Ciri was excited. She didn’t mind cooking in this world - honestly it was easier than cooking in her own world. You didn't’ have to light a fire to boil water, it was a lot less time consuming to cook. She just wasn’t used to it, so knowing how to use the oven, the microwave, the stovetop - they were still new to her. She was still learning, and there seemed to be a lot of finer details in cooking with these modern appliances that she just didn’t know yet.
So lessons from a real chef - and boy, was he, having tried his recipes over the last few weeks, would be so helpful. Ciri knew she’d be able to make something really nice for Geralt, and maybe for Robin too if she felt confident enough. This was, perhaps, the lightest she’d felt since Yennefer was sent back home by the mist. It had been a dark, dark January and the majority of February had also been quite sad.
She dressed simply, as she expected to get a bit messy given she wasn’t the cleanest person in a kitchen, and made her way to Todash, arriving just a few minutes earlier than they had discussed. It was essentially empty in the place at this time of day, just a few staples and that was it. “Hello, its me Ciri.” She called, not immediately spotting Owen.
The response was immediate. "Back here!" Owen called. "Follow the smell of onions!" He was in the kitchen, of course, in chef's whites even though he was only working in a pub, and flashed her a smile as soon as she came into view. "You're early. Eager to get stuck in, eh? Well, grab an apron. Do you want a hairnet, too? I'm not particular, but then I also don't have much hair."
His well-trimmed 'tache wriggled when he smiled. "I'm almost done with prep for tonight, and patrons won't be putting in orders for another half hour or so. More than enough time to get started." And if it wasn't, they'd make do. The kitchen was where Owen felt most comfortable. Nothing could go on in here that he wasn't prepared for.
"First, does Geralt have any food allergies? Any likes and dislikes we should take into account? If the man can't eat cheese, we shan't serve him cheese – though it would be a crying shame." Especially given the selection Owen had once again set aside for Ciri. Hudson Flower was meant to be shared.
“Hairnet’ll probably be best.” Her hair was already back, plaited behind her in a long braid - the kind Yen normally helped her with. Still, her hair was a bit wispy. She didn’t want it to get in the food. “I do admit, I was very excited to get stuck in as you put it. I like learning new skills.” Sure it wasn’t fighting, but she was an excellent swordsman at this point. Now it was time for something new.
As for whether Geralt had any sort of allergies, Ciri shrugged at first and then shook her head no. “Not that I’m aware of. He’s not… strictly human, much more durable.” She said this part more quietly, for Owen only. It wasn’t a secret necessarily, but it also wasn’t really her thing to tell. She didn’t want to betray Geralt’s trust in her, but it felt important to mention. She didn’t want to make something weird and have it hurt Geralt. This world has such strange and different things in it, she couldn’t be sure.
“I can help you prep if you wish, put me to work sir.” She raised her hand in a salute to Owen before dropping it back, laughing a little bit. “I’d be happy to help make the rest of the day easier for you since you’ve taken the time to help me learn a bit of cooking. It’s only fair. I’ve got limited skills to offer…”
She was becoming a pretty good blacksmith, she could probably make Owen a nice sword if he wanted, but she didn’t really take him for the sword-weilding type. So she wasn’t entirely sure how she could pay him back for this other than to try and be as helpful as possible.
Since arriving in Dunwich, Owen had made peace with the notion that human was relative and not-human didn't mean dangerous. Or suspect. His partner was a ghost, for goodness’s sake', so to think otherwise would've been unkind. Still, though he was curious, he didn't want to be rude, so he asked no specifics.
"Then we're in business," he announced cheerfully, grinning at her salute. "Well, if you insist. Grab a cutting board and join me. Chopping onions is dull work, but it's also a great way to train your knife skills. And the best part about it? You have the foundation for a number of great dishes at the end!"
His own knife made short work of a shallot, its finely diced flesh joining the small pile in a metal bowl. "We'll add carrot and celery to yours – they're behind you, on that table. That's what's called a Mirepoix. The holy trinity of cooking. Well," Owen amended with a smile, "that and butter."
“On it!” She grabbed the nearest cutting board and trailed behind Owen, settling in beside him as he got to work on a shallot. She'd seen some impressive knife work, but not like this. Geralt could probably do that with a sword though it'd never be so neat and fine and small. Ciri took hold of her own knife, confidently even because she had cut vegetables before, thankfully.
