Inside the restaurant, Draden got to work finishing his preparations for the coming meals. Mostly, it was just taking things out of the refrigerator and putting them on the stovetop to warm, and then cutting vegetables. So many vegetables.

  The entire time he was working, he was thinking about what he needed Brock to make first. There were so many simple kitchen items that he had taken for granted, but that he couldn’t get here. He would love to get his hands on a blender of some sort, but it was better to start small. Some extra-large mixing bowls with flat bottoms and a couple of muffin tins.

  He would work his way up to the truly useful items; for now, he would get the practical items out of the way first.

  With that out of the way, he began concentrating on the measurements from his new notes that needed to be changed for his biscuit recipe.

  First off, there was one key difference between regular biscuits and flaky biscuits. Certain ingredients needed to be cold for flaky biscuits.

  He spent a few moments calculating the amounts for each ingredient and then got to work.

  This first attempt would be more of a trial run, wherein he would be verifying whether the amounts were even relatively close, instead of the final taste. Of course, if the taste of the final product ended up being good, then so much the better. There was no sense in wasting food for no reason.

  The butter he was using came straight from the fridge and was cut into small pieces that were then put in the mixing bowl. After that, he then quickly dumped the all-purpose flour, the cake flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and sugar into the bowl and began to stir it all with a wooden spoon. The cake flour was an idea he had gotten from the old man. He didn’t have real cake flour, but making a facsimile of it wasn’t hard. All you needed to do was add two tablespoons of cornstarch to every cup of all-purpose flour.

  He needed to put the bowl back into the fridge after a minute in order to keep the ingredients cold. However, eventually, he managed to get everything mixed enough that it resembled coarse crumbs.

  The next step was to add the buttermilk and gently mix it all together. This was the hardest part of the recipe; folding and working the dough had to be done carefully. If he overworked the dough, the biscuits at the end would be dense and tough instead of light and flaky.

  It was better to err on the side of caution and underwork the dough in this case. The result would still be good biscuits, but they would just not rise as much as normal. It was something he could dial in with time.

  For now, it was better to be cautious.

  He rolled out the dough and then used the doughnut cutter to cut out the biscuits, grateful that he had the option to remove the donut hole cutter. With that done, all that was left to do was place them on a greased sheet, put them in the fridge for a while, and bake them.

  After the biscuits were chilled, Draden drizzled some melted butter on top of each biscuit and then stuck them in the oven. Setting the timer for twenty minutes, he took a step back and let out a sigh.

  He had done it. Well, hopefully. He still needed to taste the final product to be sure.

  Still, even if it wasn’t perfect, he knew what needed to be done now. Yet, for some reason, he was left feeling somewhat hollow. He had blown up this idea of recipe creation in his head, making it something almost mythical in nature. He had imagined all these extra steps, things that needed to be in the process of recipe creation. Countless repetitions spent tweaking ingredients and amounts.

  He had borrowed the knowledge of an experienced baker in this instance, which had made the entire process far easier than it would have been otherwise.

  The old man hadn’t given him the answers directly, but he had taught Draden the knowledge he needed.

  Looking back on his life on Earth, that was something he had done many times before. He had a tendency to blow things out of proportion, overcomplicating things and making otherwise simple items seem like herculean tasks. This recipe was just the latest in a long string of odd mental gymnastics his mind had always done.

  If he didn’t already know how to do something, then suddenly it became one complicated task after another to learn that new information. It had been that way with programming for him. Eventually, it had just clicked, but learning it had been a pain because of the obstacles he had thrown up in his own way.

  Draden needed to pay attention and be careful that he didn’t fall back into old habits like that again. There was too much that he needed to learn in this life to get caught up in that cycle again. It was better to just take little bites from each problem and approach them logically instead of quivering in fear because they appeared to be monumental in size.

  When he pulled the first batch of biscuits from his oven, the result was a middling success. They were a beautiful golden-brown, though they hadn’t risen quite as well as he would have liked. That was likely because he hadn’t worked the dough enough, as he had chosen to be cautious. Inside the biscuit was definitely flaky as well; it wasn’t in the same way that the Pillsbury Grands were, but it was good.

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  He would keep playing with the recipe, but it wasn’t bad, and he thought it would go well with the chili.

  Draden used the biscuit’s heat to melt some butter and took a bite. The effect was immediate. A warm, strengthening qi spread through his body. The energy settled around his scarred and damaged prime meridian. It didn’t drill away at the injury with the intensity of the almond balls but instead soothed the ravaging he had been causing lately. It reinforced the damaged channels like mortar filling cracks in a foundation.

  It was the same thing that many of his other foods already did, just more effective. And this time it had little to do with the ingredients, but the fact that he was the one who had made the recipe.

  It was an interesting realization, and one that required some more thought. There were many things he wanted to make, but they came from recipes he had already used at some point in the past. How many different foods were there that he wanted to cook for Leah, but didn’t know the recipes for?

