Among the Stacks - The Podcast of Fantasy Author, Mark Feenstra

About Among the Stacks - The Podcast of Fantasy Author, Mark Feenstra

Publishing updates, short fiction, and general musings on the craft of fiction. markfeenstra.substack.com (https://markfeenstra.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast)

Publisher

Mark Feenstra

Category

arts · society & culture

Language

en

Explicit

No

First episode

5 Oct 2022

Latest episode

17 Nov 2025

Latest episodes

5 episodes in the feed.

1. 

   17 Nov 2025

   The River Bride

   As always, I waited for night to cloak our little valley before setting out to see my love. The path to the river was well-trodden, but I followed it only partway through the copse of ash and oak to where a grandfather tree’s foot-polished roots seemed to claw the earth towards its gnarled trunk. My eyes flicked quickly over the charm of twisted sticks fastened with twine in a pattern purported to ward away evil spirits. With a quick glance over my shoulder, I stepped into the thorny tangle of blackberry brambles, careful to leave no sign of my passing by way of broken branch or trailing thread ripped from my clothing. By slipping sideways and ducking low, I was able to wend my way through the tangled underbrush. The faint trail that led from the brambles had been worn to dirt by my feet alone, and they trod it unerringly while I steeled myself for what was yet to come. Rugged brush and hard-packed earth soon gave way to slender rushes and soft clay that clumped to the soles of my boots. I slipped my feet free and shivered when cool mud squished between my toes, but the going was made less treacherous by my bare feet, and so I endured until thoughts of my impending tryst distracted me from my discomfort. By the time I had begun to carefully pick my way across the floating mat of reeds that blanketed the edge of a deep pool in a quiet bend of the river, moonlight danced over the tips of the trees, making the night-dark water glimmer like molten silver. Reverently, I sank to my knees—ignoring the chill water that seeped immediately through my trousers—and dappled my fingers on the quicksilver surface. The night was so still, I heard naught but the soft splash of droplets of water falling from my fingertips. No buzzing insect nor creaking tree marred the smothering silence. Despite the coolness of the autumn night, sweat beaded on my forehead as I knelt and waited. In the reflection of the pale water, I witnessed the lines that creased my brow and the corners of my eyes. Saw the streaks of gray in my hair and beard. When I realized I’d been holding my breath, I made myself let it out in a slow, calm stream of air. There. A disturbance in the depths. Hair splayed out like a soot-black bloom preceded a ghostly pale face. Even before she broke the surface, I felt tension bleed from my muscles when eyes that gleamed with their own preternatural light met mine. My love’s dusky blue lips parted in a hungry smile, revealing too-sharp teeth and a tongue the color of fresh-spilled blood. Mika. My love. Her words sounded from within my own head as much as they spilled from her lips like thin rivulets of spring water. “Come to join me at last, my love?” “Not tonight, dearest heart.” My flesh betrayed my speech, itching with a fever that demanded to be quenched in the crisp, cool waters in which Mika floated with effortless grace. Already I was drowning in my intoxication of her. Impossibly, she smelled of cinnamon and clove. Of woodsmoke and the tang of rising bread dough. She was my home. How I longed to warm her lips with mine. To be enveloped in her silky, sallow skin as we tumbled into the deepening pool; the river become our bridal bed. Mika laid her arms on the mat of reeds and rested her chin on the back of her wrist. “At least rinse the dust from your brow. You stink of men and horses.” “I had to travel far to purchase your favorite,” I said, even as I blinked away a compulsion to dive headlong into water from which I knew I would never emerge. Not taking my eyes off my love for even a moment, I reached into my satchel for the bundle I had carefully wrapped in a broad occus leaf. It was only after dangling several near-translucent slices of raw veal into Mika’s mouth that I risked splashing water onto my face while she hummed her pleasure over the tender cuts of young flesh that were becoming increasingly difficult to procure. To avoid rousing suspicion by asking too often for meat that was otherwise well beyond my means, I had begun traveling farther and farther afield in search of freshly slaughtered calf. This most recent purchase had required a half-day’s walk in each direction, leaving me little time to carve away fat and sinew before preparing my love’s evening meal. “Is there any more?” she asked with the sticky sweetness of a late-summer plum after I had fed her the last thin sliver. “No, my blessed moon,” I said with a sad smile. “That was all I could afford.” Mika pouted and pushed away from the edge of the reeds, the diaphanous fabric of her bridal gown plastered across milky-white breasts as she drifted away on her back. Water shimmered over the roundness of her bosom and belly, pooling in the dark cloud between her legs before cascading over her thighs. Desire flared within me like a midwinter bonfire. My skin itched anew. Sweat beaded at my temples. The iron tang of blood filled my mouth, but I clenched my jaw tighter so the salty warmth of blood from my tongue might remind me of the life I stood to lose. Scarcely in control of my own body, I forced my eyelids shut and reminded myself of the danger of letting longing overwhelm me. Mika’s voice a whisper at my ear. “Your heart races.” She traced the sharpened tip of a pointed fingernail across the pulse at my neck. “And you tremble with longing. Why do you insist on denying yourself? I am yours as you are mine. Shed your garments and join me so we might finally consummate our marriage.” My lips had gone dry and I could scarcely draw breath as I cupped her cold cheek with palm and fingers that felt aflame. If only I were brave enough to believe such tales as told of true love’s healing kiss. How long had it been since I’d tasted the sweetness of her mouth as we stole kisses beneath the willow at the edge of her father’s land? How many seasons had passed since we’d bound our hands and spoken secret vows? I burned with enough fire for the both of us, did I not? If there was even a chance I might bring her back to me, was I anything but a coward for not risking all to be with her once again? As was always so when my eyes met hers, I felt drawn into her, overcome with the urge to drown myself in her love even if it meant I should never again breach the surface and draw breath that did not come from her chest. For the first time in years, I leaned in close enough for my lips to brush hers. The skin of our noses touched as I pressed my mouth more firmly against her lips. If not for the low moan of hunger and the sharp pressure of a knife-blade tooth against my lip, I might never have pulled away from that fatal kiss. It took every ounce of will I possessed to wrench myself free of her. As I lay sprawled on my side at the river’s edge, gasping at the cold night air rushing into my lungs, I witnessed a flash of anger across Mika’s features and feared this might be the moment she dropped all pretense and wrenched me violently from land while I thrashed against her clutching claws. My river bride’s anger drifted downstream like a leaf in the current. So sweetly it made my heart ache, she smiled and twirled in the water, hair and gown swirling around her. Mika’s laughter was a rivulet of light glimmering a thousand facets as it fell from her lips. “One day you will be mine again,” she said with unassailable certainty. “I am ever yours,” I told her. “If you were truly mine, you would join me once and for all.” She swam back to my mat of reeds, head cocked to one side, mouth sagging in an exaggerated frown. “Yet you insist on clinging to your miserable little life. What does this world offer you that keeps you shackled so? What pleasures do you seek that I cannot give?” My resolve wavered and nearly fractured again. How I craved her in that moment. How I lusted after the pleasures of love I had been so long denied. Mika smiled sweetly. “Come, Love. Let us be as one.” My chest shuddered as I let out the sigh that had been building all evening, and I scurried back from the water’s edge. Any pleasure I took from my bride would be matched with equal measures of pain before she consumed me. This truth I held most firmly guarded in my heart of hearts. Only this knowledge kept me from going to her. Only the dull and distant echo of warning in my gut saved me from myself that night. “Soon,” I promised as I shakily regained my feet. “Soon I will come to you for the last time, my Love.” Though it sparked a pain like that of ripping a limb from my own body, I turned away from the water and retraced my steps back to my boots, back through the brambles, and back along the well-trodden river path. I walked numb and cold to my little cottage where I made no effort to kindle the hearth fire before collapsing onto my thin pallet. Too weary to shift myself enough to crawl beneath the warmth of my wool blanket, I tugged what fabric I could over me and wept silent tears into the crook of my arm. Moon after moon, year after year, it had never gotten any easier. How much longer could I convince myself it was better to have these small moments with my Mika than to experience one torrid moment of passion before she dragged me down to my death? As I had so many times before, I told myself that next time I would find the courage to join my river bride. In that liminal haze between wakefulness and sleep, I tried to convince myself I was ready to give up this miserable excuse for a life and go to her for the last time. Next time I would doff my clothing and slip into the water that I might know the joy of her body even as we sank to a watery riverbed that would become my grave. Next time I would find the courage, I told myself, as I did every night after returning from the bend in the river where the moon bathed the water silver. Next time. Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this story, please consider sharing it with a friend. Until next time, I’ll see you Among the Stacks!Mark Feenstra Get full access to Among the Stacks at markfeenstra.substack.com/subscribe (https://markfeenstra.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4)

2. 

