that was so, then she was in for a rude awakening of what Bakura required of her staff.

"Well?" the cool cook demanded. "Not sneaking off, are you? I'll have no miscreants in my kitchens." She annunciated the word with a special pride and enough force to command all in the kitchens to turn towards them.

The waif's eyes darted around, suddenly becoming aware they were being watched, and her color darkened. Good. Bakura thought it best to put the pretty Miss in her place now and let that be the end of it.

"Um?" the girl stuttered as if the words didn't fit on her tongue.

Bakura arched a brow and repeated herself in Cannanite. Now, the lass' eyes enlarged with understanding and Bakura understood. "You're a foreigner, then." It wasn't a question. She recalled the Magister's command that everyone speak the common tongue until the Magistrate learned the Locrian dialect; this one must've been part of the dowry.

"Well," she huffed as she snatched the girl by the back of her shoulder and gestured her deeper inside with a diminutive shove. She stumbled under Bakura's superior strength, though she suspected it was more out of startlement than clumsiness. "I'll make it quick: I am Bakura, the Cook, Mistress of the Tables and Hearth, and the one who is responsible for what everyone in this Palazzo eats," she boasted proudly, keeping the waif in front of her in case she dared to sneak off again. "These kitchens are mine. All the kitchen maids, servants, staff, and whoever else answers to me. I assign tasks daily, choose the day's meals and recipes, and upon arrival, you all report directly to me."

"You?" The maid composed herself, those large expressive eyes sharp and indignant. "I thought that was my—" she paused for a moment as if catching herself, "—the Magistrate's duty."

Surprised by the burst of courage and not missing the odd slip, Bakura arched a brow. "It is. However, since our new Magistrate has yet to call upon my services—and I have permission from the Magister to run my kitchens my way—I see no need to cease continuing the way I always have," she finished with a derivative snort. "Still, all is well: this is a place of efficiency, and I have neither the time nor patience to console some simmering slip. Any questions?"

Bakura spun and met defiant purple eyes instead of the submissive ones she'd expected; the waif stood there with her shoulders back and her chin straight, refusing to be shamed. "And when he does?"

Though Bakura's eyes narrowed, her brow arched. Curious: she hadn't expected such boldness, but could not be disappointed by it. How long had it been since she'd last found a worthy enough challenge, or someone quick enough to match her wit and temper? True enough, she was fond of the First's wife—the Quartermaster—in that regard, but the lass' talent lied in herbs and health, not taste and pleasure; food was merely nutrition to her, not a means of hearth and home. This lass, however…

Bakura narrowed her eyes in scrutiny; her mouth twisted and untwisted in its own secret sort of smile. Temper suited this one, she thought. Her violet eyes snapped with it, her generous mouth pouted, and she carried herself with a sassy swish of her hip as she stood with an impressive aura—given her diminutive height. Perhaps, she had been wrong about this one?

Throwing back her long, white tail, her eyes glittering with the challenge, Bakura answered, "Then I shall see to it. No sooner, no later."

"Very well." She seemed to deflate a bit with the words, though her eyes stayed bold and a touch defiant. No bitterness marred the sweet voice: just a calm, resigned acceptance.

Bakura's eyes narrowed with displeasure: that answer hadn't held the level of heat she'd been expecting. Perhaps the girl's illusion of courage before had been just that—an illusion.

Oddly disappointed, Bakura continued, "Now then, we'll be preparing stew for dinner, so fetch the bowls and plates. The vegetables should be finishing up soon, so make yourself useful."

"I can cook," came the retort.

The room froze as defiant purple locked eyes with commanding green. A hush settled over the room; an air of expectancy hung heavy with a mixture of shock and awe.

"Can you, now?" Bakura grinned, her eyes darkening with the challenge.

"I can," the wisp confirmed, chin raised high.

The tension shattered when a loud, desperate scream preluded a loud crash. The two women spun and watched in horror as a young maid's skirt caught fire: red tongues lapped up her leg as she and the women tending the fire struggled to put it out. The remains of the pot laid like the jagged teeth of an animal trap on the floor, eager to take advantage of the chaos.

