Maeve stood behind her assigned counter on the studio stage of the Beechwood Forest’s Forty-Third Magically-Enhanced Cooking Competition, a closed wicker basket on top, and re-tied her gaudy, purple-and-orange apron for the fifth time.
In the midst of what seemed like a sea of cameras—more than she ever thought possible to exist in one room—she tried to will the bead of sweat threatening to roll down her temple to stop. She’d spent long enough in the makeup room as they tried to figure out what to do with her decidedly normal hair to make it, as they said, “pop” on the big screen—she didn’t quite feel like making another visit there to touch up the blowout they had settled on.
She took another deep breath and gazed around the room as the assistants and producers started setting up. A few toyed with some cameras somewhere to her left. Another person—the host, she remembered, the haze of her marathons of the show coming back to her through the sleep deprivation—tried to stuff a baseball hat with a Halloween-themed logo for the show into a professional-looking person’s hand.
Her costar—or, rather, competitor—for the day was nowhere to be found.
Maeve straightened as the chatter died down. That was fine with her—even better, actually, if it was a forfeit. It would make her path to victory all the more simple.
She had hoped, prayed, and dreamed for this moment—to make the most delicious, creative, and best magically-altered meal for a hand-selected panel of judges, witches, and warlocks alike. She was not about to let anyone stand in her way. She’d already endured the teasing of her covenmates for being obsessed with such a nerdy, mainstream show.
“Why in the world would you want to go on that?” one friend asked. “It just sounds so stressful.”
Because I have to, Maeve wanted to say. Because this is the best way for me to open my restaurant. Because this is my dream.
She settled for something much more witty and interesting, like “it’s a really cool”, and was met with more grumblings about how she could open the basket and find a newt’s eye, for God’s sake, and she’d be stuck having to make a newt’s eye salad or ice cream or something.
The chattering of the assistants ramped up again, pulling Maeve back to the present. She wiped her hands on her apron to prevent them from creeping up and fiddling with one of the knots.
The door to her right, across the back of the stage and past the stoves, quietly eased open. She would have missed it entirely, if not for the figure darting in and coming to a stop in front of the other wicker basket.
Finally, she thought. Here’s my competition.
She turned, ready to exchange polite pleasantries and be confident in the knowledge that she was going to securely and soundly beat them.
“No.”
The words escaped her before she realized, as if on instinct. Standing next to her, adjusting the dark brown apron—how come she got stuck with her monstrosity of a color palette?—and casting apologetic nods around the room, was quite possibly the worst competitor she could have ever hoped for.
James Abbott, WitchTok’s current magic-enhancer darling, whose account boasted over two million Witchers and close to a quarter of a million WitchLikes.
Not that Maeve knew this, of course.
She turned sharply back to her wicker basket, ignoring his proffered hand that he stuck closer into her field of vision. Maeve had the sudden vision of her hopes and dreams dissipating.
She was being dramatic— she knew that. “Hate” was a strong classifier of their relationship. “Rivals” would probably be better, though she doubted James Abbott thought of her as competition. They’d crossed paths a few times in the local cooking competitions at the fair, seeing who could have the silkiest pumpkin pie or the tartest hand-crafted lacewing apple soufflé, but he’d always been amiable.
Smarmy, but amiable.
“Didn’t know I’d be getting a rematch of last fall.”
James’s voice snapped her out of the reverie, and Maeve tried to will the host to walk towards them faster.
“Mm,” she said noncommittally. I hope you temporarily forget how to hold a knife, she thought much more committally.
“Any bets on what the surprise ingredient will be?”
Maeve gave him a look from the corner of her eye and saw how one loose curl was starting to tip over his brow, freckled face split in a grin. Her ears were pinking because it was hot in there. That was all.
No other reason.
The embarrassment of having her pumpkin pie branded as second-best in town—who’d want to buy the second-best pumpkin pie?—stung, and she used that as motivation to lift her chin and give another noncommitted answer.