She was slower at it, and there were probably better ways than how she was doing it but it was obvious she was trying. Each cut was calculated, deliberate. Wanting them to be the same size and shape as much as possible. When he explained what they would add and what it was called, she cocked her head and laughed.
“A mir what? That's a very fancy name for carrots, onions and celery.” She had to agree about butter, though. Butter made everything taste better. Eyes watering from the onion, she tries to blink away the forced onion tears, sniffling. “I think they're cut well enough…? What do you think.”
"Oh, but fancy names are essential in the kitchen," Owen teased. "Wait until I teach you about béchamel – which is really just another way to say butter, flour, and milk." In the meantime, though: onions. He leaned over to examine Ciri's work and gave a nod. "Very good. We'll make a chef of you yet!"
After the onions came the carrots and celery, as advertised. While Ciri made short work of those, Owen finished the last of the prep for the evening service and pulled out a few pots and pans to add to his usual arsenal. "So I dare say your father doesn't do much cooking himself? How've you been managing, then? Ready meals? Sandwiches? Nothing wrong with a nice sandwich," Owen added, lest it sound like he was judging.
He had survived on cheese and baguettes for too many years to lambast anyone for choosing convenience.
“I guess it makes a difference, you know. Easier to say béchamel than to list out butter, flour, and milk all the time. Then you would know the specific amounts, too.” It did make sense, but she found it a little silly and a little fun all the same. Ciri continued to chop things as they were handed to her, and watched out of the corner of her eye as Owen prepped other things, grabbing things they might need.
He was very quick in the kitchen. “He does, but… Well, we take turns, and he’s not the greatest cook. Not that there's anything wrong with it. It’s just a bit… plain.” Especially in comparison to modern day American food. There was so much flavor in everything it was a bit overwhelming. Sometimes the dinners they made together felt a little like taste whiplash.
“Sandwiches, boiled vegetables, sometimes we cook over a fire. During the day its quite a lot of fast food, as you call it.” Which, made sense. It was quite fast. Ciri went to finish the last of the celery and stopped just briefly - like she was frozen, completely still, knife lifted slightly ready to slice down on the celery. She snapped out of it with no reaction, like she hadn’t noticed she froze at all. “Do you cook like this for yourself all the time?”
To Owen, who had done no camping at all but seen plenty of it in movies, the prospect of cooking over an open fire seemed quite idyllic. Fast food, too, albeit for different reasons. "Nothing quite like American chicken nuggets, is there?" he asked, back turned but ears open for the sound of Ciri's chopping.
If it sounded like she was flagging, he'd take over, find her something else to do. He'd gone through culinary school and worked as a sous-chef for too many years after that to want to put anyone else through drudgery in the kitchen. Cooking ought to be a fun experience, he thought. Especially for a novice.
He heard Ciri pause, but only turned in time to see her get back to it. Something on her mind, he figured. Maybe something to do with those campfire meals Owen found so charming.
"Not all the time, no. I try to keep it to once a week so as not to drive my b–err, Mike, batty, but I sometimes slip up." He smiled apologetically. The kitchen really was his happy place.
He peered at Ciri's cutting board. "Lovely! Think we're just about ready to move to the stove for the lamb. And then I'll introduce you to my favourite modern invention–" Owen drummed his fingertips on the counter. "Instant mash." Because there was, in his estimation, no surer way to put someone off cooking than making them peel and boil three pounds of potatoes.
Ciri laughed, and nodded her agreement. “There is nothing chicken about those at all but they are absolutely delicious anyway.” Most of the fast food meat products did not resemble any meat she’d ever seen or tasted, but that didn’t mean they didn’t taste good. Now that she’d been here long enough and her stomach could handle the food, she did like quite a lot of it.
“Your Mike?” She replied, raising a brow at Owen. If he didn’t want to elaborate, of course she wouldn’t press, but Ciri was a bit nosy. She grinned at him in a knowing sort of way anyway and beamed even more when he praised the dicing job she’d done on the mirepoix. She hadn’t realized they were going to be making lamb and Ciri’s eyes widened in surprise and absolute delight.
Lamb! It had been ages. She loved lamb. “Oh, this is going to be so good. But - instant what now?” Mash. “Mash potatoes? Instantly? How…” Well, then, honestly why did she bother asking? He was most certainly going to show her, so she didn’t try too hard to wrap her mind around how you could possibly make mashed potatoes instantly. “Is it with magic?”
