[Closed Post: Baklava]

[timebethine]

Laertes delights in the many spices of the Mansion's kitchens--he lost several hours one evening just opening every bottle and smelling it, acquainting himself with the differences between cardamom and allspice, sage and bay. Today, he is intent upon celebrating those spices with a baklava recipe he's found, and so he's roped Sagramore into serving as his sous-chef. While Laertes prepares the dough to laminate, he sets Sagramore to chopping nuts up finely. "This recipe saith walnuts," he says, "but another hath pistachios, and a third one walnuts and almonds mixed."

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[sagramore]

Sagramore swallows several protests, one after the other. "I admire thee for thy reading," finally.

[timebethine]

"Then ask it of me. Let me be thine eyes." As he consults the recipe (make a syrup with the water, honey, spices, and lemon peel), he asks, "Is it only reading? Or anything small or close?"

[sagramore]

"I was," still with a bit of tension in his tone. "I'd rather listen to thee speak on what thou hast learned than set myself to it. --Aye, anything small and close, but there's little I do that needs precision; I can see the end of my blade."

[timebethine]

Laertes goes still, and sets the book aside. "I've offended thee," he says. "My apologies."

[sagramore]

"No, nay," the lift of his shoulders sinking. "I'm sorry. It's not on thee. Thou hast the right of it, it's pride."

[timebethine]

Then Laertes gathers Sagramore up in his arms and rests his brow against Sagramore's cheek. "Thou canst see the end of thy blade well enough to best me," he says, "and see my face well enough to praise me and make me blush. What matters it, if thou canst not see every stroke of ink or stitch of embroidery? It only gives me more to unfold for thee."

[sagramore]

"I won't be much help to thee in the kitchen." He closes his eyes. "Art thou never disappointed in me? I always think thou wilt find the thing thou canst not countenance and be done, or at least draw away."

[timebethine]

"If thou shouldst hurt someone I love, I'd be done with thee," says Laertes. "But ere that line be crossed, thou wilt forever reign as king of my heart."

[sagramore]

"Th'art as sentimental as I am, and I wager thou wouldst weep as much in thy cups," with a little laugh. "Thou dost keep me in thy heart of hearts, as I do thee."

[timebethine]

"'Tis well I'm moderate in my cups," says Laertes. He kisses Sagramore's cheek again, then sets to measuring out water, sugar, and honey and setting them to boil. "Let thy master guide thy hand. Once thou hast finished with the nuts--" and he checks the recipe book again "--mix them with the spices I've laid out for thee. Allspice and cardamom, cinnamon and nutmeg; did they use so many spices, in Turkey?"

[sagramore]

"Art thou? A gentleman," he teases. Then: "No, it was very simple. Honey and water and lemon. I used to watch the cooks."

[timebethine]

"I thought so! Even the king of Denmark did not command half so many spices. If I should ever tire of miracles, let me remember this one: that tonight, my lover and I will enjoy riches denied even to princes and kings."

[sagramore]

He laughs, delighted as usual by the pleasure of Laertes' pleasure at the bounties of this place. "Shouldst design thine own recipes to use them," as he returns to the pistachios.

[timebethine]

"Nay, I'm but a schoolboy copying his Latin out," Laertes protests. "I have no understanding of what I do."

[sagramore]

"By now I hardly believe thee. Baking is hard, I'll grant thee that, but cooking--" Sagramore shrugs.

[timebethine]

"Mm. A stew with lamb, then," Laertes decides. "Stew is a safe redoubt to which I may always retreat."

[sagramore]

"And couldst thou not do that with no book at all?"

[timebethine]

"Stew, ay," he answers. "I made that stew after thy fall with no book at all."

[sagramore]

"As I said. Thou wilt have writ thine own book soon enough. Here, these are done." He sweeps the chopped pistachios gently into the four-cup measure with the side of his hand.

[timebethine]

"Good," says Laertes, pausing to glance over them. The green color and the variety of textures are pleasing to his eyes. "Measure out each spice. This measure," he says, offering a half-teaspoon. "More or less of each as thy heart commands."

[sagramore]

"As my heart commands," he echoes fondly, picking up the little jars of spices, which are fortunately the kind with pictures as well as words on the labels, so he doesn't have to frown at tiny names. "This, the cardamom, is what I put in my coffee, except this is ground."

[timebethine]

"No wonder I like the smell of it. It reminds me of thy coffee." Laertes dips a spoon in the syrup, then tastes--then swears, because it's hot enough to burn his tongue. "Christ! Will I never learn patience?"

[sagramore]

"Thou hast generously taken my place today to spare me," putting the jar in his hand down and going to the sink for water. He hands Laertes a glass a moment later.

[timebethine]

"Thou art a balm," Laertes says gratefully, drinking. He takes the syrup off the heat, then retrieves the pastry dough from the refrigerator, testing it and finding the dough satisfyingly firm to the touch.

[sagramore]

By this time Sagramore has the spices mixed into the nuts, and he puts the measuring cup beside the syrup -- by himself, he'd be too impatient for a mise en place, but with together he finds it pleasing to be able to put everything Laertes needs at his elbow.