Before Bakura could so much as howl, the wisp flew past her, quick as a rabbit in the wind. Shoving the two women away, she pulled the girl away from the fire, grabbed the ends of the girl's cloak, and smothered the flames and the girl's leg with the heavy garment until only the hiss of smoke remained. She sat the frightened, weeping girl on the floor, barked at someone to clear away the pottery, and pulled away the mantle now smudged with soot and smoke. She hiked up the girl's skirt, exposing a bare leg and thigh with ruthless expertise, and scrutinized the wound, her sharp eyes taking note of the deep, red flesh but the lack of bubbling blisters.

"Not deep," she assured the still-crying girl before turning to the crowd of women fluttering about them like moths around a candle light. "Bring me some linen wraps, cool water, cold milk, fresh honey, and lily of the desert, please."

The woman blinked. "Lily of the desert?"

"Immortality plant?" the wisp offered, but the women still looked confused.

"Oh, what did she say it was?" she spoke softly, as if rattling her brain, then shot up. "Ah! I think it's called aloe vera?"

Understanding flashed across their faces then, and they obediently turned to the cook.

Bakura arched her narrowed eyes. "Well? What are you all waiting for? Go!"

They obeyed swiftly. The wisp stayed on the floor, comforting the girl by rubbing her shoulder.

The cook swept over, all glower, but her voice was gentle. "What happened?"

The girl blushed, explaining. "I-I needed more sugar for the tarts, but it was so high on the mantle I…got too close."

Bakura rubbed her face. "Ask next time." The words were a heavy sigh.

The women returned quickly, offering the girl the items she requested.

"Do you, um…" the waif started, not meeting Bakura's eye, "…have a pestle and mortar I could borrow?"

Bakura blinked. She scrutinized the table and pulled a clean wooden bowl and knife from the heap. "Will these do?"

The waif nodded with a smile. Bakura watched her comfort the girl as she straightened her leg and carefully poured cool water over the burn. The girl winced as the waif pressed a bandage soaked in milk to the wound and asked her to hold it there. With skilled hands, she cleaved open the thick, juicy aloe leaves, whipped away the clear blood with her hands, and placed the fruit in the wooden bowl with a mixture of milk and honey. Bakura offered her a linen to dry her hands and a mortar. The waif smiled graciously and pulverized the mixture into a thick, opaque pulp. Carefully, she applied it to the girl's burn and wrapped it in fresh linens.

"That should do it," the waif smiled, helping the girl to her feet. Her hood had come somewhat loose during the work and Bakura could see the shadow of black hair past the crown of golden bangs.

The girl smiled graciously, testing her limb and pleased to find no pain. She bowed to the cook in turn and then set off to return to her work, but the cook stopped her with a wave of her hand and grabbed the sugar off the mantle.

"You rest that leg for a bit. We'll finish the tarts." She looked stunned, but was not about to pass up the kind offer for a break.

Bakura spotted her assistant placing cut circles of pastry dough in the oven. "Bring those to us when they're finished," she said without waiting for a response. She watched the waif gather up her materials; she was at a loss what to do with them. Bakura smiled and relieved her of her burden as she set the dirty materials in a huge, wooden tub filled with soapy water. She tossed the unusable linens in a waste basket and washed her hands in a copper basin. "Well?" she flashed a wry smile. "Are you going to help or not?"

A sudden brightness overcame the waif's features and she smiled eagerly. She washed her hands and followed the cook to the table the girl had been working at. Already prepared ingredients rested patiently on the tabletop, waiting to be used: three bowls of berries of all colors, a plate of eggs, a bowl of sugar, bright yellow lemons sliced in half, and freshly churned butter left unattended in a large bowl, waiting to be mixed with sugar.

"Now, before we start, have you ever cooked anything in your life, or am I working with a novice?" Bakura asked, unapologetically blunt.

The waif puffed up haughtily, an obvious pride in her torso. "As a matter of fact, I have. In fact, I'll have you know that I'm quite renowned for my talents, so much so that, when the Quartermaster was…indisposed, I acted as primary chef for The Eye of Timaeus in her place. Ask anyone on that ship." A bold brightness enflamed her eyes, and the impish curl of her smile confirmed the bravery Bakura had witnessed earlier had not been a trick of bravado.