   20 Oct 2025

   A Trick of Moonlight

   A short fantasy story in which students try to untangle a late-night mystery.Transcript:While most of the Library slept, five students hurried into a little-used reading room, edging out the young boy who’d been there first as they crowded around a dusty statue silvered by the moon. The statue was as tall as the long-dead librarian it portrayed. In one arm, it cradled a massive stone tome, the title too worn to read. The other arm was slightly raised, pinching a hand scale in perfect balance. Erdil—eldest among those gathered—clutched a stack of dog-eared papers covered front and back with all manner of chicken scratch. “It’s obvious,” he said with all the bluster of one who had no idea what he was doing, but who had too eagerly assumed the mantle of leadership when no one else had stepped up. “We just have to figure out how to activate the scales.” Inness, who was taller than Erdil by a handspan, grasped hold of one of the scale plates and lifted her knees, hanging her entire body weight from it. “How?” she grunted before letting her feet fall back to the ground. “It’s solid rock.” “There has to be a hidden mechanism,” said Kuy. He ran his fingers along the scale delicately, as though trying to read the statue’s secrets in the imperfections of the stone. “What if—” “Leave us alone, Rowan,” Erdil spat. “But I really think we have to focus—” Erdil turned on Rowan and glowered at him. “No one cares what you think! Get out of here!” Rowan shrank beneath the weight of Erdil’s glare, taking an involuntary step backwards before turning and running from the reading room. Inness frowned. “That was mean.” “He was being annoying,” said Kuy, turning away from his inspection of the statue. “Kid’s been following us around all day.” “He was also the one who figured out the third clue.” “I’d already solved it. He just blurted it out before I could.” Erdil stared down at the papers in his hand, trying to make sense of everything they’d learned to get here. “I don’t care whose son he is,” he muttered mostly to himself. “Kid thinks he’s better than all of us because he was raised here.” Flet, who’d been browsing books on the shelf behind the statue, spoke up. “This bickering is a waste of time. The clues make it pretty clear we have to get this done while moonlight shines on the statue. Look, it’s almost gone.” True enough, the wash of cool moonlight had crept across the statue, leaving only a third still bathed in light. “Flet’s right.” Erdil began scanning the room. “Come on, there has to be something we can put on the scales to make them move. Try everything you can find!” Unseen, young Rowan slipped back into the room clutching a silver serving tray. Sticking to the shadows, he used the hem of his sleeve to polish the tray to a high sheen while watching the older students try and fail to balance all manner of objects on the scales. The more frustrated they became, the more he slunk back into a recess between two bookshelves, hoping they wouldn’t notice him lurking in the background. Flet placed a quill on the scale, poked and prodded the intricately carved chain and plate, then flung the quill to the ground. “Read the clue again, Erdil.” “I’ve read it a hundred times!” “Read it a hundred and one, then! Read it until we’ve figured the damned thing out!” “Fine.” Erdil shuffled his papers to find the passage. “A librarian from the oldest tales, Faithful watcher of the scales, Night Mother’s feathery brush of light, Brings the final key to light.” Flet ran her hands through her hair, squeezing and pulling until the roots stung her scalp. “This has to be it. The scales are obvious. Night Mother is the moon. According to the astrological almanac, this is the only night of the year when light shines through this window at the right angle. If we don’t get this now, we’re ruined!” Rowan pressed himself tight against the wall. Patience was not his strong suit, but he could wait a little longer. The students had become so caught up in their arguments about what to try before the moonlight moved away from the statue that they missed the moment the last glimmer slipped silently off the stone. Rowan stifled the urge to shout at them, and fortunately he didn’t have to wait long for Kuy to notice that their time was up. Exhausted from the lateness of the hour and the efforts of the day, the five students gave up and shuffled off to their respective beds. The moment the last of them was out of sight, Rowan burst from his hiding place and set to work snatching a chair and placing it atop a table on the far side of the room. He then scampered atop the table and chair, hoisted his makeshift mirror as high overhead as he could manage, only to come up a few inches short of catching the last fading beam of moonlight. Quick as he could, he gathered the four stoutest books he could find, placed them under the legs of the chair, and made his wobbly way back onto his precarious perch. By standing on tiptoe, he was just able to catch the moon’s light with his platter, focusing and redirecting it onto the leftmost scale. With tightly held breath, he strained against the shaking of his calves and the ache in his arms in order to hold the spot of moonlight in place. At first, nothing happened. Then the stone plate began to creep downwards. At its nadir, a soft click echoed throughout the night-silent room, and Rowan nearly cracked his skull open in his haste to climb down from the chair and table. He rushed to the statue and inspected the stone book. Sure enough, a sliver of space had appeared beneath the cover, allowing Rowan to lift it and reveal a dull metal key wrapped in a scroll of undecipherable symbols. “Another clue,” Rowan grumbled. “There’s always another clue.” Even so, after pressing the book shut and watching the stone scale slide mysteriously back into place, a smile creased Rowan’s lips. Another mystery was more fun in the end. A final prize meant no more game, and then what would Rowan do for fun? Get full access to Among the Stacks at markfeenstra.substack.com/subscribe (https://markfeenstra.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4)

3. 

