The kitchen was already bustling with morning activity, servants scurrying about with the focused intensity of people who knew exactly what they were supposed to be doing and had probably been doing it since before dawn. The massive hearth crackled cheerfully, sending waves of heat across the stone floor, while copper pots gleamed in the firelight like burnished gold.
Marta looked up from where she was kneading what appeared to be bread dough with the determined violence of someone working out personal grievances against carbohydrates.
“What’s that ye’ve brought us now?” she asked, eyeing Sir Whiskerbottom with the expression of someone who’d learned to be suspicious of anything Rachel introduced to her kitchen.
“A sous chef,” Rachel replied cheerfully, settling the cat on a clean patch of counter where it immediately began washing itself with the methodical precision of someone performing important maintenance. “Very experienced. Excellent at quality control and absolutely ruthless about proper hygiene standards.”
“’Tis a mouser, nothing more,” grumbled one of the kitchen girls, though she was watching Sir Whiskerbottom with the kind of barely concealed interest that suggested she was already planning to slip him scraps when no one was looking.
“The finest mouser in all of Yorkshire,” Rachel corrected solemnly. “Possibly in all of England. I can tell by his professional bearing and that look of quiet competence he’s giving the grain stores.”
Sir Whiskerbottom, as if summoned by her praise, sat up straighter and fixed the kitchen with an imperious stare that somehow managed to convey both dignity and mild disappointment in everyone present. Several servants actually stepped back, clearly recognizing superior authority when they saw it.
“What in the name of all the saints is that creature doing in my kitchens?”
The voice thundered through the morning chatter like a blade through silk, and every person in the kitchen went still as death. She turned to find Tristan filling the doorway, his imposing frame backlit by the morning sun streaming through the windows behind him. He’d clearly been about his morning routine—his hair was damp from washing and he’d traded yesterday’s linen shirt for creamy linen shirt and black leather vest that clung to his broad shoulders in ways that made her mouth go dry and her brain temporarily forget how to form coherent thoughts.
“This is Sir Whiskerbottom,” she announced with the dignity of someone introducing visiting royalty. “He’s joining our culinary team as chief mouser and general supervisor of kitchen operations.”
Tristan’s eyes, winter-blue and currently narrowed with what appeared to be a combination of exasperation and disbelief, moved from her face to the cat, who had chosen this moment to begin an elaborate grooming routine that involved contortions worthy of a court acrobat.
“That,” he said with the kind of deadly calm that probably preceded executions, “is vermin.”
“That,” Rachel corrected, moving protectively closer to the counter where Sir Whiskerbottom continued his ablutions with the unconcerned air of someone who’d been insulted by better people, “is a highly qualified member of the kitchen staff who happens to have four legs and excellent references from the courtyard mice.”
“Remove it.”
“Him. And no.”
The kitchen had gone so quiet that the only sounds were the crackling of the fire and Sir Whiskerbottom’s rumbling purr, which seemed to grow louder in direct proportion to the tension filling the room. Several servants had begun edging toward the door, clearly recognizing the signs of an impending explosion and wanting to be elsewhere when it occurred.
Tristan stalked all the way into the kitchen with a glare that made her pulse quicken despite her determination to stand her ground. “I will not have vermin in my kitchens.”
“Why not?” Rachel planted her hands on her hips, the borrowed dress rustling around her ankles like autumn leaves. “He’s cleaner than half your staff, probably smarter than most of them, and definitely better at keeping unwanted pests out of the food stores. Plus, he has excellent managerial instincts. Look at how he’s supervising the bread preparation.”
All eyes turned to Sir Whiskerbottom, who had finished his grooming routine and was now sitting like a furry sentinel, watching Marta knead dough with the focused intensity of a master chef observing a student’s technique. His tail twitched once, precisely, as if making a mental note about proper kneading rhythm.
“He’s judging her form,” Rachel continued, warming to her theme. “See that expression? That’s the look of a professional who knows quality work when he sees it. Very discerning. Excellent standards.”
“’Tis a cat,” Tristan said through gritted teeth, though Rachel caught something in his voice that might have been reluctant amusement struggling against irritation.
“’Tis a highly trained culinary professional who happens to be a cat,” she corrected solemnly. “And before you say anything else disparaging about his qualifications, I’ll have you know he’s already identified three potential problem areas in your grain storage and what appears to be a small leak in the roof that no one else noticed.”
Tristan’s gaze flicked upward, following her pointing finger to where, indeed, a small dark stain on the stone ceiling suggested water damage that had gone unaddressed. His jaw tightened, and a small surge of triumph flowed through her.
“Furthermore,” she continued, sensing victory, “studies have shown that cats in food preparation areas actually improve hygiene standards by eliminating disease-carrying rodents and providing emotional support to overworked kitchen staff.”
“Studies,” Tristan repeated flatly.
“Very thorough studies. Conducted by... medieval... cat... scientists.” She was making this up as she went along, but her voice carried the conviction of someone who’d spent years convincing skeptical restaurant owners that her reviews were worth their attention. “The results were conclusive. Cats equal better food safety.”
Sir Whiskerbottom, as if understanding that his employment hung in the balance, chose this moment to demonstrate his qualifications. With liquid grace, he leaped from the counter to the floor, stalked across the kitchen with purpose, and disappeared beneath a pile of grain sacks. Moments later, he emerged with a mouse clenched in his jaws—a fat mouse that had clearly been making itself at home in the castle’s food stores.
The kitchen erupted in impressed murmurs. Even Marta nodded approvingly as Sir Whiskerbottom deposited his trophy at Tristan’s feet with the proud air of someone presenting a perfectly prepared dish to a demanding customer.
“Well,” Rachel said into the stunned silence, trying not to grin too broadly at the look of reluctant respect that had crept into Tristan’s expression. “I believe that settles the question of his qualifications.”
Tristan stared down at the deceased mouse, then at the cat, who was now sitting at attention like a soldier awaiting orders, his green eyes bright with professional satisfaction. Something shifted in his expression—surprise, certainly, but underneath that, something that looked almost like fondness.
