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The water is colder than you expected.
It makes sense, of course. The pond has burgeoned into something slightly larger as the spring rises, fed by the runoff from the mountains. The spring grows little tendrils and the rivulets – hidden in all seasons but this one – reappear. One of the smaller ones connects to the pond. The runoff is almost as cold as the snow it once was. It’s a bitter shock on its own. You’d only made that mistake once. The spring tempers it to something more bearable.
The spring is not far, placed with just enough distance that the pond in the grove beyond your restaurant stays a pond for three of the four seasons. Then it rises, just slightly, like bread in the midst of proofing. The water grows colder and the trees do not help, shading the water and only allowing dappled sunlight into the quiet space. It adds a current to the usually still pond, the cooler water swirling like ice before disappearing into a place that is not known to you.
Still, the chill of it is comfortable against your skin, against the warm blaze of your frustration. It keeps the blaze from roaring into an inferno of deep anger, cools you just enough to maintain a grip on the feeling. The water tugs on you gently. It’s a soft, soft current. Easy to trust. It isn’t as if your floating form can be carried very far within the pond.
You lean back just a bit farther. It’s enough to submerge your face. The light changes, the sunlight now filtered through both your closed lids and the undulating surface of the water. Air bubbles from your lips as you heave a heavy, irritated breath that could have been a scream. It helps the tension leak from your body. Your hands uncurl, the slopes of your knuckles falling back to hills instead of the thick mountain ranges of your tight fists.
After a moment, you allow your head to rise. The water sluices away as you break through the surface tension. Your sharp inhale lingers on the edge of greedy. As the quiet ripple of your movement fades away, you hear the soft sound of something gliding through the water.
You keep your eyes closed. You tilt your head, just enough, letting one of your ears rise above the waterline so the sound is less muffled. The smile that flits across your lips is unconscious; you don’t even realize you’re doing it until you feel your cheeks pull with the movement.
The weight that settles on your chest can barely be called that. Still, it’s obviously there, and as your chest rises, another small weight settles near the first. You huff a laugh as the nearest duckling butts up against the curve of your neck. It quacks softly. Once you open an eye to peer down at it, the quack grows louder. You shut your eye again. The duckling immediately ruffles its feathers and butts against you once more.
“Attendant.” There’s a bemused little curl to his voice, deep and soothing.
You hum in acknowledgement. The duckling butts against you harder when you don’t react to the quacking. The second duckling tucks itself under your chin. You can feel several others swimming around you; a few of the braver ones clamber up onto your chest. Their feet tangle in the stirring folds of your clothing here and there, adding to the water’s pull. Your shoulders grow looser. Your frustration has cooled, leaving only embers of it to flit away in the water’s current. The ducklings clamber over you. You crack an eye open and tilt your head towards your chest. The one tucked under your chin quacks with displeasure. The others move upwards, vying to be closer to you. A few of the calmer ones have settled onto your chest, every once and awhile buoyed upwards by a small wave of water. You let your head fall to be cushioned by the water once more.
“Children,” Peking Duck says, scolding and fond at the same time. “Leave them be.” One of the ducklings pulls at a few strands of your hair. There’s silence for a moment. “Attendant,” he says again. You can hear him settling on the shore.
With a sigh, you submerge your torso so that the ducklings are bobbing on the water instead of resting on you. You begin to turn over, gently cupping the ducklings under your chin and against your neck as they squawk. It’s for the best, anyway. Your skin is starting to prick with numbness. It tingles down your exposed arms like snowfall.
Still, you pause to duck underneath the water once more. When you rise to the surface again, the air chills you faster than the water ever did. You start to wade to shore – the pond is not deep – with the ducklings chirping behind you.
Peking watches you, that beatific smile never leaving his lips. He stands as you draw closer. He tucks his hands into his long sleeves as you hop the small underwater lip of land where the pond deepens. “Is this water not a little too cold for humans?” he asks.
You shrug as you reach the muddy edge of the pond. “It’s warming quickly, even with the mountain runoff.”
“Are you not meant to be at the restaurant today?”
You stiffen, thinking of the way your recipe had curdled at the edges. You’d tried again, and again, and each time the cream curdled into something rank and inedible. The sting of failure was never welcome, but you knew that it would wake something deeper in you. And you knew that it would not do for your Food Souls to see it, not yet. Jello had popped up beside you, encouraging you to keep trying, that you would get it right soon, but your chest was already too tight with anger. You had flexed your hands twice, keeping your face down as you schooled your expression into something a little calmer.
You’d told her thank you and that you knew you’d get it soon in a soft, calm voice. She’d smiled and giggled, proud of cheering you up. You had swallowed back the tears and the anger until they were leaden in your gullet and then told Pudding that you would be back in a few moments. He had easily agreed to run the restaurant in your stead and you had smiled at him in thanks even as your fingernails bit into the palms of your hands.