   25 Mar 2024

   Progress Report: March 2024

   Hey, Everyone. If you’re listening to this instead of reading, I guess you’ve figured out the first update already; I’m going to be trying to produce a lot more audio updates here on Among the Stacks. Some of these will be typed out ahead of time and recorded from a prepared script, while others will be free-form rambles that I’ll transcribe after the fact for those who’d prefer to read instead of listening. Honestly, I’m not much of an audio person myself, but I’ve recently developed a much better appreciation of just how valuable it is for people to be able to consume media in the format that best suits their personal preference. One of the biggest hurdles with me recording audio when I attempted it last year, is that I’m very much a perfectionist who becomes frustrated when I can’t produce things that meet a certain technical standard. My apartment is LOUD. I live in a two-story walk-up on a major street, and no matter how low I set my microphone gain, what kind of noise-filtering tech I use, and what sort of post-processing noise gates I apply, the sounds of traffic and sirens still trickle through. For a casual newsletter audio update like this, that’s not a big deal, but it’s painfully frustrating when trying to record audio narration of one of my short stories. At one point last year, I went as far as trying to build a little recording studio in my tiny closet. I hung blankets and towels to buffer the sound, but still the honking of cars and rumbling of trucks made it into the recording. So I’m letting go of perfect and going to allow myself to record some of these newsletters with all their inevitable messiness. And that means some serious rambling once in a while. Most of my audio posts will be as considered and as concise as possible, but those who know me best know I’m a rambler. And friends, sometimes I’m going to settle in and let myself ramble at you without any prepared script. Some of you are going to love it, and some of you are going to hate it. As a consolation to those who aren’t a fan of long-winded audio posts, I promise I’ll do my best to ensure no important information is buried inside an hour-long monologue. State of the Newsletter Embarrassingly, I drafted a newsletter in June of last year explaining that life and writing had become a little too overwhelming for me to juggle Among the Stacks, so I was pausing billing for paid subscribers for at least the rest of the year. I somehow convinced myself that I’d posted that update, when in reality I left it languishing in my drafts folder. The main reason I felt I had to step back from putting out newsletter updates is that I was really stuck on my Traveling Librarian revisions. I’ll talk about that more in a bit, but for now let me just say that it was a real struggle to consider posting updates when I was so stalled out on the one project on which I was already so far behind schedule. I originally thought I’d have that thing published in the fall of 2022, and there I was half a year later feeling no closer to publishing it. I’m not entirely sure when I’m going to unpause billing again, but for those of you who’ve been so supportive of the newsletter in the past, I assure you that I won’t flip that switch until I’m ready to start producing regular updates again. Your paid subscriptions help me write and publish stories like The Traveling Librarian that I believe would be mangled beyond recognition in the gears of the traditional publishing engine, so it’s important that you know how grateful I’ve been for your financial support. As far as future newsletter updates are concerned, I basically plan to ignore all the common best-practice advice and do everything wrong by posting without a real schedule or focus. I’m still going to share progress updates and I have two short stories in the pipe that I’ll be releasing in the coming months, but until The Traveling Librarian has a locked-in publication date, I’m only going to post here when I have something to say. Some weeks you may get two updates, and some weeks there might not be any. This is so I can focus on the important writing work when I need to, and so I don’t feel compelled to release filler content to meet an arbitrary newsletter schedule. The Traveling Librarian The biggest piece of news insofar as this newsletter is concerned, is that a first revision of The Traveling Librarian has finally been completed! Not only that, but it’s already been read by my writing partner and deemed not terrible! That’s not entirely true; her actual reaction was much more effusive. It’s a scary thing to pass a story off to a reader for the first time. The day after I sent over the file, I experienced a bout of panicked insecurity like nothing I’ve felt since I was a teenager. The Traveling Librarian is in many ways a simple book that makes no overt effort to tackle intensely dramatic themes, but it’s probably the most important thing I’ve ever written. It’s the book that so far comes closest to being what my writing career has been evolving toward over the past decade of selling fiction. There’s enough of me in this book, that it’s difficult to separate myself from reader reactions to these early drafts. But all is well, and though there’s work yet to be done to get it to a publishable state, I’m feeling confident that the bones of the story are good and that the characters are coming across the way I’d hoped they would. The next phase in Librarian’s journey is a small revision to fix a few minor issues before it goes off to my alpha readers. What follows from there is another round of revision, beta reading (in which some of you may be able to participate), yet more revisions, copy edits, and then final publication. I don’t want to make any firm commitments on that front, but my current most realistic target is a September 2024 release. I’m going to try very hard to hit that fall deadline. Other Work Leading up to that, I’ll be sharing at least two more short stories as newsletter exclusives. Both are set in the same fictional world as The Traveling Librarian, and one of those stories concerns the Library itself. I’ve also begun writing the second Traveling Librarian novel. I’m not going to give away any details just yet, but my current plan is to get that draft done before summer so that there won’t be a huge gap between the first and second book. I’m also still doing client work, writing under anonymous pen names, and pursuing other creative projects when I have the time. As much as I wish The Traveling Librarian and related works were my sole focus, the frustrating reality is that I have a lot of demands on my time that make it very difficult to work as quickly as I’d like. Personal Life I’ve been largely offline for a while now. For privacy reasons, I’m not going to share any details here, but my parenting obligations have been quite demanding for a while now. As much as I identify as a professional author, my daily reality is that I’m a full-time parent to my kid for more hours of the day than I’m able to allocate to anything else. While I have some wonderfully supportive people in my life to take some of the pressure off, it continues to be a very large emotional investment that often makes it hard to do difficult work like assessing my own writing for weaknesses so I can publish the best possible version of a book. There is some good news on that front, however… As of yesterday (as I’m writing the first draft of this newsletter), I’m engaged to be married! My work and parenting schedule doesn’t leave a lot of room for dating, but I was fortunate enough to become writing partners with someone who quickly became one of the most important people in my life. Unbeknownst to either of us, intense romantic feelings developed as we got to know one another, and before long it came to light that we were both falling hopelessly and irredeemably in love with one another. I’ve always convinced myself that there was something about marriage as a concept that didn’t work for me—that all two people ever needed was a desire to be together and a willingness to do the work that makes a relationship withstand the test of time—but then I met this woman and knew not just that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her, but that I wanted to give her a ring and celebrate our love for one another with our friends and family. It’s no exaggeration to say that I would not have gotten through this Traveling Librarian draft yet had it not been for her. Not for any specific thing she did to help in the writing and revision process, but for the perfect support she gives me on a day to day basis. This newsletter isn’t the place for me to go on at length about how wonderful I think she is, but considering that I’m in my forties now and have never in my life considered marrying anyone, it seems like pretty big news that’s worth sharing with those of you who know me or are invested in more than just my writing. Having my fiancée in my corner has made me happier, healthier, and wildly more productive than I’ve ever been before. After some rough years, I’m feeling better than ever about my creative work, and that means more books and short stories for you to read! What I’m Reading/Listening To/Watching Books The Housekeeper and the Professor by Yōko Ogawa. This short novel is about a math professor who, as a result of a car accident in 1975, has only eighty minutes of short-term memory. Through interactions with a new housekeeper and her son, this lovely little story explores the overlapping beauty of mathematical logic and the inherent fuzziness of the human experience. The Bedlam Stacks by Natasha Pulley. These days a lot of my reading is skewed towards historical explorer biographies or tales of fantasy adventure, so when I discovered a historical fantasy book about a man who goes to Peru in order to smuggle out cinchona cuttings as a potential source of quinine during the malaria outbreaks in India in the mid-1800s, I dove into it immediately. I won’t give away what starts happening once the fantasy elements begin kicking in near the middle of the book, but if you enjoy a slow-paced tale of exploration, this is a must read. Endurance: Shackleton's Incredible Voyage by Alfred Lansing. If you know anything at all about Ernest Shackleton, I don’t have to tell you how astonishing his experiences in the Antarctic were. I didn’t read a lot of non-fiction before I started researching true histories of exploration as research for my own fictional projects, but something that comes up a lot among writer friends of mine who do similar research reading is that so many of these true stories are so astonishingly unlikely that they’d never pass for believable fiction. I’m still only partway through Endurance, but so far every chapter has had something that’s left me utterly amazed at either the bad luck these men had to endure, or the grit and determination that allowed them to persevere in the face of trials that would shatter most people’s spirits. Film & TV Poor Things by Yorgos Lanthimos. So much has been said about this movie on the internet already that I’m hesitant to say much of anything at all about it. It’s not for everyone, but if you’re familiar with Lanthimos’s work and know what you’re getting in for, I highly recommend carving out time for Poor Things. If not, maybe give The Lobster or The Favourite a short before diving into what might just be Lanthimos’s masterpiece. Shōgun. Only three episodes of the TV adaptation of James Clavell’s 1975 novel have aired as of when I’m drafting this newsletter, but I’ve really been enjoying the adaptation. I was fourteen when I first read the novel, and though I can’t say how well it’s aged, it was a very important book in the grand arc of influencing what sort of things I write about today. There are few shows I watch on a week-to-week basis instead of waiting for the entire season to emerge so I can consume it on my own time, but new episodes of Shōgun have quickly become something I look forward to each Tuesday. The Completely Made-Up Adventures of Dick Turpin. Noel Fielding as 18th century highwayman Dick Turpin? Yes please! Again, only a few episodes have aired so far, and the show is obviously a little absurd, but I’m a sucker for a comedy set in this period, so of course I’m happily watching this one. Our Flag Means Death. It took me a while to catch up on the second season, and the show has sadly been canceled, but if you somehow haven’t heard of this show or haven’t seen it yet, it’s well worth your time if you’re into pirate fantasy in which Taika Waititi plays Blackbeard and Rhys Darby plays gentleman pirate Stede Bonnet. Though there’s no proper series finale, I think the second season wraps up satisfyingly enough that I didn’t feel like I was left hanging in the middle of an important story arc in the wake of the season finale. Music Music is kind of a funny thing to share, since it doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with the kind of books I write, but it’s a big part of my life, so I’m going to share a few things that have been getting consistent airplay around here on the off chance it resonates with any of you. Stranger in the Alps by Phoebe Bridgers. I’m very late to the Phoebe Bridgers party, but I’ve been obsessed with this album for the past few months. Nostalgia Killer by Lightning Dust. Vancouver duo Lightning Dust were a couple when they first began performing as a side project from Black Mountain (another of my favorite bands), but when they ended their romantic relationship some years later, they decided to come back together and collaborate on this gut-wrenching exploration of love, longing, and loss. Nostalgia Killer may be too brooding a vibe for many of you, but if haunting indie rock is your thing, I can’t recommend this album enough. The Book of Secrets by Loreena McKennitt. I don’t often listen to music when I write, but this album has become something that gets me into a certain headspace when working on stories set in the world of Tellen. I don’t know how well known Loreena McKennitt is outside of Canada, but if you’re at all interested in Celtic and Middle Eastern folk music, give this album a listen. That’s all I’ve got for now. This is going to be a bit of a process for me. I’m not necessarily used to speaking my thoughts. I’m definitely someone who composes my thoughts much better in a typed form, but I’m recognizing that for a lot of people it’s much easier to consume audio. So I’m going to try to, at the very least, read out all of my newsletters going forward. Part of that means going back and recording audio for some of my short stories, and I’m also going to put some real effort into trying to figure out how to produce an audiobook of The Traveling Librarian for those of you who’d rather consume it in that format. Audiobooks require a lot of effort and some good narration talent, which is a little tough to do on a budget—and we are a budget outfit over here—but that’s a huge priority. So those of you who are following along and hoping for an audio book, the good news is that there’s going to be one for you to listen to when this book releases… or very shortly thereafter the print version comes out. Thanks for staying with me after all these months of silence. I’m not sure when the next newsletter is going to come out, but I’m going to start working on those short stories, getting more content out for you, and really focusing all my energy on getting The Traveling Librarian out. So long, and see you Among the Stacks! - Mark Get full access to Among the Stacks at markfeenstra.substack.com/subscribe (https://markfeenstra.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4)