"Good to know," Bakura nodded, curt with approval and making no effort to hide the pleasure in her tone. Sweeping forward, she slid the bowls of fruit, sugar, cream and lemons forward and held her spoon like a royal scepter. "Here, sample these."

Humble curiosity transformed the waif's face. She picked up a blueberry first, rolled it between her fingers, and tossed it into her mouth. Her eyes popped open with a mixture of pleasure and surprise that curled her lips into a content smile. She took a large blackberry next, bit into it, and lapped it up greedily with a loud lick of her lips. Bright-eyed and jubilant, she sampled the raspberries last. She tried another, then another, and another, until her smile burst wide.

"Oh, these are…" The waif couldn't finish. "What are these?"

"Those are blueberries, blackberries, and these…" Bakura grinned, identifying each classification in turn, "…are raspberries—my personal preference, as well. They go best in lemon tarts, in my opinion." She juggled a bright yellow fruit in her hand.

"Where do they come from?" the girl asked, all bright-eyed curiosity.

"Those ones we froze during last year's harvest. Now that the weather's warmed, I want to use them up before they spoil. An unfortunately short shelf life, berries have," she sighed. "Apples and lemons, however—those will last for weeks if you don't cut into them."

"Do you freeze a lot of your foods?" the waif asked.

"Sometimes. Mountain weather doesn't promise a stable routine, so we prefer to preserve and pickle as much as we can," Bakura explained before offering her the sliced-open lemon.

Over-enthusiastically, the girl snatched up the bright yellow fruit and sank her teeth into it—skin, fruit, flesh and all—before Bakura could warn her. Her eyes bulged with surprise, then narrowed. The curve of her smile crinkled and crumbled before puckering and her whole body shuddered. Bakura sucked in a breath, unsure if she should help the girl or burst out laughing. She was spared the choice when the girl dropped the lemon mid-bite and flopped out her tongue with a 'blah' of disgust.

Bakura could hold back no longer.

A swallowed snort exploded into a fit of laughter so hard and loud, she rocked from it.

The waif whirled on her, eyes sharp and teeth grit with a growl of indignant fury.

Bakura only laughed harder. "I'm sorry," she croaked on a chortle. "It's just—your face—" She swallowed another fit of giggles, and the laugher rolled out of her until she was banging the table. After a few moments of choked breaths and heaving chuckles, she was able to compose herself though a smile that betrayed her humor. "I suspect they don't grow lemons in the desert?"

The maid froze. "How did you know I'm…?" She stopped.

"Your accent, for one," Bakura explained, taking the other lemon and squeezing out the juice. "That, and you speak the common tongue fluently, yet Locrian seems to escape you. I assume you came with the Magistrate, then?"

She nodded mutely. "Yes, I came with...my husband. I also worked with Rhebekka during the journey."

"The Quartermaster?" The cook brightened, impressed. She tossed the rung-out fruit aside and began fishing out the seeds. "That explains why you're so skilled at doctoring. You must know her well if she lets you call her by name."

The wisp nodded with eager affection. "Yes, she's been a wonderful friend and—what are you doing?" she shrieked when she saw Bakura pour the freshly squeezed juice into the sugar bowl.

The cook smirked. "Making lemon cream." She gestured to the eggs. "Grab three eggs and one egg yolk, mix them with a pinch of salt. Can you do that?" she asked, holding out her mixing spoon like a queen bestowing her legacy upon a worthy successor.

Accepting the challenge, the wisp nodded and set to work. Bakura watched admirably taking note of each step, every beat of the egg or dash of salt.

Then, the wisp turned to her shyly and asked, "When do I add the sugar and lemon juice?"

Bakura smiled and slid the bowl towards her. The wisp spatulated the mixture into the bowl and continued to stir until the recipe was smooth and creamy but too thick to be considered cream.

"Grab that and follow me."

The girl did so, following her to one of the stoves where a cauldron of water was already simmering. A wrack had been placed inside, allowing the large bowl to rest over the steaming water without touching the liquid. "Now, we continue to mix. When it granulates, it will be finished."

"But we can't stop stirring," the wisp chimed in, "otherwise the eggs will cook and dissolve the sugar."

An impressed smile curled the cook's lips. "Well done. You do know your stuff."

"Thank you," the wisp beamed brightly, then sighed, her eyes and voice distant with longing. "My mother taught me."