You’d had your feet in the pond before you realized what you were seeking. When you’d realized no one was near, you’d given in and let the chill of the pond enforce the calm that you were struggling to cling to.
You bite your lip and do not answer Peking.
He watches you for a moment. His gaze strikes your core in a way the chilled water could not. You look away, focusing on the duckling that is pulling at the sopping leg of your pants. You lean down obligingly. The small creature immediately settles into your extended palm.
Peking Duck chuckles. The sound is soft. For a moment, it’s all you can focus on. There’s something razor sharp in it. It reminds you of the prickling of your skin when you’d first summoned him. The raw power that had emanated off of him as he stepped through the blaze of the summoning fire is not something you could easily forget. He’d curbed it quickly, even then, but you’d only needed to glance at the face of your companion – Zongzi, your first Food Soul, ever loyal and ever protective – to know that you had only had the slightest taste of Peking’s magic, dulled as your human senses were.
“Come now, Attendant, what had you searching for peace in such chilled waters? Did it cool your anger or simply cover it for now?”
You pull your gaze from the bundle of feathers in your palm to meet his golden eyes. Your free hand flexes, just slightly. Peking never looks away, but the corner of his lips rise just slightly, as if amused. “Oh!” you say. “No, it’s nothing like that.” You turn your head from him and give an shy little laugh. You make your hands flutter to try and sell the flustered embarrassment. “I fell in and then simply decided to take a bit longer to get out.” You shiver as the breeze picks up. The wind cuts through your soaked clothing, the cloth suckered against your skin, still dripping.
Peking steps closer. You suck in a quick breath through your nose. He moves like he’s dangerous, even when he’s moving casually. Most of your Food Souls do, of course, but there’s something about Peking that makes it particularly unnerving.
“I see,” he says.
You relax but only just, unbelieving that Peking – one of your shrewdest Food Souls, somehow an enigma since the early winter day you’d summoned him, despite his welcoming demeanor – has accepted the weak story.
“You’re a terrible liar, Attendant.” He leans forward and scoops the duckling away from you. It quacks sleepily but waddles away with little concern once Peking puts it on the ground, shooing it towards its siblings. Peking stays close to you. “There’s no need to hide from me,” he says. “Especially if you’re doing it this poorly.”
You bristle at the tease. As always, there’s something jagged in him, lurking just below that charming smirk. He’s been gentle with you since the beginning of your contract, but in quiet moments, you’ve noticed things that you assume he would prefer you not. The crueler quirk of a lip, the burning conviction of something you don’t understand. Sometimes, you think he sees you noticing. But you’re never sure, and intend to keep it that way if possible. Which is why you surprise even yourself when you say, “I could say the same to you.” It takes more effort than you thought it would to resist clarifying that, apparently unlike yourself, he hides it well.
His smile falters. Then it grows even wider. “Oh?”
You look away, your stomach dropping as his golden eyes shine. They remind you of the summoning fire, of all that power locked into place.
You don’t even see him move. You stumble into him as he pulls you close, winding one arm around your waist to hold you in place. His body is as firm as a mountain against you. His grip is just as strong. Your muscles tighten so quickly that it sends pain ringing up your nerves. Your hands come up before you can stop yourself, your fists tangling into his clothing. You cannot tell if you want to pull him closer or push him farther away. He smells of herbs and the sweet smoke that is constantly emanating from his pipe.
“Attendant,” he says with a laugh. “Whatever do you mean?” You’re close enough that his voice is more of a rumble than anything else. There’s something terrifying in him now, a broader peek behind the curtain of his gentle smiles and calm demeanor. Despite that, his voice is affable. You suspect that he looks as gentle and kind as ever from afar. You tighten your grip on his clothing to keep your hands from trembling.
It takes a moment for the cool of the water to come back to you. The sense memory of it is grounding. “You don’t have to smile if you don’t wish it.” Your voice is steady. “You don’t have to hide from me.” It’s not a loud declaration, but a soft one. It’s no weaker for the lack of volume.
Peking hums.
You breathe, using the flow of the air to let some of the tension unwind from your hands, from your body. “I don’t know what you’ve done,” you say carefully. “But I know that you are good.” You, in fact, do not know if he is good. You suspect he has done some terrible things, that the empty space behind his smile holds a deep anger that will never burn out. But your survival instincts have always been strong and your assurances come easily. “And this contract is not one-sided. Just as you are here for me, I will be here for you. I promise you that.”
His grip loosens. It tightens again just as quickly.
“You are so interesting, Attendant, when you choose to be.”