4. 

   25 May 2023

   Travels & Misadventures: Kazbegi Sunburn

   I’ve been thinking about sunburns a lot lately, and it’s only in part because the sun has gone from being an absent friend to that overbearing guest who doesn’t know when they’ve overstayed their welcome. By now, even most non-writers have heard the old saw, write what you know. Though I’m not going to dive into how misunderstood and misapplied that bit of advice often is, I do know a few things about sunburns, so naturally when my naïve traveling librarian set out on his first adventure, I felt it only natural to treat him to a little abuse, I mean, character development at the hands of the sun. The specific sunburn I’ve been thinking about happened on the other side of the world in a little Georgian town (properly a townlet with a population of roughly 1,400 people) by the name of Stepantsminda, formerly and more popularly known as Kazbegi. Like most mountainous regions in Georgia, getting there is a bit of an adventure in and of itself. Public transportation is limited to run-down microbuses that leave when they’re full (we sat around for three hours for ours to fill up), and the roads are often little more than rough dirt tracks carved into mountainsides. When the glorified minivan isn’t on the verge of overheating as it grinds its way uphill, further delays come in the form of rockslides and herds of goats who couldn’t give a damn about our desire to get to our destination. Stepantsminda is only 157 kilometers (98 mi) from the capital of Tbilisi, but it might as well be fifty times that distance for how inefficient the journey was. Other than the natural beauty of the region, the main attraction is the Gergeti Trinity Church, perched at 2,170 meters (7,120 feet) above sea level and 430 meters above the town. I’m sure it’s entirely possible to hire a car to drive up to the church, but we’d already discussed hiking up to the church and into the mountains beyond with some of the other travelers we’d met on the bus ride into town, so early the next morning we set off on our little trek. The thing about the mountains is that you can be both very cold and very warm depending on how much you’re moving and how strong the wind is blowing. I’d decided to wear shorts, as had several others from our little band of adventurers, but as we approached the perennial snowfields in the upper reaches of Mount Kazbek, it became cold enough that I pulled an insulated jacket on over my wool sweater and wrapped a scarf around my face to protect from the whipping wind that chafed the exposed skin of our faces. Mount Kazbek’s summit sits at a lofty 5,054 meters (16,581 ft) above at sea level, though we decided to call it a day at the snow line just past the 3,000-meter (9,842 ft) mark. Another fun fact about the mountains is that UV exposure increases by 4% with every 1000 ft elevation gain. So we’re talking 28% higher risk of a sunburn at our starting point for the day up to nearly 40% higher by the time we stopped for lunch. This is where I’d love to plead ignorance, but I’ve read enough mountaineering memoirs to know that the risk of sunburns is way higher in the mountains. Since this was back in 2012 and just one stop among many on our 7-week trip around Georgia, I don’t really remember the details of the dinner we’d had the night before, but Georgians have a strong drinking culture so there’s a very good chance I’d been indulging in local wine and spirits the previous evening. Whatever the case, I hiked my dumb ass a thousand meters up the side of a mountain with the sun blazing on the back of my legs for several hours. Did you know the back of the knee is properly called the popliteal fossa? I didn’t until I just looked it up right now, and that knowledge has done absolutely nothing to blunt the memory of how excruciatingly painful it is to sunburn what most of us just call the kneepit. I realized I was burning when I felt fire in my kneepit with each descending step from our high point, but it wasn’t until I got back to our little guesthouse that I realized just how badly I’d messed up. My leg had gone straight past apple-red and settled into the vibrant purple of a fresh bruise. For most of that afternoon, all I could do was strip down to my underwear and lie facedown on the bed while trying not to cry into my flimsy excuse for a pillow. With only my trauma to blame for the haziness of memory that surrounds the rest of that day, I do know that at some point I struggled into pants so the sun wouldn’t touch my skin, then shuffled painfully down to the only pharmacy in town. Earlier in this story, I wrote ‘we’, because I was traveling with my then-girlfriend, but the reason she didn’t just run down to fetch me some aloe vera lotion is that a lot of Georgians don’t speak any English. The only way I was getting help from these ladies at the pharmacy was by going down there and showing them my poor, abused legs while miming violent attacks from the sun’s rays until they realized what I needed. Which they apparently believed was SPF 15 sunscreen. “How do you think you say, ‘it’s way too late for that’ in Georgian?” I asked my girlfriend before turning back to the pharmacists and emphatically shaking my head and then acting out visible relief from pain until understanding dawned and they brought me a little white container of ointment with a label written entirely in Georgian script. After a bit of mental currency exchange math, I realized it only cost about $3 CAD, and figuring it was the best I was going to get, I decided it was worth a shot. I wish I’d taken a photo of the label so I could translate it now, but unsurprisingly I was in so much discomfort I basically didn’t take any photos until I was back in Tbilisi a couple of days later. If you’re not familiar with Georgian script, here’s what I am a big dumb idiot who should never go anywhere without sunscreen looks like in Georgian: მე ვარ დიდი სულელი იდიოტი, რომელიც მზისგან დამცავი კრემის გარეშე არსად არ უნდა წავიდეს So yeah, no way I was making any sense of that label. The only way I can describe this stuff is that it was thick, greasy, and reeked of sheep. Back in high school, one of my closest friends had grandparents who owned sheep. I visited once and spent an entire day helping out with the sheep, so I have a pretty good idea of what sheep smell like. My best guess is that the ointment was primarily lanolin (a wax secreted by the sebaceous glands of wool-bearing animals) but at the time it smelled and felt a lot like smearing sheep fat on my legs. There was no noticeable pain relief, it stained my clothes, and made my legs stick to the sheets at night. Whatever it was, it worked. Miraculously, my skin didn’t blister or peel even a little bit. The angry purple faded to an only slightly-annoyed red, which eventually tamed itself into the ruddy blotchiness that’s as close as I ever come to getting a tan. And that’s not my worst sunburn story by a long shot, though I’m not sure if burning the soles of my feet so badly on hot sand I couldn’t walk for several days counts as a sunburn? Anyway, that’s a story for another time. The reason I’ve been thinking about this particular sunburn is that the Library on which The Traveling Librarian stories are based is situated in a mountainous location that’s very much inspired by Stepantsminda and the stunning location of the Gergeti Trinity Church. I may not be a pasty librarian who spends too much time inside (though I do spend too much time inside nowadays), but as someone who has no excuse not to know better, I’m still capable of making idiotic decisions that leave me sunburnt and suffering, just like a certain fictional librarian venturing out into the world for the first time. Until next time, I’ll see you among the stacks where I’m hiding my fair skin from the ravages of the sun rather than putting on a bit of sunscreen. -mark Get full access to Among the Stacks at markfeenstra.substack.com/subscribe (https://markfeenstra.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4)

