Chapter 4 of 5·5 min read·That afternoon into evening
A Place in Line
“Your Majesty,” the elf at the front of the queue said, “the line begins behind me.”
Queen Othmira stopped beside Michael’s service window, where she had just demanded to be served before the people waiting. The elf who had spoken held a basket against her hip and looked ready to defend her place with it.
Michael kept one hand on the folded menu. The other rested on the counter, close to the till. He had no idea what the queen could do to him once he stepped outside the truck’s sanctuary. Inside it, he knew the rules. “She’s right. I’ll serve you in order.”
Othmira’s attendants stiffened. The queen herself looked down at the menu, then at him. Her expression could have made a lesser man reconsider the price of jianbing.
Michael had just spent a week learning that machines didn’t care who owned them. Apparently customers didn’t always, either.
“I am the sovereign of this realm,” Othmira said.
“I gathered.”
A rustle went through the queue. One of her attendants shifted, but Othmira raised two fingers. He stopped.
The queen studied Michael’s face for a beat. “And the rule is that I wait?”
“Everybody waits.”
She glanced at the basket-holder. The elf’s chin lifted, though her grip on the basket tightened. Behind her, three more customers stood with the alert stillness of people trying not to look as if they were listening.
“Very well,” Othmira said. “I shall wait.”
She moved to the back of the queue.
For a moment nobody said anything. Then the elf with the basket stepped forward to order. The line began to breathe again.
Michael turned back to the griddle. He had enough batter and filling for a modest run, if he kept the portions sensible. Each customer paid in local coin or trade: a few bright silver leaves, a twist of sweet-smelling roots, a pair of green glass beads that clinked when he dropped them into the till. Michael was still learning which things were money and which things were just unusually pretty. He kept the roots on the counter, where he could ask about them later.
The queue moved steadily. A woodcutter bought a jianbing and ate it with both hands. A young messenger took a cup of tea and drank the first mouthful so quickly that he stopped to stare at it. The smells from the griddle drew a few more elves out from among the trees.
Othmira waited without complaining. Her attendants kept close behind her, but she did not send them ahead or let them claim the places of the customers already there. She watched Michael turn each crepe and fold it around its filling. When the line inched forward, she moved with it.
Next
If the truck returns to Othmira’s realm, will Michael use her seal to take his food from the roadside queue to the queen’s council table?
Her stillness carried more weight than a speech. Every so often someone glanced her way, then looked back at Michael’s hands. The queen noticed. She gave them no signal to look away.
By the time Othmira reached the front, the sun had dropped behind the high branches. Michael had a smear of batter on his sleeve and only a few portions left. He checked the warmer and counted twice. Enough for one full meal, and a smaller one if he stretched the broth.
Othmira took in the menu. “What do you recommend?”
Michael looked at the two portions in the warmer. “I can do one full bowl. Maybe a small one after that.”
Her gaze went to her attendant. He stood a pace behind her, his posture exact, his eyes fixed on the counter as though he had no interest in the food at all.
“One bowl,” she said. “And a jianbing for him.”
The attendant’s mouth opened. “Your Majesty, I—”
“You have been standing since before dawn.” Othmira’s voice remained cool, but she nudged the silver leaf payment closer to Michael. “He will eat.”
The attendant looked at the coin, then at his queen. A little of the stiffness left his shoulders. “As you command.”
Michael set the broth to warm and poured batter onto the griddle. While the noodles loosened in the pot, he made the jianbing, brushing the thin crepe with sauce and scattering scallions across it. He folded the crisp edges over the filling and slid it into paper.
Then he ladled the soup. The steam carried beef, spice, and warmth out to the window. Othmira watched the bowl as he set it down. For a queen, she had a surprisingly intent look when confronted with lunch.
She lifted the spoon. The first taste slowed her. The lines at the corners of her eyes softened, and the formal composure she had worn since arriving gave way to something quieter. Michael had seen people pause like that over a meal before. The difference was that this time the person across the counter could probably have a road renamed for her if she asked.
Othmira took another spoonful. “This is excellent.”
“Glad it passed inspection.”
She gave him a look that might have been amusement. “You have an unusual standard for inspection.”
The attendant unwrapped his jianbing. At the first bite, he let out a small, involuntary sound and then looked embarrassed by it. Othmira noticed. The corner of her mouth lifted before she turned back to the soup.
A few people still waited behind them. Michael had one last portion left, enough to serve the next customer. Othmira saw him glance toward the warmer.
“Serve the next person,” she said. “I have what I came for.”
The basket-holder, now near the front of the line, glanced at the queen. Her shoulders had lowered. She stepped up to place her order.
The queen had waited, paid the same price as anyone else, and then left room for the next customer. Nobody cheered. This was a queue, not a coronation. Still, the customers watched her differently now. The basket-holder gave Othmira a short, respectful nod. One of the attendants stopped scanning the crowd and accepted the second half of his meal without protest.
Michael wiped the counter while Othmira finished her soup. The bowl came back empty, with a careful scrape of the spoon around the bottom.
“You have made a point of treating me as any other customer,” Othmira said.
“It keeps the line simple.”
“Simple rules are often the most difficult to enforce.” She placed a small silver leaf on the counter. It bore a fine pattern pressed into its surface: a branching tree surrounded by a ring. “This is my seal. Show it at the palace gate if your road brings you here again.”
Michael picked it up. The metal felt cool against his fingers. “You’re inviting me to the palace?”
“I would like you to cook for my council.” Her attendant glanced at her. She continued, “They have endured a great many formal meals.”
“That sounds like a problem I might be qualified to solve.”
“Your confidence is premature. You have yet to meet them.”
“I’ve met a queen who waited in line. I’m counting that as a promising start.”
This time the smile reached her eyes, brief but real. She lowered her gaze to the seal in his hand. “When you return, we shall discuss the menu.”
Michael closed his fingers around it. The truck would jump again when he shut down for the night. He could not tell her when the road would bring him back, and he would not pretend otherwise.
“I can’t promise when,” he said.
“I asked you to return if you could.” Othmira turned toward the path between the trees. “That is sufficient.”
Her attendants followed. The one with the jianbing still had half of it left, and the queen slowed her pace until he could finish without hurrying.
Michael set the silver seal beside the till, where it caught the light from the service window. The last customer in the queue stepped forward and pointed at the menu. Michael turned back to the griddle.
He had fed a queen. She had waited like everybody else. And now a royal invitation sat beside the cash box, useful only if the truck’s road chose to bring him back.