  A lot, now that he was taking the time to think about it. The matter of reconstructing those recipes was another matter. He would definitely have to think about it.

  Draden spent the next couple of hours in a state of focused creation. He drew detailed sketches of the kitchen equipment he needed Brock to make first and then later. He already had the sketches for the ones he was going to give Alice that night. But now he also had detailed sketches for a sturdy wire whisk, a grater with different-sized holes, and a mandolin.

  His mind was buzzing with possibilities, with recipes he had not even considered prior to that point.

  While he was doing all of this, he also made sure to prepare a huge lunch for Leah and the others. After packing it, he passed it to Coradine, who had returned at some point without his knowledge, and saw her off.

  Draden had managed to finish his preparations for the day early, despite being gone for longer than normal. With his body healing and becoming stronger by the day, he was finding his previous limitations disappearing one by one. It was a miracle what someone could do when they could walk normally, instead of needing to shuffle about, or take breaks every few minutes to massage their leg. The same went for his stamina and muscles in general, which had improved with the constant consumption of his food.

  With this sudden time on his hands, Draden had to decide what it was he should do to occupy himself. Did he want to experiment with another recipe or do some work on the house or restaurant? There were plenty of options, and yet the one he went with was none of the ideas he had initially considered.

  Grabbing his current sword, he was heading toward the back of the restaurant when a sharp, authoritative knock echoed from the front door.

  It wasn't the tentative rap of a lost traveler seeking help or the familiar rhythm of Marcus or Coradine. It was rapid, deliberate, and utterly confident. Draden felt a knot tighten in his stomach; a part of him had been expecting this.

  Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, he walked to the front of the restaurant. His sword was clutched tightly in his hand.

  He opened the door to find a man standing on his porch, who seemed entirely out of place in the current setting.

  The man was tall and slender, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, the silver buttons gleaming in the sunlight. His dark hair was slicked back from a high forehead, and his face was all sharp angles and pale skin. He looked more like a butler with a rod shoved firmly up his rear than anything Draden had ever seen in films or drama. His smile was thin and polite, but it didn't reach his cold, calculating grey eyes. In his hands, he held a scroll, rolled tight and tied with a crimson ribbon.

  "Draden Varsk, I presume?" The man asked, his voice a smooth, cultured baritone.

  "Who's asking?" Draden replied, his free hand resting on the doorframe, his body language deliberately casual but ready. The sword he was holding was hidden behind the door itself.

  "My name is Valerius. I am a humble servant of Lord Tavian Varnel," The man said with a slight bow that was more a formality than a show of respect. "Lord Tavian was… disappointed that you were unable to accept his previous invitation. He feared it may have been lost, or perhaps its method of delivery was too crude for a man of your obvious talents. He asked me to deliver this one personally."

  He extended the scroll to Draden. Draden didn't take it.

  "I wasn't unable to accept," Draden said evenly. "I declined. The message was received loud and clear. Just like the dagger his second message was pinned with."

  Valerius’s smile didn't waver. "Ah, yes. A regrettable bit of theater. You must understand, Lord Tavian occasionally employs men whose methods are more direct than they are subtle. He has been… counseled on the matter. Nevertheless, he is a great admirer of your work. The talk of your establishment has reached his halls. He believes a man of your skill deserves a patron of his stature. He wishes to offer you his protection, his resources. Imagine what you could create with a fully staffed kitchen, with access to the rarest ingredients from across the realm, all under the banner of House Varnel."

  For anyone else, he imagined it would have been a tempting offer, a poisoned apple wrapped in silk. It was also a demand disguised as a proposition. Work for me, or else. Anyone who had grown up watching modern TV shows had seen the act plenty of times.

  "I appreciate the offer," Draden said, his voice flat. "But I'm not looking for a patron. I came here for peace and quiet, to run my own business my own way."

  "Peace and quiet are commodities, my friend, and they can be quite expensive. Taxes are liable to increase for businesses without official sponsorship."

  Draden shrugged, cracking his neck at the same time. “Restaurants can be moved. This isn’t the only city at which I can ply my trade at.”

  "The roads are becoming dangerous. Unfortunate accidents can happen. A fire, for instance. Ovens can be so temperamental, can't they?" Valerius purred, his eyes glinting. “Moving would not be as easy as you believe.”

  The man was no longer bothering to even veil his threats and just laid it bare. Draden’s jaw tightened. He could feel the anger, cold and sharp, rising within him, but he forced it down. Losing his temper was what Tavian wanted. It would mark him as volatile, unreasonable, and an easy target to be crushed.

  "Are you threatening me?" Draden asked, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous pitch.

  Valerius held up his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. "Heavens, no. I am merely outlining the realities of the world we live in. Lord Tavian is a practical man. He sees talent, and he wishes to cultivate it. To protect it. He believes your daughter, Leah, is it? Such a charming child. He believes she deserves a stable, secure future. A future he is uniquely positioned to provide."

  That was it. The line had been crossed.

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