Cedar woke up before the world did. As they did most mornings, Cedar roused from a broken sleep in the early pre-dawn hours. They splashed their face with cold water, jumpstarting the process of waking up, and changed from their soft shift to their durable and rough work clothes. A prayer at their icon of the Reformer later, and they were out the door. They skipped eating something before work; breakfast wasn’t their forte, and skipping it saved them time and money anyways.
They quietly locked their room, mindful to make little noise, and slipped downstairs. Some of the religious orders were already awake and preparing for their long day ahead of them: a trade-off for working the daytime. A few travelers who had arrived after a long night of travel. Hospitality workers preparing rooms for them and those to come. And, most divine of all, the barista at the House coffee shop.
“Morning Cedar,” offered Tasha, the early morning barista. “You’re always here so early. When do you sleep?”
Cedar returned a defensive smile. Tasha worried too much. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead. That’s what coffee’s for, after all. Large Work, no milk or sugar, please.”
Tasha glanced at Cedar’s bony frame. “You might be sleeping sooner than you planned, at this rate. You sure you don’t want any cream or sugar?”
“I am.”
Outside the kitchen was Cedar’s superior, Moska. He also seemed to never sleep. They exchanged the kind of terse greeting that comes not from a difficult relationship, but from two people who both know the other has work to do.
The first thing Cedar did, as always, was down their coffee and fill the cup with water. Their daily ritual, eight cups of water by day’s end. Cedar could never be accused of under-hydrating. Next, they put on an apron, washed their hands in the basin of purified water that Moska had prepared, and waited to receive their orders.
Moska, with perfect timing and without looking up, read from the sheet in his hands: 100 meals in the morning, 300 in the afternoon, and 400 in the evening. A light day, Cedar noticed. He continued:
“Word is we may be busier the next few days, so prep extra stock. I’ll procure more ingredients.” Cedar thought they’d enjoy the extra work. Moska finished: “Do your stuff.”
Cedar was off. 100 meals would require around 4 pots, so they lit 4 fires. They gathered their ingredients: Root vegetables, poultry, cabbage, stock, herbs, salt. An incredible amount of each, orderly arrayed on the countertops and in bags and boxes on the floor. (Some might not regard bags and boxes of food spread across the floor as orderly, but Cedar had a way with it.) Stock, diluted with drinking water, poured into pots set above the fires.
After that came the chopping, dicing, mincing, slicing, cubing. As the aromas began to grow, hunger pangs struck. Following that, a pressure around their heart. They quickly downed their whole cup of water and refilled it before continuing anew.
Cedar’s coworker, Bon, arrived about 30 minutes into their shift, and stopped to greet them.
“Hey Cedar! How are you doing this fine morning?” Always too cheerful for first thing. “Sleep well?”
“Well enough,” Cedar said.
Bon continued to stand there. “Good to hear, good to hear. Any plans for later?”
“Well, I’m going to make breakfast, then lunch, then dinner, then go home.”
“Hah, same! Although you’d know that wouldn’t you? Well, let’s get on it!” Bon finally began to wash his hands.
When preparing this much food for this many people, it’s easy to forget quality and focus on just having something edible out in time. Cedar never forgot quality. This was their passion. They never lived the other three holy virtues too strongly, but passion found a life in their kitchen work. Six days a week Cedar set out to make the best of what ingredients they had; usually, they succeeded.
It’s for this reason that Moska, despite being responsible for Cedar, never came to check on their work until the final taste at the end. It was a rare day when his feedback exceeded minor alterations to the herbs and salt. Today was a usual day. A hundred meals were ready before many souls had exited their bedroom.
With their work done for the moment and their space clean, Cedar brought their full water glass to the workers’ table in the dining room. As they waited for the meal to begin, the subtle marks on their forearms glowed a dull gray. It wasn’t visible to others beneath their long-sleeved shirt, but they felt the familiar sting. They rested their head in their hands and, though it never worked, prayed to the Reformer that it end quickly.
Unfortunately, it was always a choice for Cedar: either this or the demon that’s encircled their heart. As the pressure became unbearable, Cedar chose the demon, and returned to the kitchen. They downed another glass of water, and began working on the lunch meal. With the extra time gained by not sitting at breakfast, they thought, they might be able to do something special with this.
The demon nipped at their stomach, and their body flooded with energy and warmth. This is better, Cedar thought.
“Didn’t see you at breakfast.”
Cedar pretended to busy themself with kitchen work so they had an excuse to not respond. In reality, between themself, Bon, Moska, and the soon-to-arrive Cheryl and Mads, lunch and dinner will be light work. And Moska knew the realities of the kitchen even better than Cedar.
“You can’t survive on coffee and water alone, you know.”
Moska’s words hung heavy. Cedar didn’t know how to respond—didn’t want to respond—but knew they had to. So, continuing dicing carrots, Cedar lied.
“I grabbed something from one of the vendors outside the House.” Their knifework slowed, and their hand shook a little. “I’m all good.” Moska didn’t respond. Finally: “I’ll be at lunch, don’t worry.”
