He never felt anything for me.
He shook his head at me as if he was disgusted by my stupidity.
I should never have left Evandale.
Homesickness sweeps over me, an ache that pains me more than the soreness in my back from sleeping on the hard floor. It permeates my bones, sinks its claws deep into my soul, and shreds any last hope I hold about ever seeing my family again. From the wreckage, anger rises, propelling me to my feet. It fuels me. The blood pumping hard in my veins reminds me that I’m still alive.
I’m alive, and I hate Dietan.
I walk out of the pantry. It’s still dark, and the only source of light in the room is the oven, where a scullery maid is tending to the fire. I’m used to rising before dawn when I open the Raven’s Beak. So this scene, at least, is a familiar one.
The kitchen is occupied by five other servants—now six, including me. After they threw me in the pantry, they made me change out of my desert garb and into the simple smock and apron they all wear. I can’t believe I’ve come all the way across Albion, only to end up right where I started. I retie my apron tightly with a knot at my hip to give my hands something to do, the motion as natural as breathing.
The cook who woke me up, a gruff older man with only one hand, is standing at a nearby station. “You,” he says, pointing to the wooden counter next to his. It is clear and clean, save for jars of salt, flour, and yeast. Baking supplies.
So, this is where I’ll be working until the day I die.
Wonderful.
Eternity stretches out in front of me, narrowing to a pinpoint that is absolute and inescapable.
No matter how hard I try not to think of the traitor prince, my mind returns to the same question over and over: is Dietan alive, or has his uncle killed him yet?
I have to stop thinking about him or I’ll sink into despair. With a deep breath, I take my place at the counter and splay my hands on the well-used wood cutting board, stroking the grooves made by hundreds of knife cuts. I’m not the first baker to work at this station, and I won’t be the last. “What happened to the baker before me?” I ask.
Someone shushes me.
I glance at the other workers milling about. The kitchen is filled with the sounds of hopping, pans clanging, water filling pots. No one meets my eyes. Everyone keeps their head down and works in silence.
The atmosphere is tense, with none of the camaraderie I’d grown accustomed to at the tavern. Even the men at the local blacksmith’s in Evandale are more talkative, and I’ve only ever heard them say a handful of words at a time.
If only I was back at the Raven’s Beak, surrounded by the sounds of laughter and clinking mugs and the bacon sizzling in a pan. This silence, compared to the cozy kitchen of my past, is like a knife to the heart.
“The baker’s dead,” the cook says, keeping his voice low. “The one before you.” He’s chopping a bunch of scallions with a knife in his right hand. The empty space where his left hand used to be is marked by shiny, red skin. It looks like it healed some time ago. He uses his knife to swiftly scoop the scallions into a nearby bowl. He moves so gracefully; it’s clear he’s been doing this job for a while.
I gulp and look around warily. No one else seems to be paying attention, but I keep my voice low anyway. “Osian?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer, but then again, he doesn’t have to. The fear, the silence—it’s clear the mad king killed the cook. I wonder if he’s killed Dietan, too. An ache blooms in my chest. No, I can’t think of that liar right now. I won’t let my mind go there.
“I’m Aren,” I say loud enough for everyone to hear. “It’s nice to meet you all.”
No one looks up from their work or even acknowledges that I’ve spoken. Maybe the king mandates silence among the servants…or maybe it’s better not to know anyone’s name, so it’s easier when they don’t come back to work the next day.
Without another word, I prepare the biscuits Dietan claimed are my only talent.Damn him, I think as I measure out flour and milk.Damn him and his cursed rings.Damn him and his lies.
Did he ever even want to get those Rings out of his body?
My anger could fuel a thousand suns, and I pour all of it into baking.
I know this recipe by heart. I start to dice butter, adding a splash of vinegar and salt, all based on the feel of it between my fingers. These biscuits are a recipe passed down from my mother, and now I’m forced to make them for someone I despise. When I’m finished, I scowl at the shaggy dough on my cutting board and consider spitting in it. A secret rebellion.
No one will ever know.
“Don’t,” the cook beside me says. His scallions have turned into a small mountain in the silver bowl. “You’ll just make it harder for us all,” he adds.
Sighing, I leave the dough alone.
I bake the biscuits in the oven, and they come out perfectly golden brown, smelling of butter and richness. I plate them for the king’s morning breakfast. Then I wait with the rest of the staff for the guards to unlock the kitchen door and let us into the main hall.
