A pang hits, as does a memory. I sit at the kitchen table of the estate, my legs too short to reach the floor. Nan, dressed in a lavender blouse, tears pieces from the baguette we bought in town. There is butter, preserves, honey, all stored in porcelain bowls. My grandmother always gave me the crusty heel, along with a forehead kiss and a hearty,Eat up.
“Is there jam?” I murmur to the manor.
A small glass jar slides to the front of the shelf. After locating a knife, I cut into the warm bread and spread strawberry jam into its soft crannies, consuming the chunk in three bites.
A white linen napkin materializes on the countertop. I wipe my fingers, eyeing the bowl of fruit near the sink. After some consideration, I select a peach for myself.
“What are you doing?”
I startle and whirl around, the peach slipping from my grasp. It hits the tile with a softthumpand rolls, striking the toe of a large, scuffed boot.
The East Wind dominates the doorway, the tattered ends of his black cloak fluttering around his calves. The air shifts, shedding softened ease for something decidedly more deadly. I can all but feel it bend and waver around him in palpable fury.
“I w-w-was getting s-s-something to eat,” I manage, retreating behind the table.
He picks the peach off the floor, strides toward the counter. The slow fall of his footsteps rattles the kitchen window. “If you’re hungry,” he snaps out, “ask the manor to make you something. Don’t touch things that do not belong to you.” He then begins rearranging the bowl of fruit. He removes the apricots, apples, and tangerines, carefully tucking each one back into its proper place, with the peach balanced on top.
That done, his gaze sweeps the countertops. There, the torn baguette. And beside it, strawberry preserves coating the knife in a glisten of red sweetness. A low growl sounds, and he’s across the room, wiping down the counters and replacing everything as it was.
“I d-d-did ask,” I say to him, voice quavering. “I th-think the manor w-w-wanted me to find the kitchen myself.”
“That’s ridiculous.” He rinses his hands in the sink, wipes them dry with a rag. “Did you receive my note this morning?”
“Y-y-you mean the one t-telling me to get to work?” How could I forget?
“Well? Do you have an update?” He turns, pinning me with eyes I cannot see.
I bite the inside of my cheek. “N-not yet. The poisons are s-steeping now.”
He tosses up an arm in frustration, and although he stands on the opposite side of the table, I recoil.
Slowly, Eurus lowers his arm. He stares at me. It is too quiet.
“I said I would never raise a hand against you,” he utters. “I meant it.”
It is not the words that matter. It is the raising of an arm, the curl of fingers into what could be a fist. “S-sorry.” The East Wind is no stranger to my employer’s treatment, but shame threatens regardless, that he sees how weak I truly am.
As though recognizing the aggression of his stance, Eurus relaxes somewhat. He says, in a noticeably gentler tone, “There must be something else you can do in the meantime. Can you harvest your next ingredients? As I mentioned before, there can be no delay. We must reach the City of Gods before the month’s end, otherwise…” He clenches his jaw and falls silent.
I swallow around the chattering of my teeth, wondering where this City of Gods is and why he is so desperate to travel there.We, he said. I do not like the sound of that. “I n-n-need to eat something first. Then I w-will w-work.” How many times have I gone to bed hungry, my stomach in knots over having failed to complete the day’s agenda in a timely manner? Too many to count.
“Very well. But after that, I expect to be updated on your progress.”
I nod stiffly, watching him from across the table. “I w-wasn’t aware you felt so s-s-strongly about fruit,” I mention, only partially in jest.
“I like everything in its place,” he explains with a stilted tone. “I decide. No one else.”
I watch him scrub the counters, the sink, even the cabinets. He likes his kitchen tidy as he likes his study tidy, and perhaps all rooms in the manor. “I understand.”
His head snaps toward me. There is an uncertainty to his posture as he refolds the cloth and places it by the woodfire stove.
“Back home, I have a chest full of m-my grandmother’s things,” I tell him. “I wouldn’t w-w-want anyone to t-t-touch them either. I suppose that’s wh-why I wandered into the kitchen,” I continue, hoping my willingness to share will similarly encourage him. “I used to c-cook with my g-g-grandmother when I was younger. But I h-h-haven’t cooked in a long time.”
“Because you lost interest?” he asks.
“I don’t h-have the t-t-t-time.” At his pause, I go on, my stutter strengthening the more I try to repress it. “I w-w-work w-well into the n-n-night sometimes—” My throat closes, and I look down at my feet. “S-s-s-sorry.”
“What are you apologizing for?”