Something in the wisp's voice told Bakura that her mother was dead. "She taught you well, then." Deciding not to pry and noticing the thickness of the cream, she nodded, "Take that off the stove. When it cools, mix the butter in a spoonful at a time. I'll fetch the tarts."

Bakura returned a moment later, towel-wrapped hands setting a tray on the table and moving the fragile tarts carefully onto a plate. Beside her, the wisp expertly beat the spoonfuls of butter into the cream, sampling its readiness with her nose and humming at the scent. As a reward, Bakura allowed her to taste some once it was finished.

"Well?" she asked.

"Delicious! What do we do next?" the girl beamed, leaning forward so eagerly in her chair, Bakura feared it might topple.

"Now, we scoop a spoonful of lemon cream onto each lemon tart, and place a spoonful of berries on top of the cream," she explained, demonstrating with a sample tart. She popped it into her mouth. "The first one is always practice."

The wisp mimicked her actions perfectly and held it up for approval. When Bakura nodded, she took a generous bite and all but shuddered in pleasure. "Hmm. It's wonderful!" She took small bites now, savoring the taste and licking the cream and juice from her fingers; she still had enough sense to wash them before returning to work.

Oh yes, Bakura thought with a grin. Rhebekka had certainly taken this one under her tutelage.

"No lemon berry tarts in the desert then?" the cook teased.

The waif shook her head. "Pity, though. If there were, we'd all spend less time fighting over land and more over space in the kitchens."

The cook threw her head back with a wild laugh. "Leviathan swallow me whole!" she laughed, slapping her knee. "You know what? I really like you—" it struck her when the recollection didn't come. "Sorry, what's your name?"

"Yugi," the waif introduced brightly. "Please call me Yugi."

"Yugi," the cook tested the name, finding that she liked it. "Call me Bakura."

The waif—Yugi—gave a small smile. "Did your mother teach you to cook as well?"

It was an innocent question, but a shadow fell over Bakura's face that made the girl quiet.

"No," a pause heavy with solace, "she did not. What do you think of the Palazzo, then?"

The abrupt change of subject did not go unnoticed, but the question gave her pause. "It's very…different." Her eyes wondered as if comparing the setting to one of her memory. "Everything here is so different from home. It's wonderful, but also a bit…overwhelming."

The cook's efficient gaze swept about the room. She'd never thought anything of it before, but now, she wondered—with its stone walls, glass windows, cupboards and embedded stoves—just how strange it must've looked to her new charge's eyes, and what it must've looked like to the new Magistrate.

"Is it the same for your Mistress? I've yet to meet her, by the way, so I've yet to form an opinion."

Surprise flashed across Yugi's face, then she looked away as if embarrassed. "I…yes, I think so, but I think he just misses Ti—the Magister as well." Her blush deepened.

Bakura snorted, but her tone was not unfriendly nor unkind. "The curse of a newlywed," she sighed. "I've seen it turn the strongest of women into wilted flowers."

"Are you not married, then?" the wisp asked.

Her response was a diminutive snort. "I'm not what one considers wifely material."

"Is there someone you fancy then?"

Bakura almost choked on her breath. It was a simple enough question but one she'd never answered before: no one had asked her before.

"There is." A brightness that reminded Yugi of a fox in its slyness sparkled behind Bakura's eyes.

"Who is it?" The words were neither critical nor insistent—merely curious.

Bakura hummed. "He works for the Trierarch, but he isn't some gruff sailor: on the contrary, he's a true gentleman and charmingly polite. He looks frail but he's not; he's smart and witty as well, although he hides it. He also has the kindest eyes…" She hadn't noticed her voice going wispy, or the smile curling at the corners of her lips as she imagined him. She'd never spoken of him—or her own thoughts—out loud before, but there was something in Yugi's smile that encouraged her trust and confidence. "They're like two bright emeralds sparkling in the sun."

"Does he have silver hair?" the waif asked suddenly.

Bakura whirled, nearly tumbling as she collided with the table. "How did you know that?"

"Ryou? You're talking about Ryou?" Giddiness suddenly overcame Yugi's face.