5. 

   5 Oct 2022

   A Cook's Errand

   The sun had scarcely risen on a crisp autumn day, but the Château Bourrange kitchens were already hot enough to bring sweat to Valentin’s brow as he rushed to roll his pastry before the butter melted and ruined the dough. That was the way of these old châteaux; always too hot or too cold. The same massive hearth fires that were such a boon in the depths of winter made for sweltering conditions the rest of the year. Valentin had several times petitioned to have one of the stone larders repurposed for the bakers so they could more easily manage temperamental doughs and confections, but had been turned down with one ridiculous excuse after another. The truth of it was that the master cook couldn’t stand the idea of anyone being out from under his critical eye for even a moment. Maistre Thierry was a culinary genius—which was precisely the reason Valentin had first come to apprentice in this kitchen all those years ago—but the Maistre possessed a tyrannical streak that matched and often overshadowed the artful brilliance he brought to his work. Thierry insisted on inspecting each stage of every dish that was prepared in his kitchen. This was little more than an annoyance to which Valentin was well accustomed, but on a feast day like this, it wreaked havoc on the kitchen’s ability to get through the immense menu without a considerable amount of teeth gnashing and cursing behind their Maistre’s back. “You’re overworking that pastry.” “Yes, Maistre,” Valentin said without looking up. In fact, he was not overworking the pastry, but one did not contradict Maistre Thierry in his own kitchen. “Have Noélie take over. I need you for something else.” Valentin nodded curtly and went to fetch Noélie from where she was whisking eggs into a lemon curd. Wiping buttery hands on his apron, he crossed the kitchen to where Thierry was now hovering over young Herve while the boy made a mess of trussing a chicken with shaky hands. “Relax, Herve,” Valentin said, laying his hand on the boy’s shoulder before their Maistre’s presence could rattle him any further. “Remember, careful is calm, and calm is quick. Start over and take your time.” Herve unwrapped the mess of twine and began again, considering each next move before executing it with deliberate care. This was enough to satisfy Thierry, who motioned for Valentin to follow before marching over to his own workstation where he picked up a knife and steel. The sharp kish kish of blade sliding across steel punctuated his words when he said, “You coddle them too much, Valentin.” “The boy has potential, but he lacks confidence. Trial by fire isn’t always the best approach.” Thierry set into a side of lamb, breaking it down for a crown rack that would later grace the Duke’s table. “It worked with you.” “And it has sent dozens more running for the hills after we invested a year or more into training them.” Valentin lowered his voice. His years of service had earned him some privilege of familiarity with the Maistre, but not so much that he could flaunt it in front of the other cooks. “They’re not all chickens to be roasted over the coals, Thierry. Take Noélie for example; the girl does wonders with cakes and confections, but she was a timid thing when she first came to us, was she not? She’s since proven her mettle, but it took gentle encouragement to build that fortitude.” “Pah,” Maistre Thierry flicked a piece of gristle off his thumb. “Even the most delicate mousse must be firmly beaten.” Valentin suppressed a sigh. They’d been having this same conversation in one form or another for nearly a decade. A pot of butter buried under a mountain of winter ice would soften before Thierry ever did. That didn’t mean Valentin would give up on advocating for his people, but it did hasten the onset of the dull ache in his temples that didn’t typically set in until after midday. “You said you needed me for something else?” Valentin asked by way of changing the subject. “We’re out of sormillaux. I need one to finish the eel and onion tart.” “That’s not possible. Silouane was by just two days ago. I bought three large sormillaux, and we only used the one for last night’s duck en croûte.” “And yet, they are gone.” Thierry set his knife down, then leaned heavily on his knuckles. “If someone has stolen them, we’ll deal with it tomorrow. For now, the only thing that matters is getting through tonight’s menu, understood? Take a purse of fleurines and run to Silouane for another. Two if they look good.” Valentin looked around the kitchen where nearly forty men and women were working their hardest to produce the hundreds of dishes required for that night’s feast. It would take every single one of them giving their all to get through it. Valentin couldn’t afford to run off and leave them shorthanded. But neither could he trust any of them with a purse of gold fleurines and the selection of Silouane’s best sormillaux. The old woman knew well the power she held over even a man as highly placed in the Duke’s favor as Maistre Thierry. Sormillau hunting was more akin to mystical art than a learned skill, and the woman was the sole supplier of the finest kitchens in the kingdom. She only ever dealt with Valentin or Thierry himself, and would certainly rid herself of her worst stock for a princely sum should some hapless young apprentice come begging on the night of a feast. There was nothing to be done for it. Valentin untied his apron and threw it over the back of a chair as he hurried for the door. The cool autumn air was a welcome relief on his face after what had already been a long morning in the kitchen. He briefly considered deviating to his room for a coat, but it would only waste time he couldn’t spare. Silouane’s cottage was two miles from the chateau, and he kept up a brisk pace. When he began to shiver a little during the last half mile, he reminded himself that it was mainly uphill on the return trip, and that the oppressive heat of the kitchen fires would be waiting to roast his bones and make him long for the chill air once more. A slender tendril of smoke drifted lazily from the chimney atop Silouane’s cottage, easing Valentin’s worry that she might not even be at home. The door creaked open when he was still ten paces away, and Silouane stood leaning against the doorframe, blue smoke from a stained bone pipe streaming from her nostrils. “Come for a roll at last, Valentin?” she asked with a wry grin. “You’d break me in half, and I have too much work yet to do today.” “I promise I’ll go easy on you and have you back to Maistre Thierry before he misses you.” She never failed to make the word sound like an insult, especially when speaking directly to Thierry himself. The woman was twice Valentin’s age, but he admired her boldness so much he almost considered testing her to see if her offer of a quick dalliance was earnest. “I’m sorry to be blunt, but I’m in a rush,” he said instead. “I need more sormillaux. We both know you have me over a barrel here, so I’ll be clear; I’m willing to pay a premium if we can sidestep the dickering for once.” “You’re too late, I’m afraid. I’ve not one sormillau to give. Parted ways with the very last of them just this morning.” Valentin swallowed the lump in his throat. He hadn’t even considered that she might not have anything to sell. “Could you go out and find another?” Silouane barked a laugh, then shook her head, smiling at Valentin as though addressing an addled fool. “If it were as easy as all that, you’d not need me to hunt them out and sell them to you, would you? It takes weeks to find new sormillaux ready to pick. Besides, Rodi stuck his nose into a porcupine’s den and got a face full of quills out by Meunier’s field this morning. I just finished plucking the last of the damn things out a few minutes before you got here. Poor thing won’t be able to hunt again until his nose heals.” Rodi was the shaggy gray dog that shambled along beside Silouane wherever she went. How exactly he was able to sniff out the rare and difficult-to-find sormillaux was known only to Silouane. Playing on the Duke’s love for the exquisite delicacy, Thierry had once convinced the Duke to have his gamekeeper train a sormillau-hunting dog of his own, but the mutt had only ever run off after ducks and squirrels, never finding so much as a chanterelle or morel, never mind a sormillau. “Let me guess,” Valentin said, knowing exactly who lived out past Meunier’s field. “You sold the last of your supply to Oderac.” “He might sell one to you if you ask nicely.” “Oderac despises the Duke, and he knows me too well to believe I’m asking for any other reason. Won’t you go and ask him