I grinned as I caught a glimpse of my father, his arms buried all the way to his elbows in a thick pillow of bread dough as he concentrated on kneading and pulling and twisting the mass, forcing it to conform beneath his insistent hands. Some things, it seemed, would never change.

A woman in the kitchen staff caught me standing in the doorway and dropped into a curtsy. “Your Majesty.”

My father glanced up from his task. “Spying now, are we”

I stepped all the way into the immense kitchens, Zafir remaining silent by my side.

The palace kitchens were a far cry from the kitchen my father had once worked in—the one in our family restaurant. Here, he had seventeen ovens, five enormous sinks, and an endless stretch of counter space on which to work.

Yet even though he refused to stop working in the kitchens, he had acclimated to this life much faster than I had. He looked younger, healthier, happier