Stunned mystification bulged Bakura's eyes, but she recovered quickly. "You worked on the ship, and you worked with Rhebekka personally, so I suppose it isn't too surprising that you know him."

Understanding widened the girl's eyes. "You love him?"

"You wouldn't understand," she said, hoping the abrupt declaration would end the conversation there.

It didn't.

"You could explain it to me?" the wisp—Yugi—smiled.

Bakura stood. Hawk-eyes scanned the room for any wondering ears. She set down her spoon and shoved aside the tray of completed tarts.

"You asked me how I learned to cook. Well, I can't tell one story without the other."

She paused.

"I was never meant to be a cook. In fact, I'm not sure what I was meant to be." Her mouth twisted. "I lived alone on the streets for as long as I can remember; I don't remember my mother or my father, or a time when I wasn't on the streets. All I remembered was how to survive—and I was very good at it. I was talented at two things: stealing and using blades. Whether it was to steal or to protect myself, it did not matter. I made my living by sneaking into the homes of nobles and merchants—at least, those rich enough to afford it. I never stole from those who were poor like me. The kitchen was my favorite entry point: no one noticed an extra servant, and I did little to make myself known. And…," there was a significance in her pause, "…if I'm honest with myself, I liked the kitchen: the smell of brick breaking, the warmth of the stove, the endless pieces of the hearth—it all fascinated me." A wave of nostalgia overcame her but she brushed it away.

"A trick I'd learned from my days on the streets was that the best way to gain any information at all was to not ask a single question. I listened to the servants gossip, the ladies brag and the men boast as if I wasn't there; none of them were wise to the fact that they'd told me right where I could find their valuables. When everyone was asleep, I'd take what I could sell, stuff up on bread and be gone before anyone even noticed I was there. Then, I'd sell what I stole, though the money never lasted long. And those who tried to cheat me ended up with a blade between their ribs. Then the cycle would start all over again. It was a miserable reality."

And so her childhood had been. It was the first time she'd allowed those dark memories to penetrate her mind; some days, she still felt the ache of hunger in her gut, and was kept awake by the cold terror of those sleepless nights, feeling the familiar instinct to lash out when she clenched her knives in her hands. She'd made it a habit of keeping her hair short and her breasts bound: it was safer to be a boy on the streets than a girl, and the disguise only helped her each time she fled.

She felt the weight of Yugi's eyes, noticed the way her fingers wrung her skirt to keep from gasping, but when she looked up into sad, silent eyes, she did not see the pity, nor the resentment she expected. Only sadness.

Yugi stayed silent, waiting for the cook to continue her tale, but did nothing to pressure her.

"I heard through the rumor mill that there was a new Magister in Locri—the Basiliu's adopted son, no less. It would've been my biggest score had I not stumbled in too early." She paused again, the nostalgia returning, and suddenly she saw through the bemused eyes of her younger self, frozen in place. "That day, however, I'd witnessed the one thing I never thought I'd see: the Magister, whom I recognized by the fabric of his clothes and the emblem he wore, helping a noble—not a servant but a noble—clean dishes. Dishes! I nearly fell through the window I was so shocked, and when I did, I barely had time to hide. I'd never been so clumsy in all my life, and yet there I was. I managed to escape and resolved to never go back, but I did, over and over again, and never venturing beyond the kitchens. I finally realized why when that pale servant with creamy skin and hair so like an angel—the very one I saw cleaning dishes with the Magister—finally spoke to me.

"The Noble…Ryou…I can't call him anything else when I talk about him like this…he saw me, you know. Every time I thought I was being so careful and snuck a cake from the table, he saw me. He left them out for me. When he spoke to me that first time, I nearly lost myself. I was used to kicks and harsh words. Kindness was foreign and frightening to me, but he was so patient and so kind. He said he knew I was a thief, but he promised not to tell if I didn't want him to. He figured I was just hungry. He'd asked me about my parents. I told him I didn't know who they were. He asked me about my home. I told him I didn't have one. He asked me if I wanted to stay, and I turned and ran away. It was too much you see—or, it seemed too much at the time… I'd always dreamed of a different life for myself, a better life. It was my deepest and fondest wish, but that was all it was: a dream, a wish, a hope. It wasn't real—would never be real—and yet there it was, the opportunity right in front of me, and I had never been so terrified in all my life…"

Bakura felt her hands shake, and her whole body felt heavy with the weight of memory, but she refused to swoon. Yugi reached out a hand for her but made no move to touch her. "It was a true testament to how afraid I was, because I smacked right into the Magister. I fought him. He disarmed me. I fought like a wild cat when he caught me, but he still dodged my blows. He was a seasoned warrior, after all; I was used to fighting brutes and drunkards. Ryou came out then, so quick to defend me. I was shocked, you know. He was still an apprentice; defending a thief like me would cost him everything and I knew my life was not worth saving."