"Almost!" In short order, Owen got the lamb mince browning in a frying pan and set a kettle to boil. Then came the secret ingredient, the hidden ace in his chef-y sleeve: instant mash, straight out of a carton. "Abracadabra! Err, you don't have to say that, if you don't want to." But add boiled water, and presto! The little dried potato flakes turned into a golden mash right before their eyes.
He explained that it was a good idea to drain the excess fat from the meat as it cooked, so the end result wasn't soggy. Five minutes in, the lamb looked promising. Owen had Ciri remove it to a plate. "We can add the mirepoix now. And butter, can't forget the butter…" They worked in tandem for a bit: her stirring, him adding ingredients and narrating as he went.
But even the most intense recipe had moments of respite. While the veggies softened in the pan, Owen wiped down the counters and washed a cutting board or two. "Mike is my, err, partner. Sorry. I wasn't trying to be secretive before. Just awkward." And that was less a matter of trying than outright success.
Ciri did not entirely believe those were potatoes. She told Owen as much but decided to try them anyway when it was all ready. They looked enough like mash once the water was heated. Still, how'd they turn potatoes into little flakes like that? Ciri had so many questions about this world.
She worked quietly beside him, watching him closely and following every instruction he gave. It was clear that she could follow directions, a recipe, but it was also clear she wanted to do it exactly right. Like with sword training and Geralt, it was something to master. It was about the steps, doing them right - not about feeling, experimenting, knowing on instinct or smell or taste that you needed a pinch more of this or that.
Twice more she's froze up, just briefly, before going on as if nothing had happened.
“Just awkward.” She said, hand on the counter, eyes unfocused. “Just awkward.” She repeated, and then froze, not even blinking. Again, when she snapped out if it there was no difference, a seamless transition as her eyes focused on Owen. “Your boyfriend? Why would that be awkward to say?”
Ciri had a unique intensity about her. She was cheerful and vivacious, quick to get stuck in and unashamed of asking questions when she didn't know something. Yet now and then, the warmth drained from her expression, her gaze at once gone faraway and turned inward.
It happened twice before that Owen had noticed. The third time, he was looking right at her. He braced instinctively against sneers or worse, but Ciri's strange monotone didn't manifest into his worst fears.
She simply carried on.
Owen fixed his gaze on the frying pan. "In my world – or rather, in my time – one doesn't go around telling people if one is… involved with another man. It's frowned upon." Thirty years later, the world was clearly different. He cocked his head, hesitating. "Just now, I thought you might share that view."
She could be charming, despite the last few years. She still had her sensibilities about her. Owen seemed to look away, fixing his sights on the pan and he spoke about a time when it was frowned upon to share information about who you loved. It wasn't like that in her world, but she knew some of the hesitations and dangers about sharing because of Robin.
Ciri rose a brow, looking a little startled that he thought that about her. “Why did you think that?” It was clear she wasn't aware of what she'd done or said at all.
“In my world, it's not frowned upon unless you're royal. In which case you must marry to produce an heir but… well.” There were always others. “Here is different. I can be who I want. I'm dating a girl, you know. Her name is Robin. Have you met her?”
Owen smiled. "I have. She gave me a very funny bracelet…" Although to think of it now, he hadn't spoken to Robin lately. Something to remedy, when he wasn't drowning in lobsters. "She's a lovely girl." And so was Ciri.
The last thing he wanted was to make her feel self-conscious. "Think I might've misread you. I do that sometimes." Perhaps she'd been lost in thought about the dish they were preparing, trying to commit details to memory or something along those lines. Just because kitchens were comfortable spaces to Owen didn't mean they couldn't be stressful to others.
"Looks like we're ready for the broth and the tomato paste. And then we'll be ready to put it all together and stick it in the oven!"
“A funny bracelet?” She asked, trying to peek at his wrists to see if he was wearing it. Ciri thought Robin could gift very nice things, and also very funny things, because she was really thoughtful. She could gush about her, but she kept it to herself, close to her heart instead. She smiled, blushing slightly at the thought of her girlfriend. “She is lovely.” Ciri agreed, looking away.
She wasn’t quite sure how he could have misread her, but he said he did that sometimes and Ciri just shrugged and let it go. “Mike seems like a nice fellow. I confess, I haven’t really spoken to him much at all. I haven’t spoken to many people here, though.” She stood up straighter when Owen indicated it was time for the broth and she nodded her head, smacking her hands together.