yourself?” Silouane drew on her pipe, but it had gone out. She tapped the ashes onto the ground as she said, “I care not who has my sormillaux, and I’ll not trudge all the way back out there to beg a favor for Thierry or his royal Dukeship who cares about me only insofar as it relates to sending his tax collector after my profits. How about truffle? I have a nice plump white truffle I was saving for myself, but I’ll let you have it at the regular price.” “You of all people know that even the finest truffle is no substitute for even the poorest of sormilleaux.” Silouane nodded sympathetically. “If you don’t want to ask Oderac, you could try Aurele down in the village. She did me a rather discreet favor recently, and this morning I repaid it in goods. If she hasn’t eaten it already, she might prefer your coin to the sormillau I gave her.” Valentin raised an eyebrow at that. “What sort of favor did she do to earn her such repayment?” “That’s between me and her, and I advise you not to go pestering her about it unless you’re eager to find the Duke’s kitchens removed from my delivery rounds. Have you any idea how often these fat merchants offer double or even triple if only I’d sell to them instead?” The idea of offending Silouane to the point that he risked the Duke’s access to his beloved sormillaux was so terrifying that Valentin raised his palms and shook his head defensively. “Your business is your own. Where did you say this Aurele woman lived?” “Two doors south of cobbler Laurent. You’ll know it by the herbs drying out front.” Valentin gave a deeper than necessary parting bow, then hastened back to the road. The village was yet another half hour of walking in the opposite direction of the château. With the time he’d already wasted bantering with Silouane, it was doubtful he’d make it back to the kitchen by noon even if he ran the entire way back. Not that running was even an option. Despite the toll working with Maistre Thierry had taken on his nerves, life in the Duke’s kitchen had left Valentin with a round belly and stout legs that could stand behind a workbench for hours. Yet they grew quickly tired when walking any farther than the pantry was required. Even strolling downhill had him huffing and puffing by the time he arrived in the sleepy little village. He’d purchased boots from Laurent the previous summer, and easily spotted the little hut with bundles of herbs hanging from drying racks out front. Rosemary and sage kissed his nose as he walked up to the door. He knocked firmly, the lush herbal scents distracting him with thoughts of the rabbit he’d left soaking in wine and thyme. If he didn’t get back soon, Farron would likely take it upon himself to begin cooking it. Given a roast of pork or beef, Farron was capable enough. But the man had never learned the knack of cooking rabbit, resulting in overcooked dry meat, the blame for which would likely fall upon Valentin since rabbit cassoulet was his specialty. A young woman in a threadbare apron opened the door. “Yes?” “You’re Aurele?” Valentin asked impatiently. The woman shifted backwards, looking ready to slam the door in his face. “Why do you ask?” “I’ve just come from Silouane,” Valentin said, forcing himself to smile and rein in his frustration. “I have rather desperate need of sormillaux, and I understand you may have one in your possession. I’m willing to pay handsomely for it. Say, eight fleurines?” The woman’s eyes widened. Eight fleurines was likely more than she made in a year of selling herbs. It was also double what he’d have paid Silouane under normal circumstances. But these were not normal circumstances, and Valentin had no time to waste. “I’m sorry, but I can’t,” Aurele said, looking ill as she pushed the door closed. Valentin slipped his fingers into the doorframe, yelping as the door slammed shut on them. It had the desired effect, though. Aurele yanked the door open and glared at him. “Are you touched in the head?” she asked. “I don’t want your fleurines. Go away.” Valentin clutched his injured fingers to his chest, involuntary tears of pain blurring the edges of his vision. “Please, I’m begging you. Ten fleurines. It’s everything I have with me. I can bring more tomorrow if you demand it, but I simply must have that sormillau.” Aurele glanced over her shoulder to something in the shadows of her house that Valentin could not see. When she looked back at him, her eyes shimmered with unspent tears of her own, and she dropped her gaze to the floor before speaking. “That money would relieve me of too many burdens to count, but I simply cannot give you what you ask. I made a promise that’s more important than gold. There is nothing you could offer that would entice me to renege on that promise. Please leave now… unless you intend to take it by force.” Valentin was so aghast at the idea, he took an involuntary step backwards, nearly tripping over the uneven paving stones behind him. “Madame, I would never do you harm over such a thing. You have nothing to fear from me. But please, I must ask you to reconsider. Speak to whomever it is you made this promise and ask if they might not rather have a full purse over a single meal enhanced by sormillau. Surely Silouane will sell you another for a fraction of what I’m offering!” Aurele clenched her jaw a moment, then swung the door wide and stepped back. “Ask him yourself.” Valentin stepped into the hut. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim interior light, and once they did, he beheld a sickly man laying on a raised pallet near the warmth of the hearth. The man made to speak, then coughed wetly into a soiled scrap of cloth that came away speckled with fresh spots of blood. “Easy now, papa,” Aurele said, rushing to crouch by his side and mop his brow with a cloth that had been soaking in a bowl beside the pallet. The man gathered his strength before croaking out, “Take the money, dear heart. You’ll need it when I’m gone.” “Hush, now. I’ve told you I’ll be just fine. Madame Grouane told me just this morning that I can pick up a few days of washing, and cousin Jaquard says there’s room for me to come live with them should it come to that.” The man tried to speak, but only devolved into another coughing fit. Valentin kept a quiet and respectful distance while Aurele tended to her father, pacifying him until he slipped into an uneasy sleep. “He worked for the Duke his entire life,” she said as she stood up, brushing her hands on her dress. “Until a few months ago when he fell ill. Then he was dismissed without so much as a kind word. Forty years serving at table, sometimes even the Duke himself, and what does he get for it? Nothing. The Duke has a private physicker who sits on his ass doing nothing in the event the Duke might require a tonic for having eaten or drunk too much, while I’m left to scrimp and beg for medicines to supplement what herbal remedies I can make to ease my father’s pain.” Valentin stepped closer and took a better look at the old man. “Pascal?” he said in disbelief. The pale ghost lying before Valentin scarcely resembled the jovial footman who’d been such a fixture in the castle until recently. Valentin was struck with a pang of remorse at never once questioning where the man had disappeared to. “Year upon year of serving the Duke his precious sormillaux, and never once was he allowed to taste anything. The Duke fed his scraps to his dogs rather than let people like my father eat anything left over. Not that my father even once complained about it. He’s as loyal to the Duke as ever. But one night shortly after he took ill, he spoke wistfully of wishing he’d had a chance to taste a dish adorned with sormillaux.” Valentin now understood the source of her stubborn refusal to sell. Poor Pascal looked like he might not last the night, let alone the weeks it might take for Silouane to find more sormillaux. “What are you going to prepare for him?” he asked. “What?” “In what dish will you use the sormillau?” “Oh.” Aurele looked down at her dying father. “I still don’t know. He always loved a good beef and wine stew, but he can’t chew meat or tolerate its richness anymore. I wanted it to be something special like what was served to the Duke, but I can neither afford the ingredients nor be certain he’ll even be able to eat it.” Valentin considered the old footman a moment, then came to a decision. “Do you have eggs? And fresh chervil?” “I do, yes.” “Also a dash of cream and an anchovy or two?” “Cream I have, but I’d have to ask a neighbor for the anchovies.” “Do that. I’ll also need your sharpest knife.” Aurele eyed him shrewdly, then seemed to come to a decision, gathering what cooking implements and ingredients