You think you should perhaps be insulted. Still, there’s something different about him, more relaxed. The shift prompts you to huddle in closer to him – into the heat pouring from his skin as if he’s a fire – as the wind blows again. The gust is sharp against your skin. It cuts to the core of you. You shiver again.
Peking wraps his other arm around you. The warmth of him sinks into you. “One day, Attendant,” he tells you, “I would have you tell me your sins. They sit beneath the surface of your skin, and I am ever so curious.”
“What?” The word is stronger than you mean, honed sharp by your quiet panic.
Peking pulls away enough so that you can see his smile. The edges of it cut away at you. There is not a hint of the usual softness of his lips. “Anger recognizes anger,” he muses. “You do not hide as well as you hope.”
You think of darkness, of the ache to destroy that often builds in you, and it must reflect in your face, for his smile widens.
“Regret is hard to live with,” he says. “But I wouldn’t know.”
He lets go of you, and pulls his vest off. He drapes the damp article over your shivering form just as you hear footsteps.
“Attendant!”
You wince. “Pudding,” you say, putting as much apology into his name as you can.
The Food Soul is not impressed. He peers at you over the edge of his glasses. “Attendant,” he says coolly. “The restaurant requires your presence. You’ve been gone for far too long.”
“I’m sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean to be gone so long. You did well, Pudding, running it in my absence.”
He pushes up his glasses and looks away. He’s almost as stoic as ever, but you can see the tiniest pleased smile on his lips. “You should pay more attention to your own work.”
“Ah, I’m afraid their absence is my fault,” Peking says from your side. When you glance at him, he’s smiling beatifically, his eyes crinkled up with mirth. “Please, forgive them. I should not have distracted them so.”
Pudding eyes the Food Soul beside you with pursed lips. He does not pursue it, simply nods shortly. “Go change, Attendant. It’s best if you avoid getting sick,” he says. “I will finish the schedule while you do so.”
“Of course. Thank you, Pudding.”
He turns on his heel and trots back towards the restaurant. You keep your gaze on his retreating form, even as Peking shifts next to you.
“He is right, Attendant,” Peking says, amusement threading through his voice. “It is best if you avoid getting sick. Go change.”
It’s a clear order. You start moving automatically. You pause, starting to shrug off his vest, but a hand catches yours. “Keep it for now.” His hand runs up your arm to smooth across the fabric of his vest. He tugs it down to cover more of you.
“Thank-thank you,” you stutter.
He hums and leans down to scoop up the ducklings. They’ve been slowly increasing the volume of their quacking in an attempt to garner attention.
A few of them keep complaining even once they’ve been picked up. With a sigh, Peking hands the noisy ones over to you. You almost drop one in your surprise. While the ducklings seem happy with you, they’ve never sought out your arms over his. After an indignant quack for almost being dropped, they settle on your shoulders.
When you glance over, Peking has already started back to the restaurant. He looks over his shoulder and sends you a beaming smile with a hint of cunning to it. You grimace, just a bit, and follow him.
The walk to the restaurant is quiet – unnervingly so – but you’ve little to say as the cold truly begins to settle into you. Your shivers have grown deeper, even with the lined vest Peking has loaned to you, and you are deeply glad to enter the warmth of the restaurant’s kitchen through the back door.
Peking reclaims his ducklings by the stairs that lead towards your living quarters. You try to head up quickly, hoping for some space from your Food Soul, but you’ve only gone up a step when a hand wraps around your wrist.
You stop but stay facing towards the stairs. Peking’s chuckle is somehow both amused and a warning.
“Attendant,” he says, and you turn to look over your shoulder at him. His golden eyes are focused on you and again, you are reminded of the summoning fire, of the way it burgeons into an inferno when a Food Soul is about to step through. His monocle glints in the low light. There’s noise behind the two of you, just inside the kitchen door, but he stays focused on you. His smile is so gentle that it sends a shiver crawling up your spine.
His thumb presses against your cold wrist. From the tilt of his head, he can feel your thundering pulse.
“I won’t forget,” he says, and it’s a promise of his own.
He lets go of your wrist. For a moment, you are frozen in place, a rabbit before a hawk, and then he steps away, disappearing into the restaurant with another flash of that razor-sharp smile.
It takes you several deep inhales to keep your calm intact. You walk up to your living quarters slowly. It takes you many tries to peel off Peking’s vest and the rest of your clothing. Your fingers are clumsy with cold. The hot water burns against you as you settle into it. When easy motion has returned to your fingers, you cannot help but let them drift to the fur lining of Peking’s vest, discarded just next to the bathtub. The fur is still damp and has a slight chill to it. Your fingers come away from it smelling like sweet smoke.
You let the water swallow you up, and you cannot help but think you’ve only just seen past the veneer.
There’s even more beneath his smile. You know it.
It terrifies you that you want to see it.