Authors: Unknown
“I
have brought them.”
The
master confectioner stood and murmured an inaudible prayer of thanks. His eyes
widened as he watched Uri wrestle pallets off the Sikorsky, each containing one
hundred twenty-gallon sacks filled with silver palm cacao beans.22
“They
have been prepared?”
Beal
nodded. “The fermented pods have been dried in the equatorial sun.”
The
master confectioner gestured for him to follow, and they passed through the
raised portcullis and into the reception hall. Beal halted, inhaling rich
butter, cream vanilla, a hint of ginger, almonds, and peppermint. His skin
pebbled with gooseflesh at this olfactory seduction. He grinned knowing Le
Château de Douleur Délicieux was prepared for full production.
They
entered the grinding room, where stainless steel hoppers fed a succession of
rotating spiked gears. Acolytes in pink jumpsuits unloaded the first pallet and
with care poured glistening white husks into the contraption.
Husks
were shredded and separated and the dark beans within whisked into finer
grinding chambers. From the other end poured a brown sludge that smelled of
smoke and citrus: the cocoa liquor. This collected into a silver urn that the
master confectioner took into the next chamber.
This
room was a converted chapel. It was sweltering and Beal removed his jacket.
Red-tinged sunlight streamed through stained glass. From the rafters hung
dozens of silk tubes, each tied at the bottom.
Two
assistants filled one of these socks with cocoa liquor, then hoisted it aloft.
From a side passage a choir of boys entered and began singing to these
elongated chocolate sausages. Their soprano voices intoned the
22.
The silver palm cacao is a near extinct subsubspecies of the more common cacao
(Theobroma cacao). Found only high in the Andes, it is notoriously difficult to
cultivate and used exclusively for worship ceremonies of the Mesoamerican gods.
The conquistador Hernàn Cortés once stole a sip of silver palm cocoa. Accounts
from his officers relate that he said all other cocoa in comparison tasted as
dirt. St. Hawthorn’s Collected Reference of Horticulture in the New World and
Beyond, 1897 (Taylor Institution Library Rare Book Collection, Oxford
University).
“Hymn
of Dark Sweetness,” then “The Chant of the Rum-Sugar Plum Fairy.”
Beads
of oil appeared, dribbled along the length of the tube, and dripped into
crystal dishes. This was the cocoa butter.
Beal
withdrew a cigar case and opened it. Within were dried blood-red blossoms.
“From the Lady Sealiah’s fields,” he said, and offered the case. “Crush them
and sprinkle the powder into the butter.”
The
master confectioner bowed so his forehead scraped the cobblestones. “A
tremendous honor,” he whispered.
Beal
watched as gallons of the cocoa butter collected, and the crushed poppy dust
was sprinkled over the precious substance.
The
family had pooled resources to expedite the testing of the Post twins.
Cooperation? Hardly. It was the calm before the storm, the maneuvering of one
another into the proper backstabbing position.
But,
of course, the ends justified any means. In this case the twins might give the
family an excuse to unite . . . something that had only happened once before.
Beal
felt a tug at his heart, a feeling he had not experienced since he was a child:
hope.
When
enough cocoa butter had collected, it was combined with cane sugar and fresh
vanilla from the castle’s hothouse orchids.
Milk
was added to a portion of this mixture to make a snow-white chocolate. A
portion of the original liquor was added to produce a milk chocolate. And a
last portion was created with the cocoa butter, sugar, vanilla, and the
original liquor to create Beal’s personal favorite: dark chocolate the color of
night.
These
varieties, while smelling divine, congealed into unappetizing clumps. They were
scooped into ceramic drums the size of cement mixers and hundreds of gold beads
poured over them.
The
electric mixers rotated, starting the “conching” that would grind the larger
particles of chocolate so small they would elude detection by the human tongue
and thus be silky smooth to the palate.
After
this, the chocolate was tempered in copper kettles to make it resistant to crumbling.
The
moon was high in the stained-glass windows when the first batch was ready to
sample. The master confectioner scraped a block of chocolate with a tiny knife.
He dropped the resulting curl into his mouth. He trembled and his eyes turned
into his head from sheer delight.
He
spat into a handkerchief and regained his composure. “Perfection,” he announced
with a sigh.
Beal
longed to taste it—just one tiny bite; what could it hurt? He had breathed
roasting cocoa all day and it had filled him with desire. He caught himself and
laughed at his near disastrous error.
The
master confectioner snapped his fingers. “Gather the chocolatier chefs,” he
shouted. “Assemble the prepared ingredients.”
He
gestured that Beal join him on the observation catwalk. Beal climbed up the
stairs that led to the open walkway with an aerial view of the final assembly
line.
The
smell was overpowering: orange zest and espresso bean and lavender, champagne
bubbles, strawberry and cinnamon and vanilla, and, of course, coating it all
was a smothering vapor of chocolate.
Below
them dozens of chefs stood ready at tables with mixers, double boilers, and
bowls. A conveyor trundled down the center of the hangarlike room.
