“The right kind,” Isolde said, unfolding the parchment. “It seems that Guy’s recent... indiscretions... have not gone unnoticed by those who matter. His sudden wealth, his convenient access to trade routes that were supposedly compromised by treasonous activities, his rather dramatic rise in the king’s favor...”
She paused, letting the implications hang in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre.
“People have begun to wonder if perhaps the wrong man was punished for crimes that benefited someone else entirely.”
Hugo straightened from his casual lean against the wall, his jovial expression replaced by something far more dangerous as he scratched his beard, thinking. “And what does the king think of such wonderings?”
“His Grace,” Isolde said with the precision of someone choosing her words very carefully, “has expressed... interest... in testing the truth of certain allegations. He has graciously agreed to allow my brother the opportunity to demonstrate his skills and loyalty in a more... public... venue.”
The parchment crackled as she held it up, and Rachel could see the elegant script that spelled out what looked like official royal correspondence. The weight of destiny seemed to press down on the hall like a physical force.
“What sort of demonstration?” Tristan asked, though something in his voice suggested he already knew the answer.
“A feast,” Isolde said simply, and the words fell into the silence like a stone into still water.
“You are commanded to appear at Westminster in a fortnight’s time, there to prepare a meal for His Grace and his court. Your skills will be judged, your loyalty tested, and your fate—all our fates—decided based on the results.”
The silence that followed was so complete that Rachel could hear her own heartbeat echoing in her ears. One fortnight. One meal. One chance to prove innocence or confirm guilt, to reclaim honor or face final disgrace.
“Merde,” Tristan breathed. “A royal feast. After all this time...”
“Your one opportunity for redemption,” Isolde confirmed, her voice taking on the businesslike tone of someone organizing a military campaign. “Though I should warn you, brother dear, the stakes could not be higher. This is not merely about clearing your name—it is about survival. Success means restoration of your lands, your titles, your position at court. Full pardon, coffers replenished, debts forgiven, and your rightful place in the king’s favor restored.”
She moved closer to him, her expression fierce with protective love. “More than that—it means my own restoration. My standing at court, my husband’s ventures, my very future—all depend upon your success. We rise together, brother, or we fall together.”
The blood drained from Rachel’s face as the true scope of what they were facing became clear. It wasn’t just Tristan’s life hanging in the balance—it was everything. His sister’s future, their family’s honor, their very survival in a world where royal displeasure could mean death or exile or worse.
“And failure?” Tristan asked, though his voice had gone hollow.
“Failure,” Isolde said with brutal honesty, “will confirm your guilt beyond question. Not exile this time—execution. Public execution, as befits a confirmed traitor. And I...” She straightened, her chin lifting with stubborn pride. “I would be ruined utterly. Likely exiled to some godforsaken convent by Geoffrey, where I would spend the rest of my days atoning for my brother’s crimes.”
The weight of responsibility seemed to crush down on Tristan’s shoulders like a physical force. Rachel watched him pale, watched his hands clench into fists, watched the careful control he’d maintained for months threaten to crack under the pressure.
“I’ll help,” she said, the words bursting out of her before she could think them through. “Whatever you need, however I can assist, I’m in.”
Every eye in the hall turned to her, and Rachel felt the weight of their collective attention like a physical force. Isolde’s dark gaze was particularly intense, cataloguing every detail of her appearance and demeanor with the thoroughness of someone evaluating a potentially useful but unpredictable weapon.
“My dear,” Isolde said, her voice carrying the kind of gentle warning that usually preceded very ungentle consequences, “I fear you do not fully understand what you are offering. Westminster Palace is not Greystone Castle. The court is a place where words have multiple meanings, where smiles hide daggers, and where a single misstep can prove fatal to more than just your reputation.”
“I understand perfectly,” Rachel replied, though her mouth had gone dry as parchment. “You’re talking about political intrigue, backstabbing, and the kind of social maneuvering that makes reality TV look like amateur hour. I get it. But Tristan needs all the help he can get, and I’ve got skills that could prove useful.”
“What manner of skills?” Isolde asked, her tone sharpening with interest.
Rachel took a deep breath, trying to organize her thoughts. “Food safety—I can spot contamination, spoilage, deliberate tampering from across a room. Flavor profiling—I know how ingredients should taste, which combinations work, when something’s been altered or substituted. Presentation techniques—I’ve seen food styled for cameras, plated for maximum visual impact. Quality control—I can tell you exactly what’s wrong with a dish and how to fix it.”
She paused, meeting Tristan’s gaze. “And I know when someone’s trying to sabotage a kitchen. I’ve reviewed enough restaurants where the line cooks were feuding or the sous chef was stealing ingredients or the dishwasher was deliberately contaminating plates. I know what to look for.”
Hugo’s booming laugh echoed off the stone walls, though it carried an edge of nervousness that hadn’t been there before. “The lass has a point. Takes a special kind of madness to face royal kitchens, and she’s proven herself daft enough for the task.”
“Daft indeed,” Isolde murmured, her gaze never leaving Rachel’s face. “Though perhaps... useful. Your... unique perspective... might prove advantageous in ways I had not considered. Especially if certain parties attempt to ensure your failure through... culinary interference.”
There was something in her tone that made Rachel think she was missing several layers of meaning, but before she could ask for clarification, Tristan stepped forward.
“Nay,” he said, his voice carrying the flat authority of someone who’d made a decision and would not be swayed. “I will not risk her safety for my redemption. The court is no place for?—”
“For what?” Rachel interrupted, her voice rising with indignation that had nothing to do with medieval propriety and everything to do with modern feminism asserting itself at entirely the wrong moment.
“For someone who actually knows the difference between good cooking and whatever passes for cuisine in royal kitchens? For someone who can spot culinary sabotage from across a room? For someone who’s spent years critiquing food prepared by people who think they’re god’s gift to gastronomy?”