“Didn’t peg you as the ‘sore-loser’ type,” he said, and she swore his grin widened.
She cut a glare his way, about to open her mouth and retort when the host stumbled up to their counter. Maeve didn’t miss how James raised his brows at her in a goading fashion, a glint in his eye.
“So sorry, so sorry, thanks for your patience.” The round little man was out of breath, and James had the gall, Maeve noticed, to wave him off like they were old friends.
After a brief crash course on what the competition would entail– there were three ingredients they’d have to integrate into a meal, they’d be recorded and filmed the whole time, seeing as it was a TV show, and the judges would adjudicate (to Maeve, the judges seemed bored, a baseball-hat-less one picking at their nails) their end meals– the host reached his mark and patted down his toupée.
“Good luck,” Maeve said under her voice to James as he plastered on an easy grin for the camera. “You’ll need it.”
“You’re too kind,” James whispered back, and the lights flared as the competition began. ——-
After the revelation of the ingredients (moonstone shavings, orchid berries, and, for the secret one, pumpkin seeds (the irony was not lost on Maeve)), two real-time interviews to show the audience why they should root for each contestant and what they planned to do with the money (to Maeve’s eternal disgust, his answer was concerned with donating his funds to a local charity, which made her seem like capitalist scum), and a few time-based warnings, Maeve had almost forgotten that James was competing with her.
She’d fallen into the flow she usually got to while cooking, particularly with magically-enhanced foods. She had her meal plan (salmon, marinated with moonstone shavings and pressed orchid berries, with a side salad with pumpkin vinaigrette). All the parts were blending seamlessly together. She cut another glance to James’s station, seeing how he was the picture of concentration, making some complicated, ratatouille–looking assortment of vegetables on a plate.
She sniffed and turned back to her bowl of dressing, stirring in a bit of batwing-infused chili peppers to give it a savory kick. Let him do all his fancy WitchTok trends with his food. That was fine with her. She’d give the judges something edible– something that would trump his glorified rabbit food and prove that she could be trusted with $25,000 to set up her restaurant.
“Three minutes,” the host called, voice booming through the small studio. Maeve winced as the host tapped the mic, and James’s shoulders hiked up a few inches. “Sorry, sorry, all. Better start plating.”
Grabbing the salmon from its pan and starting to do just that, she tipped the remaining chilis into the dressing. She strained her neck to look around the contestant’s pantry area for any last-minute secret ingredients to grab.
She hurried to the pantry, cursing as the apron almost caused her to trip, and pilfered through the crackers and coconut shavings and jars of olives to find something great. Something amazing.
Something that would make her food so good they’d create an award, dedicate it in her name, name her the perennial champion of the competition, and prevent her from having to ever lose to James Abbott again.
Unfortunately, that single-minded focus prevented her from realizing he had had the same idea as her, and, as she reached for a vial of salamander’s blood– to give the dressing a seamless quality– she jumped as he snatched it first.
“Great minds think alike,” he said, and she swiveled, meeting his eyes.
“Thanks for grabbing it for me,” she said, reaching out.
“Of course,” he said, holding it just out of reach. Maeve tried to count backwards from ten. “You can’t go wrong with salamander blood.”
“Two minutes,” the host called, and the assistant closest to the dark stage gave her a look before walking to another camera.
Maeve pasted on a smile for any unsuspecting assistants still nearby and spoke in a low, hurried tone. “I’ll only use half– you don’t need a whole vial for whatever you have going on there.”
James made a tutting noise. “I don’t know if I believe that.”
“You have radishes on your plate,” Maeve said, recalling the flash of purple on his plate. “This will just make them more sour.”
“Perfectly counteracting the acidity in the berries. It’s fine.”
“It won’t be,” she stressed, not even sure why she was trying to help James. To his credit, he seemed to appreciate the advice.
