Panic swims up my throat. This is an entirely different meal. Somehow by changing my focus, I’ve slipped backward or forward in time. The vision dims, fractures, spins. I feel as if I’m rolling down a steep hill, utterly out of control. I think of my mother’s lessons. Of her telling me to focus my thoughts as tightly as possible. To a single pinprick—one person or one moment in time. But I don’t know which moment I’m looking for. I have no sense of where I’m starting. This could be years in the past or years in the future.

So I do the only thing I can think of. I focus on the cook—on her stout, round frame. Her gray eyes. The soft wrinkles of her cheeks. The vision stabilizes, though now the kitchen is empty and clean. The cook stands with her hands on her hips, her gaze sweeping over the room like a queen surveying her kingdom. I follow her into an anteroom adjacent to the kitchen. She stands near a small desk, her fingers drumming gently on the wooden surface.

I failed. If the cook isn’t bustling around surrounded by help, then I’m likely far from any mealtime, evening or otherwise.

What am I going to tell Master Kyra?

The cook drops into the chair in front of the desk, and I wish I could join her. Sink into a soft seat and rest my head in my hands. She slides open a small drawer and pulls out a stack of papers. On the top is a small bit of parchment with a list of supplies written in delicate script: dill weed, flour, juniper berries. She glances at the document briefly and then shifts it to the bottom of the stack. Beneath is a crudely sketched table—columns and rows of squares, each with a menu written carefully in the center. My breath catches. It’s a calendar. The cook’s finger trails along the page, while I frantically search for anything familiar. And then, finally, near the bottom of the page, I spot a meal I recognize: smoked salmon, buttered greens, and crisp bread topped with cheese. I look at the neighboring square, and commit it to memory before I yank myself from the vision.

When I open my eyes, Master Kyra is watching me, her chin resting in her palm. She raises her eyebrows. “So?”

“Meat pie,” I say.

“Is that all?”

My pulse races. I shake my head. “I couldn’t see anything else.”