she had before setting off in search of anchovies. Meanwhile, Valentin set to work. Aurele’s knife was better kept than most, but the edge was not as fine as Valentin preferred. After a minute of rooting around her kitchen, Valentin located a whetstone and began further sharpening the blade. In the Duke’s kitchen, they kept special blades just for sormillaux. Slender little things that could slice the delicate fungus into translucent morsels that melted on the tongue. He was still sharpening the knife when Aurele returned bearing a small clay pot. “Dried or preserved in oil?” he asked. “Dried.” “Grind one up with a mortar and pestle,” he said. “Fine as you can.” “Butter?” he asked after inspecting a heavy iron pan that was surprisingly well seasoned. “In the cold chest with the cream.” Valentin retrieved the butter and cream, then cracked six eggs into a bowl. He would have preferred to use the fine wire whisk he had back in his own kitchen, but by using the handle of a wooden spoon, he was able to beat the eggs to a frothy uniformity. To this, he incorporated a dash of cream and the powdered anchovy before setting the iron pan at the edge of the hearth where it would heat slowly. While the pan warmed, he asked Aurele for the sormillau. From a hidden pocket in her dress, she produced a cloth-wrapped bundle that contained a single sormillau the size of an acorn. Aurele hovered close by and watched over Valentin’s shoulder as he meticulously sliced the sormillau into dozens of delicate little wafers. He held one of the slices out to Aurele. “Try it.” She took the piece of sormillau, sniffed it, then placed it on her tongue before chewing with careful deliberation. “It doesn’t really taste of anything,” she said. “Faintly of dirt and wet wood, I suppose.” “That’s the marvel of sormillau,” Valentin explained. “On its own, it’s so bland as to be almost unnoticeable. But combined with any other ingredients, it enhances the flavors in ways that cannot be explained.” Sormillau sliced as well as could be managed with Aurele’s knife, Valentin made quick work of the chervil, then scooped a palm-sized knob of butter into the warm pan where it melted into a shimmering yellow puddle flecked with white foam. He swirled the pan around a few times to fully coat the bottom, then poured the egg mixture on top. Since the pan was barely hot, Valentin was able to stir the eggs into the butter, swirling the wooden spoon back and forth through the mixture with great patience until a layer of silky, fluffy curd began to form. Throughout the process, he held the pan well above a patch of gently glowing coals, lifting the pan higher or lower in order to prevent it from getting too hot. Aurele watched in silence, sitting on a low stool with elbows propped on her knees and fascination evident on her face. She seemed to be memorizing his every action as he set the pan down away from the heat and layered the slivers of sormillau across the middle of the eggs. He then shook the pan to loosen the egg, and with the aid of his spoon, quickly folded it over on itself two times before sliding it onto the cutting board. After setting the pan back down by the hearth, he sliced the egg into two unequal pieces, slipping the knife beneath each and dishing them onto small wooden plates before sprinkling them with the chopped chervil. “That’s it?” Aurele asked. “It’s better when it’s still hot, but I’m guessing your father will be able to eat it better once it’s cooled down a little.” He nudged the larger portion towards Aurele. “Go on, I’ll bring this to Pascal in a moment.” Aurele seemed uncertain about eating before her father, but at Valentin’s urging, she spooned a small bite into her mouth. Unlike with the sliver of unaccompanied sormillau, her reaction was instantaneous. Her eyes widened, then she closed them and seemed to deflate a little as she chewed and swallowed. “It’s magnificent,” she said reverently as she went for another spoonful. “Truly beyond description. I can taste everything, the egg, the cream, the anchovies, the chervil… but somehow more so?”She paused. Then added, “It’s like eating music.” The stress of Thierry’s constant criticism and a kitchen that would be near to crumbling beneath the mounting pressure of the Duke’s feast was momentarily forgotten as Valentin watched Aurele eat. Though he’d tasted similarly enhanced dishes hundreds of times in the intervening years, he still vividly remembered his own first taste of sormillau. It was an experience best enjoyed in quiet contemplation. For several moments, the only sounds in the small hut were soft sounds of contentment that accompanied each subsequent bite. Aurele’s father stirred when Valentin kneeled by his side. Confusion fogged the man’s eyes at first, but alertness flared brightly, and Pascal began pushing away the covers and trying to sit up. “What time is it?” he mumbled. “Orineiere will be furious I’ve overslept again.” “Be easy, Pascal,” Valentin said. He placed a hand on the man’s chest to prevent him from trying to get up from his pallet. “You’ve not slept in. You’re home with Aurele.” Pascal blinked a few times then looked at his daughter. “Valentin?” he asked after returning his attention to the visitor. “What are you doing here?” “I came to make you this.” Valentin used the edge of a spoon to cut free a piece of the now-cooled egg, then brought it to Pascal’s mouth so the man could taste it. “My goodness,” Pascal said after swallowing his own first bite. “Is it…?” “Yes, papa,” Aurele said, arriving at his side. “Isn’t it the most marvelous thing?” Pascal ate another bite. His face seemed to flush with vigor, and he smiled wistfully. “It’s the strangest thing, but it brings to mind your mother, Aurele. She was a terrible cook, mind, but I can see her so clearly. She was never more beautiful to me than when she was picking herbs in the garden. The way the sunlight used to wreath her hair. It was just like yours, sweetling. She was taken from us too soon. Too soon by far.” Tears laid glistening tracks down Aurele’s cheeks, but she too was smiling as she held her father’s hand and watched him finish the rest of his small meal. No one spoke for some time, then Valentin rose to his feet and begged his leave. The day had worn on considerably, and he still had another stop to make. “Please take this,” he said, shoving a gold fleurine into Aurele’s hand as he clasped them at the door. “Your father deserves much more, but I have to pay a visit to a man who bears the Duke no love, and I fear I may need all my coin if I’m to procure another sormillau before this day is done.” “I don’t know how to thank you for the kindness you’ve shown my father today. Should you ever have need of anything, please call on me as a friend.” “Take care of your father, I’ll do my best to come see him again soon.” Aurele simply nodded, not needing to add that any longer than soon would be too late. Whatever warmth and good spirits Valentin had felt during his unexpected stopover faded away as he made his way to Oderac’s estate. The sun was high and hot now, a searing reminder of how furious Thierry would be at Valentin’s over-long absence. By the time he was being shown to a sitting room after requesting an audience with the master of the estate, Valentin felt downright ill. Even if Oderac did agree to sell him any sormillaux, he would almost certainly draw out the process, toying with Valentin until he barely had enough time to return to the château before the sormillau had to be added to the Duke’s food. “Valentin!” Oderac said as he entered the room. “What a coincidence. I was planning to seek you out later tonight, and now I find you conveniently on my doorstep.” “I’m sorry?” Valentin said, entirely forgetting the formalities due a man of Oderac’s status. “I know you’re loyal to Thierry, but I have been consistently unsatisfied with any of the cooks I’ve brought in to run my kitchens. Thierry takes all the credit, but it’s widely known you’re the one doing all the real work these days.” “I…” Valentin trailed off into confused silence. Oderac walked to a sideboard and poured amber liquid into two crystal goblets that rivaled anything the Duke had at his own table. He pressed one into Valentin’s hand, then took a sip before saying, “I’ll endure not a word of false modesty from you. Thierry is past his prime, and in my estimation, that makes you the finest cook in a thousand miles. I’m prepared to offer you the full run of my kitchens, an annual salary of two hundred fleurines, and a cottage of your own here on my property. What say you?” Valentin sipped his drink to buy time for his thoughts to catch up to what he was