“Yes, sir! Broth and tomato paste, assemble, and into the oven it goes. I probably should have written all this down…”
Alas, Owen was not wearing the bracelet. He didn't even wear a watch in the kitchen. Just his glasses, and even those were mainly for safety's sake. At this point, he was more confident in his muscle memory than he was in his senses.
"I can write it up for you later, if you like. Let's be sure you like it, first, hm? No good mastering a dish you don't want to eat." Even as a nice gesture for her dad. With that, Owen led the charge to salt and spice the filling appropriately, then into the realm of assembly. He had Ciri spoon each ingredient into the pie dish while he made sure the oven was hot but not too hot, and took care to check on a few last-minute prep items for the evening ahead.
Todash would be filling up any second now, the servers dashing between tables – and lobster tanks – to take orders, provide drinks. If he was ever going to take a break, now was the time. Owen leaned against the counter. "It can be hard getting to know people. But I think it's worth it. This place is hard enough without trying to navigate it on your own."
“Of course, yes that would be very kind of you, if you don’t mind. I’ve already taken up so much of your time with the lessons, I wouldn’t want to impose.” Ever the polite one, Ciri had of course been raised to be diplomatic, to be kind. She was royalty, after all. Or, she had been.
Owen was fast in the kitchen, and Ciri was impressed by it all. She raced to keep up, trying both to do it correctly but also quickly. She had to admit, it was almost like a dance and Owen was rather elegant at it. It was beautiful to watch. She wondered why she’d never spent more time in the kitchens, back home.
But then, she’d been young and a little naive, a little blind to the world then. “It’s worth it, yes, but I think… when you come from a world that’s not like this one at all, well - for me anyway, I find it a bit more embarrassing to ask questions of things.” Ciri shrugged, and moved so she could mimic Owen, leaning against the counter.
She only got partway there, her hand on the counter and she froze up again.
"Embarrassing? But you've been…" Owen furrowed his brow. "Ciri?" That time, it didn't look like she was suddenly lost in thought. Or judging him. She looked – absent. It reminded Owen of nothing so much as his mother, in the last year of her life.
But Ciri was a young girl, hale and healthy, so it couldn't be that.
Before Owen could think better of it, he pushed away from the counter and stepped closer. "Ciri?" He tried to catch her eye. "Um, Ciri?" When that didn't work, he waved a hand and reached out to touch her shoulder. "Are you alright?"
Ciri continued on to lean against the counter - or would have, but suddenly Owen’s hand was on her shoulder and he was asking if she was alright and she looked at his hand, up to his face in confusion. “I didn’t even see you move… Why wouldn’t I be fine?”
This was the second time this had happened that she’d noticed - with Geralt, when she was fighting that monster last month in the mist, she had gone to take a swing and the next thing she knew it was attacking Geralt and she had no idea how any of that had happened so quickly. In less than a blink of an eye.
“How’d you move so quickly?”
"I… didn't?" Owen dropped his hand. "Maybe you should sit down? I've been running you ragged…" He was worried, clearly, and doing a poor job of showing it. But of all the things he'd had happen in a kitchen before, this was a first.
People yelled and threw things in high stress environments more than they shut down. They occasionally broke down in tears or let loose strings upon strings of curses. There was rarely any room for confusion, though. Or at least not on this level.
He found Ciri a chair and nudged her toward it. "You've gone a little pale… Here, let me get you some water."
“No, you haven't. I feel fine I don't… understand what's happening.” Ciri was confused, but didn't argue when Owen nudged her into a chair and offered to get her some water. Her brows furrowed together and she watched Owen, who was clearly concerned.
What was happening? Ciri wracked her brains, but she just couldn't figure it out. She hadn't noticed anything, no time had moved at all for her.
“Did I do something wrong?” When Geralt had asked her what happened she'd shrugged it off, because she wasn't sure and it was a fight. Maybe she'd been scared, and she didn't think too hard on it. She didn't want to. This, though, well. This felt different.
"No, not at all. You just…" Owen waved a hand, helplessly and not altogether eloquently. "You sort of… froze on me? Like you had something on your mind all of a sudden, but more – immediate?" For all that he could find half a dozen ways to explain a chopping technique, he struggled to put into words what he had seen.
A tiny voice at the back of his mind whispered that maybe he hadn't seen anything, maybe he was making a mountain out of a molehill. But then: "It, um, may not have been the first time?" And he found himself telling Ciri about the other couple of instances he'd glimpsed and brushed away. "I sort of figured you were tuning me out." He essayed a smile, but it didn't linger. "You really have no memory of it happening?"
