Bah humbug.

In a few days, the Sheriff should receive a parcel. Inside, a letter and a selection of preserves. Soups, mostly. The missive is short and to the point. "I heard you were unwell. For a prompt recovery. Respectfully yours, Quartermaster General Fabre" Caitlyn Huxley

"Hm. No." Another crumpled up draft lands into the bin.

Crumpled up balls of paper have taken over Gregor's desk. A frustrated grunt escapes him. The bin is overflowing. Martin looks up from his clipboard. "Something wrong, Chef?" Gregor tosses his latest balled-up draft at the sous-chef. "Working through the creative process."

"... hm... oysters are still in season..." "..." "... no. No."

"I'm thinking it's nearly done, Martin."

Gregor presents himself at Darius's tent, waiting for the guard to allow him inside.

"Got a dreadful feeling all of a sudden, Martin. Like someone just poured a bunch of sauces into a glass and chugged it." He shudders.

With all due respect we should all stick to our respective specialty and avoid sidestepping.

A vein bulges for no apparent reason on Gregor's temple.

With the festivities over, there's finally a much needed lull in the usually steady bustle of the kitchens. This year was rougher than the last. Perhaps he's getting too old for this.

Shudders.

Lunatics.

Hm.

"... again?"

"Should ask for a pay raise..."

"... something's not right..."

"Don't like this feeling. Been too quiet lately."

Did the Bug's mind merge with some plant?

Chop chop.