Lawrence Norfolk

“They drank from a spring which filled an ancient stone trough behind the ruin. Beyond it lay overgrown beds and plants John had never set eyes on before: tall resinous fronds, prickly shrubs, long grey-green leaves hot to the tongue. Nestling among them he found the root whose scent drifted among the trees like a ghost, sweet and tarry. He knelt and pressed it to his nose.
'That was called silphium.' His mother stood behind him. 'It grew in Saturnus's first garden.'
She showed him the most ancient trees in the orchards, their gnarled trunks cloaked in grey lichen. Palm trees had grown there too once, she claimed. Now even their stumps had gone.
Each day, John left the hearth to forage in the wreckage of Belicca's gardens. His nose guided him through the woods. Beyond the chestnut avenue, the wild skirrets, alexanders and broom grew in drifts. John chased after rabbits or climbed trees in search of birds' eggs. He returned with mallow seeds or chestnuts that they pounded into meal then mixed with water and baked on sticks. The unseasonal orchards yielded tiny red and gold-streaked apples, hard green pears and sour yellow cherries.”
― Lawrence Norfolk, John Saturnall's Feast

“Are there flowers here, your ladyship?' he asked when Pole had gone.
'Flowers?' Lucretia touched a hand to her cheek. 'Surely you have smelt rose water before?'
In the Solar Gallery, remembered John. The scent teased his nostrils as he bent to prise open the first dumpling. The soft dough parted and a puff of steam carried a second sweet smell into the chamber. Lucretia peered at the glistening mass then looked up curiously. 'What dish is this?'
'"Let me feed thee Honey-sugared Creams,"' John recited. '"As cool the Quodling's 'scaping Steam."'
She stared at him, amazed. 'The verses? You can read?'
'Is it so strange in a cook?'
'I... no.' Lucretia gathered herself. 'Of course you must read your receipts.'
'They are our verses, your ladyship. We give each other recitals down there in our kitchens.'
John brought a corked flask from inside his doublet and poured sweetened cream over the apple. He watched her dig into the apple's oozing flesh, swirl the thick cream then slip the marbled mixture into her mouth.
'Your honey-sugared cream is as sweet as the verses claim,' Lucretia told him, swallowing. 'It all but conquers the sourness of the quodling.”
― Lawrence Norfolk, John Saturnall's Feast