Whatever 'it' was.
Although she was absolutely the type to tune people out sometimes, this was not one of those times. She watched Owen, listening as he explained about the multiple instances of her freezing up, and she had no memory of doing that at all. Just like with Geralt, who too had said it looked like she froze, and Ciri thought back to things she’d heard about Sources like her.
Not using her magic could drive her crazy.
She pursed her lips together, and shook her head in response to his question. “No, I don’t - I, I noticed the last one but only because you were in a different spot, touching my arm and concerned and… and when it happened before, I just thought I was scared.” Out of practice. It’d been months since she’d fought anything. “What do you mean exactly, by froze?”
"Sort of, um, you seemed to be elsewhere? In your mind, that is." The oven dinged. Owen jumped and turned to slide the pie in. "My mum – she was much older than you are and she'd have lapses like that sometimes. Episodes, we'd call them." He closed the oven door firmly but without letting it clang. Just because this was a restaurant kitchen where speed and efficiency was of the essence was no reason to be careless.
"But she was very sick. You don't – I'm no doctor, of course, but you seem otherwise fine? And you're not confused, after. That's a good thing. You remember where you are, who I am? What we've been up to for the last thirty minutes?"
“Yes, I’m Cirilla, you’re Owen, we’ve been teaching me to cook a really nice lamb meal to make for Geralt and I, and probably Robin if it comes out well.” She would love to impress her girlfriend with a nice home cooked meal, too. Seemed like something Robin would appreciate.
She touched her face with her hands, letting out a huff of air as Owen fussed with the pie and the door and she thought about what he was saying. “No, I’m… Physically healthy.” She agreed, though there was a rather obvious but in there.
"If I'd known we were cooking for Robin, too, I would've made something slightly more American," Owen mused. A Tex-Mex take on the traditional shepherd's pie, maybe. Ah, there was always next time.
"Glad to hear it…" He leaned back against the counter and tried to catch Ciri's eye – a mean feat, given her efforts to hide behind her hands. "And… emotionally?"
“I’m sure she’ll like it anyway.” She thought so, or hoped so at least. Either way, it might be fun to make for her just to see. Ciri was pretty sure she could do this one on her own. It was a fairly simple recipe, lots of little basics but nothing too wild that she wouldn’t be able to master it.
When Owen asked about her emotional well-being, Ciri turned a little red. “It’s not like that. I’m fine.” Convincing. “It’s a… magic thing.” She admitted, eyes dropping to the floor. She hadn’t really told many about her abilities, not really.
"Ah." Owen was even less well-equipped to discuss magic troubles than he was physical or emotional ones. "Say no more. Or do, if you need an ear. It's just the most magic I'm familiar with is, well, instant mash."
And what Ciri was grappling with seemed a little more involved than dehydrated potatoes. He patted her shoulder. "I do spy a silver lining: you're in Dunwich, surrounded by very clever people who always want to help." When she was ready, she could seek them out. On her terms. In her own time.
"Now how would you like to help me with a lobster burger?" Magic might've been beyond him, but distracting someone with culinary adventure? He was more than capable of that.
“No, it’s fine. I’m terrible at magic, anyway.” Which was part of the problem, she thought, though she wasn’t sure. If she gave it up, would that all go away? Was it because she didn’t use it? Couldn’t? Ciri had only heard a little bit - there wasn’t a lot of information about what she was, anyway. In her world even, and certainly not here.
Geralt and Tess knew some things, and Yen… well, Yen knew the most, but even she struggled to help Ciri. It was just different. “That’s true. Even some from my own world.” She agreed, and smiled. She had no intention of going to any of them for help, though. Not that she ws going to tell him that.
“Absolutely. I have been very very interested in seeing how you put a lobster burger together.” Distraction was the key, and Ciri loved to throw herself into things to forget about the things she didn’t want to think about. “Hey Owen? I’m sorry. About your mother, I mean.”
Owen smiled with some difficulty. "Thank you. There's not a day I don't miss her. But that was a long time ago. I know if she were here, she'd tell me to get off my arse and do something useful." Which in this context, within the parameters Dunwich had set, translated to lobster burgers.
And perhaps, along the way, helping a young girl who had her own problems feel a tiny bit more confident. Maybe that was its own form of magic.