It is said amongst the older members of the Council that if Cassar had not followed his family trade, he would have become a chef in one of the finest restaurants of the Green Shard. The air is heavy with the smell of spices, the athar full of recipe fragments. Jinn servants prepare ingredients in small pots and containers, and Cassar himself is chopping vegetables into fine chunks, a huge knife in hand, broad back bent. His movements are delicate and quick. For a moment, he does not acknowledge the presence of his two daughters. Then he puts the knife down, looks up and wipes his hands on his apron. ‘Father,’ Tawaddud says and curtsies. Her entire body still aches, but at least she has had time to change into clean clothes and clean up. She spent half an hour deciding what to wear, finally settling on a simple dark green robe and a white sash, covering her hair with a net and keeping her face plain. Cassar looks at her, face set. Then he turns away, gathers the ingredients from the chopping board and drops them into a huge, steaming pot.