hearing, nearly choking on the fiery liquor when he heard what Oderac was willing to pay. Under Thierry, he had a room of his own, but it was scarcely larger than his simple bed and the single chest in which he stored his clothing. To say nothing of the fact that two hundred fleurines was more than Thierry himself was likely earning in the Duke’s employ. It was more than ten times what Valentin himself was paid. “This is all very surprising,” he managed to stammer out. “You must understand how much I owe Thierry for teaching me everything I know.” “Pah! The old b*****d would toss you over the battlements in a heartbeat if it served to bolster his own glory. There’s no honor in devoting yourself to a life in the darkness of that man’s shadow. I’m asking you to step out into the light here, Valentin. Think about it; your own kitchen! Complete creative control over what’s served each night. The events I host here may seem quaint in comparison with the Duke’s if sheer volume is to be the qualifying factor, but I assure you the caliber of guest at my table rivals that of any noble lord who only commands attention because he just happened to be born into the right family.” Valentin didn’t know what to say, and so he said nothing. Becoming Maistre of his own kitchen had been the original goal once upon a time, hadn’t it? Before Thierry? A man like Oderac wouldn’t spare a second thought for Valentin had it not been for the knowledge and skills he could not have acquired anywhere but under Maistre Thierry’s tutelage. No one else in the kitchen knew Thierry’s tastes and moods like Valentin. The kitchen would devolve into chaos without him there to act as a buffer between the brilliant, yet implacable Maistre and the rest of the staff. That Valentin owed loyalty to Thierry was beyond question, but what then of the loyalty between Valentin and those like Noélie, whom he’d nurtured and shielded from the worst of Thierry’s wrath when things didn’t go exactly to excruciatingly precise plan? “I admire your unwavering allegiance,” Oderac said. “But think on my offer and hold your answer until you’re certain you’re making the right decision. Now, if I recall, it was you who came to see me. What was it you wanted?” “Sormillaux,” Valentin said, snapping out of his distracted thoughts. “Just one, really. Silouanne told me she sold the last of her supply to you, and I’ve come to purchase one for tonight’s feast.” Oderac raised an eyebrow at that. “You must be desperate if Thierry has you coming to me for such a favor.” “He doesn’t know I’m here. Not yet, anyway.” Oderac quaffed the last of his liquor, then set the glass down where some servant would no likely snap it up for cleaning the moment the room was empty. “I might be willing to part with one of my sormillaux for the right price. Say, fifty fleurines?” Valentin nearly dropped his glass, but in remembering it, he tossed the remainder of its contents back in one fiery gulp. “Fifty fleurines is far more than I have to give.” “How much do you have?” “Nine.” Oderac shrugged. “Seems a reasonable price, given the circumstances. I’ll take it all.” Already wincing at the tirade he’d hear from Thierry over paying so much for a single sormillau, Valentin produced the purse and handed over every last coin. “Excellent. My man will bring your sormillau to you on your way out.” Oderac tossed the coins in his hand a few times, then held them out for Valentin. “I’d like to offer you an enticement of nine fleurines to consider my offer. No strings attached. Simply tell Thierry I took great pleasure from wringing every last coin from you, and pocket it for yourself.” “I… I couldn’t possibly.” “And why not? The alternative is that I keep them. Do I look like I need more money? Go on, do something for yourself this once. If you don’t look out for yourself, who will?” Valentin eyed the coins. It was a life-changing amount of money. Seeing Pascal on his deathbed had brought to mind his own aging parents. He’d already sent back most of what he earned, but this would be enough for them to hire someone to come in and help around the cottage. They deserved to live their elder years without strain, did they not? Then again, if Valentin accepted Oderac’s offer, his parents would never want for anything ever again. He’d have little need for most of his annual salary beyond the purchase of a new knife and perhaps some new clothing for the rare days he wasn’t in the kitchens. “You have my thanks for this gift,” he said, closing his fist around the coins and dropping his hand to his side. “I’ll think on your proposal, but in the meantime, I really must be on my way.” On their way out, Oderac summoned a servant to fetch the promised sormillau, and Valentin was soon on his way back to the Duke’s castle. The day had progressed beyond the point of redemption as far as his work for Thierry was concerned, so he allowed himself one more quick delay in his return journey. It was only a slight detour to return to the village, and after a brief contest of wills, he’d won out and convinced Aurele to take all nine of the fleurines he’d been gifted by Oderac. Thus it came to be that he returned to the kitchens with scarcely an hour to spare before the Duke’s eel and onion tart was to be served. “Where the f**k have you been all day?” Thierry shouted upon seeing Valentin hurry towards him. “It’s too long a story to bother with now, but I had no choice but to purchase a sormillau from Oderac.” A brief look of confusion passed across Thierry’s features before he reverted to sour annoyance. “Oh, that. I found the sormillaux shortly after you left. They were beneath a bundle of dill on my worktop. Either way, you shouldn’t have been gone more than an hour. I should have sent Herve for how useless he’s been to me today. What are you still standing around for? There’s a basket of oysters that need to be scrubbed and shucked immediately if we’re to have any hope of not embarrassing ourselves tonight!” Valentin held his tongue, donned his apron, and began tackling the basket of oysters. He smiled despite loathing this particular job, his happiness not even faltering when his knife slipped from a stubborn oyster, gouging a small chunk of flesh from his palm. He’d agonized over Oderac’s offer during his walk back from the village, but Thierry had made the decision easy just by being his usual vexatious self. As Valentin shucked oyster after oyster, pausing frequently to wipe blood from his palm onto his now thoroughly stained apron, he was already dreaming up dishes for Oderac’s table. It was true that Valentin owed much to Thierry, but the Maistre seemed content to play tyrant of his own little domain for as long as he yet lived. The notion of tiptoeing around the Maistre day after day was laughable when measured against the freedom of running his own kitchen. The more Valentin thought on it, the more clearly he saw that it wasn’t even a choice. He’d be a fool not to take this new opportunity. And though Oderac’s estate no doubt boasted a magnificent garden replete with every vegetable and herb that could be grown in the region, Valentin’s thoughts drifted to Aurele and her meticulously-tended little garden. He decided to visit her and Pascal in the morning. It would be easy enough to abscond with a basket of food left over from the feast. It would also give him an opportunity to gauge whether Aurele might be interested in coming to work for Oderac once her father passed. Poor pascal was on death’s door. The money Valentin had given them would only last so long, and tending Oderac’s garden had to be preferable to taking up washing and relying on the charity of her cousin. As Maistre, Valentin could ensure she always had a place both in the gardens and in the comfort of the kitchens once winter came. And if it meant Valentin was able to spend more time with her, well then that wasn’t such a bad thing, was it? Somewhere in the kitchen, Thierry was screaming at someone who’d had the misfortune to ever so slightly overcook a squab on the spit. But Valentin wasn’t listening. He was thinking that he would also find places for people like Noélie in his new kitchen. Valentin was nothing if not loyal. To those who had earned it, anyway. Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this story, please consider sharing it with a friend. Updates may be sporadic while I focus on revising The Traveling Librarian, so until then, I’ll see you Among the Stacks!Mark Feenstra Get full access to Among the Stacks at markfeenstra.substack.com/subscribe (https://markfeenstra.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4)

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