Alice-Miranda at Sea by Jacqueline Harvey

kitchen – enormous by any standards and at least twice the size of Mrs Smith’s space at Winchesterfield-Downsfordvale.
    Alice-Miranda counted over twenty men, resplendent in their white uniforms and mushroom-shaped hats, all busily chopping and braising and whipping – apparently oblivious to their presence. It was a strange scene indeed. Alice-Miranda had been a guest in many a large kitchen in her seven and three-quarter years, but never had she seen anything quite like this.
    She had a strange feeling about this place – and Alice-Miranda was usually right about her strange feelings. Something wasn’t right. There was no noise, other than the sound of utensils.
    â€˜You need to go,’ a tiny voice whispered. Alice-Miranda looked around to see who had spoken.
    â€˜Hello.’ She smiled at a young man who was chopping onions. ‘My name is Alice-Miranda Highton-Smith-Kennington-Jones and I’m very pleased to meet you’
    The chef looked at her and shook his head ever so slightly. ‘Miss, you must go – and take your friends with you,’ he spoke through gritted teeth.
    Alice-Miranda glanced around the room. There didn’t seem to be anyone in charge, which she thought very strange. There was always a head chef. They were often renowned for their bad tempers, but Alice-Miranda had met enough of them to know that they were mostly pussycats outside the kitchen. After all, she reasoned, cooking for hundreds of guests was probably about one of the most stressful jobs anyone could have.
    â€˜Alice-Miranda, maybe we should just leave?’ Millie suggested. She noticed that the longer they stayed, the redder the faces on the chefs became, as though the children’s mere presence was raising the temperature in the room.
    â€˜It’s all right,’ Alice-Miranda assured her friend. She turned to address the young chef who was still chopping onions. ‘Excuse me, sir, can you tell us who is in charge?’
    The man sniffed. Moisture which had dammed in the corners of his eyes spilled over, streaming down his tanned cheeks.
    â€˜Are you all right?’ She reached into her pocket and handed him a clean tissue.
    He motioned at the onions on the bench.
    â€˜Oh, of course,’ Alice-Miranda smiled. ‘I don’t like chopping onions either. Mrs Oliver is working on a “no tears” variety at the moment but I don’t know if she’s made much progress yet.’
    â€˜Come on, let’s get out of here,’ Lucas directed.
    All at once there was a whooshing noise, like an approaching freight train. The chefs, already working at a rate of knots, seemed to flick their speed dials to ‘overdrive’.
    Into the kitchen blew a tornado, through which a veritable giant emerged. At least six feet five inches tall, with shoulders the width of a doorway, a chiselled jaw, jet-black hair and eyes that looked like they could pierce steel, he surveyed the activity in front of him and proceeded to explode.
    â€˜What iz that?’ the titan roared at one young fellow who was whipping cream. His forefinger, the size of a pork sausage, plunged into the vat of frothy white liquid and flew back into his open mouth. ‘That . . . iz contaminated.’ He picked up the bowl and promptly upended it on the young man’s head.
    He moved along the line. ‘And what are those?’ he growled. The chef gulped. ‘Well? Tell me!’ the giant commanded.
    â€˜Prawns, chef,’ the young man squeaked as he stared at a tub full of plump orange crustaceans.
    â€˜Who bring prawns on board ship? I have list of banned foods. The Queen Georgiana iz allergic to all shellfish and crustaceans. You want me to kill Queen? Do you? Do you?’ he demanded.
    â€˜No, chef,’ the young man trembled.
    â€˜Well, take them and throw them overboard!’
    By now Millie, Jacinta, Lucas and Sep had inched backwards around the corner into the