“Want to bet?” he said, starting to uncork the vial and pour some into an empty container on the shelf. Maeve watched him for a beat before nodding.
“If the judges mention it,” he said, and handed her the vial, keeping the container for himself, “I get to take you out to dinner.”
Maeve was glad she had put the vial securely in her apron pocket as if she had still been holding it, the scarlet liquid would have ended up strewn on the tiled studio floor.
He what?
She didn’t get the chance to notice– or have the chance to kick the part of her brain responsible for rational thought into use again- as he was already striding to his plate, pouring the vial over the entire dish. The large, analog countdown timer moved to thirty seconds, and Maeve all but matched his earlier strides.
He was crazy, she thought as she drizzled the vial in the dressing and positioned the cut of fish just-so on the plate. The judges would never choose his dish to win with that sour aftertaste, and Maeve knew firsthand how sour it was when she accidentally doubled the amount of blood needed for a soup that called for radishes.
This wouldn’t help his chances of winning. Unless he was that confident in how bad her dish was, the small, needling part of her brain chimed in.
She didn’t have the chance to finish the over-analyzation of his last words– and, now that she thought about it, his easy smiles when she asked him to pass a knife, or his whispered advice to press the berries, rather than slice them– as the loud buzzing of the timer rang through the studio.
“Bring them up, please, if you could,” the host said, all but herding them towards the host’s table. —–
For what felt like the umpteenth time that evening, Maeve tried to avoid fiddling with her apron as the last of the three judges tasted her salmon.
The earlier comments had been nice, if not complimentary.
“It’s a really solid meal—you did well.”
“Nice work on the fish—it doesn’t taste too ‘fishy’.”
They had liked it, she reminded herself as she straightened her posture. James stood quietly at her side. They said good things.
But was it enough for her to win?
Again, the bet flashed in her mind, filling her with a strange mix of elation, confusion, and the sinking feeling she wasn’t going to get an honest win when the last judge set down his fork.
Adjusted his baseball cap.
And nodded at her.
“Very nice work. And is that salamander blood in the dressing?”
She tried not to preen. (Really, she did.)
“Yes, I really wanted to– ”
“Ah, very nice,” he interrupted, already motioning lazily to the host to bring in the second dish. Maeve shut her mouth so hard she nearly bit her lip, and she could almost feel James’s look. The ringing in her ears died down enough for scattered bits of James’s adjudication to break through. “Experimental use….”
“….brave choice….”
“….creativity, and I see that on your profile…..”
Maeve counted the number of tiles she could see on the ground. It was all going to be alright. It would do no good to spin out right now about a result that she wasn’t even sure was going to happen. One interruption didn’t mean it would fail.
After the last judge took a bite, removed his baseball cap, and took a few swigs of water, earning a few cautious looks from his fellow judges, he said something about James’s “creativity” and beckoned the judges into a huddle to determine the winner.
This was the moment.
Maeve’s heart pounded as they conferred.
It was now or never.
Dimly, she realized that the judges had never mentioned the acidity of the salamander’s blood on his plate. She felt an odd pang at the realization, and, over the pulsing in her ears, she turned towards James, ready to–
She wasn’t exactly sure what she was ready to do– or say, rather– and as he turned towards her, the judges swiveled back around in their chairs.
Maeve was able to catch the phrases “congratulations”, “safe, satisfying option”, and “radishes were too sour” before a large, blank check with her name on it materialized, along with a bored-looking production assistant, from somewhere behind the judges.
It was really, truly happening, she thought, and her chest constricted. She was going to do it.
“I’m sorry you didn’t win,” Maeve heard herself say to James, and she found herself the slightest bit surprised that she was being honest. He’d all but sabotaged his dish to score some time with her. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone did much of anything for her company—in the buzzing euphoria at achieving her dream, she found she was secretly a bit thrilled at the prospect.
“I wouldn’t put it that way,” he said, one corner of his mouth turning up as he turned towards her.
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