“That’s good.” He watched Cedar’s knifework for a moment. “You’ve been working for a while. Finish what you’re doing and take a break. I’ll take your place.”
Cedar nodded, their knife moving with an anxious energy, their chest tight.
A few minutes and one cross-armed glare from Moska later, Cedar was sitting in the lobby. There were all types going by: laborers, priests, maids, and so many travelers. There were usually a lot of people passing through and staying for the night, making use of the House’s generosity. Today, though, seemed like a lot. Might need a few more meals that originally planned, Cedar thought. Or perhaps that was just an excuse to go back to work and not think about lunch. Their breath trembled.
As Cedar ruminated, the marks on their arms began to sting again. They reflexively pulled their sleeves down to cover the marks as the world began twisting inward. Cedar gave up, and the knot in their stomach was replaced by a heaviness in their limbs. They put their head in their hands, and stayed that way for what felt like forever, until forever was punctuated by the call for lunch.
At the workers’ table, Cedar refused the bread and signaled “that’s enough” after a ladle of soup. It barely coated the bottom of their bowl. Cedar stared at it distantly as others talked. Eventually, Cedar ate, then got in line for more food.
About half an hour after lunch ended, the pain on their arms and heaviness of their limbs began to ease up. Clarity was returning, too: The sounds of the lobby began to take on more specific forms, and they could pay attention to what was happening again. And just in time, as what was happening was quite a sight.
What seemed like a hundred families were pouring in through the large vaulted entrances. The expansive wood floors were slowly disappearing under the procession of this crowd, and high ceilings turned a commotion into a cacophony.
At first this was only a curiosity, until the sounds of crying and screaming differentiated themselves from the cacophony, and then a few voices broke through:
“We need a nurse!”
“Does anyone have bandages?”
“Anyone, please, help us!”
A few nurses and healers who happened to be nearby rushed ahead, and directed one healthy new arrival in the direction of the clinic to get more help. Healing chip necklaces were transferred from the nurses on to those in the most need, those with fevers and festering wounds. Shortly afterwards, stretchers arrived.
Cedar watched this scene play out from a bench on the sidelines. As more medical workers arrived, their attention shifted to take in the whole scene: Hundreds of people, occupying the lobby, swarming the roomkeepers and drowning Lila, the afternoon barista, in orders. It took only a moment before Cedar realized that it would be their own turn before long.
They booked it to the kitchen. Outside was Moska. Cedar offered a stressed look; Moska returned a concerned-but-aware one. Cedar’s expression shifted to narrowed, distant eyes; Moska put his hand on their shoulder and nodded. Cedar nodded back.
Cedar rounded the corner and raised their voice. “Alright, everyone, we’ve got a lot more company than expected. Moska and I talked through it, and it’s going to be tight, but we can do it. Bon.”
Bon jumped slightly before pulling himself back together. “Yes?”
“Double the bread. If you start now you’ve got time for enough dense loafs. You can aim for 80 by the time dinner starts and another 20 by midway through.”
Bon grimaced at the prospect of not being able to sit through dinner, but nodded.
“Cheryl. Split your time between preparing the poultry and helping me on vegetables. We don’t have enough meat for this many people, but we have enough vegetables, so we’re going to go heavy on the veggies today. Mads, help with dishes then move to poultry. We’re going to need those dishes back faster than the dish pit thought.” A brief pause as Cedar thought. “Don’t forget to get some Pure Font water from supplies to make sure the water stays good. Eight liters should work.”
“Aye-aye, captain,” Cheryl and Mads said in a perfect harmony of gentle mockery.
“Mads—real quick. Go run and see if Riktor can come in today. Tell them they can have off tomorrow if they want, in return for working today.”
At that last sentence, Moska gave a sidelong glance towards Cedar. Answering without acknowledging: “We’re probably going to be even more busy tomorrow. We’ll be ready for that then, but tonight we aren’t, so I’d rather another body today and be down one tomorrow.” And: “We’re going to aim for the same schedule: 24 pots out by dinner, another 8 to come by halfway. We all do our job and we’ll be able to sit for part of dinner.”
Moska patted Cedar on the back. “I’ll go message our suppliers we’ll need more produce tomorrow. You’ve got this under control.”
And they did. Riktor arrived about twenty minutes later, allowing the kitchen to run almost exactly to schedule: 73 loaves and 25 pots were ready by the time the dining staff were ready to serve. The remainder was ready a bit earlier than planned, about a third of the way through dinner (Cedar sent Cheryl off to help Bon, and Riktor since the soups were moving along quickly, and that helped Bon catch up), allowing the kitchen a little more time to rest after the blitz. For their efforts, the junior cleric had warm words for Moska to pass on to the kitchen staff.
Cedar went to bed exhausted, but satisfied. The buzz of avoiding a potential disaster through competency and teamwork is one of their favorite feelings.
But they also couldn’t quite clear the images from this afternoon from their head. That was quite a few people hurt, and Cedar had been so wrapped up in their own role that they never found out what happened.
As worry began to creep in, their demon slithered from their heart to their ear and whispered: “Whatever happens, you know I’ll be there with you. We can handle it together.”
A little more confident, Cedar fell asleep.