"I expected him to arrest me, the Magister, and lock me up in some dungeon, but instead he only smiled. Hell, the bloody braggart teased me. I was his first Judgement: he ordered that I would be made the cook's apprentice. I must've fainted at some point, though for the life of me I can't remember. The next thing I knew, he himself brought me to the kitchen, ruling that, as I was a thief, indentured servitude was the best way for me to repay my debt. Additionally, working for the cook would teach me to grow, harvest, prepare, store, cook and bake; I would learn all the steps and struggle it took to make the food I stole. This, he said, would teach me the value of hard work. Furthermore, as it was clear that I had potential, if I mastered the kitchens, I was welcome to stay. The cook herself agreed. She was a strict woman, mind you, but she was good to her staff. He'd thought she'd make a fine mentor for me—and in truth, she was."

She paused, overcome by the memory of the woman who'd loved her. "She'd spoke of the kitchen world in a way I'd never envisioned: a place where I could use my knives to create rather than kill, where the most beautiful things could be crafted from nothing, and where every new challenge was an adventure in itself. It astounded me and I was eager to learn. I found a place here, a purpose, and I've always been so grateful to them both for it."

"That sounds like something Timaeus would do." His name slipped musingly off the girl's tongue. Longing and admiration was heavy in her voice but Bakura chose not to decipher it. She was clearly in love with her own husband after all.

"Aye,"

"And Ryou?"

Bakura snorted with a smile. "Ryou…is…like a tidy white bow. I'm a wild tangle." She'd accepted long ago she was a wildling: she was a tall woman, strong armed, lankly limbed, wild-haired, coarse and cultivated, bold of speech, open in temper, and never afraid to speak her mind. She was by no means sophisticated or delicate: she wasn't polite, she wasn't petite, and she certainly wasn't what anyone would call favorable. Ryou was all that and more.

"You should tell him," Yugi advised. "If only to know his heart." She looked away. "Had I done that with my own husband, I might not have been so difficult in the beginning."

Bakura said nothing, having never considered something so simple. Then again, for all her strength and boldness, she was a coward when it came to her own heart. "Perhaps."

Yugi nodded acceptingly, her smile bright and wistful. "I'm glad you found a home here, Bakura." There was a deliberate pause, heavy with uncertainty. "I hope I can earn a place here one day."

"I'm certain you will," the cook beamed brightly, stealing an apple from the table. Taking a huge bite, she flashed a wicked grin. "So long as you keep that spunk of yours and aren't afraid to ask for help. You'll do well and so will your husband."

A cheery laugh was Yugi's response. "I will."

"Good!" the cook laughed, taking another bite, then almost spat it out when she noticed the sky outside, the lack of shadows on the ground, the high sun. "Bloody abyss! Is that the time?!"

Barking orders, Bakura commanded the women who were ready with dinner just as the noon sky ushered the midday meal. Once the Great Hall tables were full, she praised the women for their work and offered them compliments as they departed. Yugi sat the tarts on the table and Bakura snuck one to her as she followed the crowd out. "Until tomorrow, then, lass. Come straight here. And if anyone asks, tell them Cook sent for you. That should shut them up."

Yugi nodded and winked, the tart disappearing in her mouth.

Once the room was empty, Bakura swiped an additional tart for herself. She hummed at the sweet acidity of the lemon, the smoothness of the cream, the refreshing tartness of the berries. That Yugi lass had potential if Bakura ever sampled it! Perhaps she could speak with the Magistrate when he came down, Bakura mused while licking her fingers. She was in need of an apprentice, after all. Young as she was now, it wouldn't hurt to start training a successor. Perhaps the Magistrate would like one of his servants in the kitchen? It wouldn't hurt to ask. The midday staff was just arriving and didn't need her supervision—only her orders—and it wouldn't hurt to ask the Magistrate what he'd like for dinner. Fish was for common folk in the desert, so perhaps he'd like some other meat?

