It wasn’t supper rush hour yet, but the kitchen was usually enchanted these days to have something on. Ahmet had noticed early on that food had a way of vanishing whilst he was out. So far he had no instruction not to keep the kitchen stocked, and so there were usually some sort of appetizers about. He’d been discreet about it – beef heart chili and various potato dishes, cheap things to give the servants opportunities for seconds and quick meals presumably.

There was a standard farm pig roasting for dinner with some time yet left on it, a loaf of bread rising, and a charm on the salad mixings to keep them fresh.

There was a shift of fabric outside the kitchen door by the coatrack. A familiar black overcoat fluttered into view, and then the crisp white chef’s coat hovered in the air. It pulled on and, too, faded out of view.

The door started to creak closed, but then froze in place.