The
master confectioner handed Beal a breathing mask and a pair of Zeiss
binoculars. Beal strapped on the mask and peered through the binoculars to
watch each tiny confection handcrafted.
There
were delicate shells filled with Dom Pérignon truffles, sprinkled with sugar
crystals; dark eggs overflowing with Sicilian lemon crème; milk chocolate
diamonds with frosty peppermint centers; cups of ebony black with frozen
cappuccino froth; spheres of white and brown swirls containing cherry cordial;
walnut clusters, squares with caramel curlicues on top; honey-filled
confections plastered with pansies; one chili shaped, its tip fluorescent red;
and on and on they paraded past along the conveyor . . . hundreds of them . . .
thousands.
Would
it be sufficient? “Enough” was never enough when it came to temptation. After
all, it was possible he targeted one of his own with this ruse—and their
appetites were insatiable.
The
master confectioner handed Beal a clipboard with inventory and bill attached.
Beal
raised his eyebrows at the exorbitant cost, but then again, how could one put a
price on reuniting a family and leading them victorious to war?
“Delivery
form underneath,” the master confectioner said.
Beal
filled in the address Uri had provided, double-checking numbers and the Del
Sombra, California, zip code, and making sure all names were correctly spelled.
After all this effort to have it delivered to the wrong person . . . well, as
they said, the devil was in the details.
“And
the card?”
The
master confectioner handed him a blank note of creamy hand-pressed paper.
Beal
wrote: To my dearest Fiona . . .
18
SELECTING
A TEMPTRESS
Sealiah
was home—the rocky hills and fetid valleys that bore such names as the Shadow
of Death, the Dusk End of Rainbow, Venom-Tangle Thicket—the Poppy Lands of
Hell.
She
rode one of the white Andalusians that had been a gift from the Philippine
ambassador. The animal was spirited and sensitive to her every command. She
wished she had a hundred like her.
Ahead
on the bluff was her villa, Doze Torres.23 The pink stucco walls and
sunset-hued spires beckoned to her, its color contrasting with the perpetual
iron-gray sky.
She
could have flown to the summit but she had wanted to ride, think, and decide
how to choose among the thousands of applicants for the new position in her
organization.
Already
the line of interviewees snaked from Doze Torres to the base of its hill. More
were streaming from the jungle-filled vales and fungus-lined caverns—like
insects swarming toward a single crumb of cake.
Most
wore traditional slave robes, but some had their period costumes: lace and
parasols, slinky cocktail dresses, latex bodysuits. Perhaps they thought this
would improve their chances . . . as if Sealiah didn’t already know their
reputations and abilities.
Sparkling
like stars among the common seductresses were Cleo, who managed to look radiant
in rags, and Margaretha Zelle (not so pretty but nonetheless exuding a
confident sensuality), demure Norma Jeane, Janis, and Eva.
23.
Portuguese translation: Twelve Towers.—Editor.
They
were all so desperate; it filled her with disgust.
And
really, how qualified did one have to be to seduce a single boy on the cusp of
his manhood? Any girl could do that. Yet Sealiah needed something more: she
needed a woman capable of seducing a boy in this family. That would take a
different breed entirely.
She
wished Uri were here. With his little black book, he would have found some
determining factor to separate the chaff.
One
of the girls in line spotted her and abandoned her place, walking quickly away.
Sealiah
didn’t give the waif another thought and encouraged her mare into a trot. She
rounded the walls of Doze Torres to where her garden grew wild and the cliff’s
edge overlooked the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
Below
were colors that van Gogh could have painted: poppies covered the lowlands and
the silver sinew of the Laudanum River wound through them. There were countless
red and white and pink dots, the traditional opium poppies, and the yellows and
black-and-white stripes and indigo-blue varieties that she had bred. The winds
smelled of honey and freshly turned earth . . . and mixed in with this, the
delicious echoes of the screams of millions who lived and died, and died again.
She
loved every blossom in each of her valleys. They were tiny budding vessels of
decadence and dream.
Sealiah
indulged in the view a moment—then recalled the girl who had left the applicant
line. It had not been the fear Sealiah usually inspired. This girl had a glare
of hatred . . . intriguingly directed at her.
She
wheeled her mare about and broke into a gallop down the hill. Before thundering
Andalusian hooves, slaves scattered, and Sealiah applied her riding crop to
their backsides.
That
made her feel a tad better.
The
waif she wanted was almost down the hill, sprinting before her. It would have
been easy to run her down. Sealiah, however, had business with this one . . .
so such pleasures would have to wait.
The
girl was slender and strands of hair whipped about her head.
Sealiah
galloped ahead and reared back before the girl.
She
fell to her knees.
Smart
girl. Had she continued to run, Sealiah would have lost her composure, pursued,
and trampled her. There were limits to her patience, after all.
She
dismounted and rubbed the flank of her mare, calming the creature.
“Stand,”
Sealiah commanded the girl.
The
girl did so, keeping her gaze respectfully in the dirt where it belonged.
“Look
at me.”