She had just settled on roast duck over trout for supper, with some cheesy biscuits, frozen vegetables, onions and gravy, and baked apples for a good dessert when the Great Hall door swung open. The proud, green-eyed man she knew as Otogi from the Magister's ship swaggered in, looking for all the world as handsome and devilish as a rouge pirate from some bored housemaid's fantasy. Bakura rolled her eyes. Perhaps it wasn't so surprising he'd taken the fiercest woman on the island as his wife.

"What do you want now, Otogi?" she sighed flamboyantly. "Dinner's on the table and I've got supper to make—unless you're here to tell me the Magistrate has some suggestions?"

A wide, impish grin spread across Otogi's face, full of slyness and secrets. "Oh, I'm sure he gave you some suggestions already," he chuckled, eyes darting about the crowd. "Now, where'd he disappear to?"

Bakura groaned. "I'm in no mood for games."

"Direct as ever, aye, Bakura? Not to worry, though: I'm just looking for a runaway. I'm sure he's around here somewhere." The boatswain swaggered past her, looking about. The confidence in his eyes transformed first with confusion, then with panic. "All your workers were here just now, aye?" he asked, something like worry flashing across his eyes. "No one is out picking fruit or anything?"

Bakura rolled her eyes. Great Leviathan, save her from the ignorance and arrogance of men. "No, all those chores were done this morning, as they're done every morning by my morning staff. They left just now."

All the confidence drained from Otogi's face as his lips dropped from a curved smirk to a gaping mouth. "What…did…you…say?" A string of broken syllables flopped like a beached fish from his lips.

"Oh, for pity's sake, my morning staff left already!" Bakura snapped.

Heads started turning towards them, eager for the gossip, but Bakura ignored them. Otogi, it seemed, did not notice.

"And…was one of them a lad in a green dress? Petite thing, wearing a gray hood?"

"Oh, Yugi," the cook beamed. "Yes, she was one of them. Bold lass, that one, but an eager student." She took another bite from her apple. "I like her."

"You like her?" Otogi all but shrieked. Now that certainly caught everyone's attention. Bakura was notorious for being hard to please. Only Ryou and the Magister seemed pardoned of her temper.

"Of course! Do you think the Magistrate might let me keep her as an apprentice?"

"An apprentice?!" An incredulous burst, though Bakura showed no fear.

"Yes, you daftling. I assume she works for the Magistrate, since she came with him and the Trierarch, yes? Do you think they'd let me borrow her? I'd be happy to compromise, of course, I'd never want to separate him from who I imagine is his favorite servant."

"She…he…Yugi…left?"

Now she was annoyed. "Yes, with the rest of the morning staff. Serpent's teeth, man, why is this so difficult for you? Do you think the Magistrate will let me teach Yugi or not?"

"Yugi is the Magistrate, woman!" Otogi screamed. His next words poured out as broken, panicked syllables of "Timaeus told us not to let him leave the Palazzo until he comes back. I didn't think he'd make it past the kitchens. Malik!" He froze, eyes bright with one last hope. "Malik's patrolling outside. Surely he saw him? Great Skies above, let us hope. If he comes home and finds he's not there, Timaeus will kill us all!"

The soldier dashed outside, Bakura hot on his heels, but before she could demand an explanation, he was already on his comrade screeching.

"Malik! Where is Yugi?! Tell me you saw him!"

"What?! Isn't he upstairs?!"

"No, he… Did you see someone in a green dress and a gray hood, possibly leaving with the morning staff?"

"I don't know? That boat left already. What is going on, Otogi?!"

Otogi spun around and hollered for the second floor. "Ryou! Ryou! Ryou!"

"What?!" The Navigator pushed the window open, staring down with irritation burning in his dark green eyes. He caught a glimpse of Bakura and softened his demeanor. "What is it?"

The cook smiled. Otogi shrieked. "Is Yugi upstairs? Did you check his chamber?"

"Of course not!" Ryou stumbled back, aghast. "I'm not privy to go in there. None of us are."

"Did…has…has anyone checked at least?" Otogi pleaded, eyes wide with desperation and dying hope.

Ryou paused. "Um… Mai brought some food up for him, but he hasn't touched anything."

Otogi deflated onto the ground. "He's gone." His voice was a wisp like a wandering ghost that had not yet realized it was dead. "He has a belly like a bottomless pit; he'd never leave food there if he was home. He's gone! He must've snuck on the barge with the staff, and none of us noticed him in the crowd! Great Leviathan he's snuck out!"

"What?!" Malik screeched.

"Huh?!" Ryou called out. "Come on, man, what's going on?"

Bakura watched the whole thing with a mixture of befuddlement and amusement. Walking daintily past the soldier kneeling on the floor and the one attempting to shake his comrade back to sense, she called, "Ryou, Love?"

The navigator blushed. "Y-yes?" Why, why, why did she always have to call him that? Didn't she see what it did to him? It was fine years ago, but now, well… He hadn't failed to notice what a brave, beautiful woman that bold, brilliant lass he'd adored in his youth had become. If only he could—

"Is the Magistrate called Yugi by any chance?"

Ryou stared at her calm, curious expression, even as his own heart nearly stopped beating. "H-how did you know that?!"

Bakura's eyes widened just before a wide smirk curled her face. "It's true, then?"

Ryou nodded dumbly. "It's a childhood name. He is….very particular about whom may use it. How did you know of it?"

Bakura threw her head back and laughed so loud and so joyously, Ryou feared she might choke as she tumbled over in the grass even as it caused his own heart to skip a beat. "I know because—" she fell into another fit of giggles, "—because not half an hour ago, I offered to make him my apprentice."

"You what?" Ryou gasped.

She nodded. "Apparently, the lad was so bored he thought to escape through my kitchen. We had a pleasant morning, though I admit, I mistook him for a lass! Clever little waif!" She was laughing again, when Ryou fled from the window. She could hear him scrambling down the stairs.

By now, Otogi had come back to life and Malik was chasing him towards the empty barge parked by the dock. Ryou was already huffing when he reached the gardens.

"You'd best follow, Love." She sent him off with a gentle shove to the back. "They'll be lost without you."

Ryou stumbled, sighed, blushed. "Must you tease me so, Bakura?"

Her heart shuddered. Squaring her shoulders, firming her smile and opening her eyes, she said, "I would never tease you, Ryou." It had taken everything in her to confess to him. "But we can talk about that later."

He nodded and hurried after his comrades.

Only when he was out of sight did she collapse in the grass, her heart light like a bird too eager to begin the journey south. "Well," she breathed, "the lad was right."

She was going to make him a whole plate of lemon berry tarts as a thank you.

That's right I made Bakura a woman! i crossed that border, and for that reason alone this chapter was so much fun to write! editing was a bitch and i had to do a TON of research into kitchens, food storage, ancient times and the cuisine of eastern italy (for geography buffs Locri is located in south eastern Italy but since my theory is Atlantis three rings exist in the ionian sea, connecting italy and greece, southeastern italy is western atlantis) so yeah it took a LOT of work-but it inspired the lemon berry tart scene as lemons and berries didn't grow in Ancient Egypt...and it led to one of my favorite scenes :)

this wa fun to write and i wanted it to be from bakura's pov to play off Yugi and give them a sensed of companionship. her backstory was loosely based on Bakura's backstory in Dragon Rose.

thanks everyone SO much for your patiance...i admit i hit a bit of a dry spell with this story and my other story At the kings pleasure, and in general, but i needed new inspiration and found it when a friend of mine updated her darkshipping story, and i realized there were a lot of my fav characters who I missed writing about, including Bakur :) so i went back through some old darkshipping ideas partocularily my fantasy one and the SPARK was reawakened! and i've been on fire! i'm not giving up on this story nor am i gonna stop publishing it, but writing outside my comfort zone has been helping look at this story also from a new angel and go forward!

Check out my profile for more into!

thanks do much for your patience!

Only three chapters left!

NEXT TIME: After successfully sneaking out, Yugi sees his city for the first time, but his escorts are hot on his heels, and the people are quite surprised by their new Magistrate.