She’d always loved the kitchen, though she rarely spent time there. It was the warmest part of the castle. The far wall was wholly committed to crackling fires beneath bread-ovens and stove-tops. The light of the fires caught on the metal pots and pans hanging on the walls, dancing like rubies. Bundles of herbs hung from the ceiling within easy reach while more dried in the cold cellars below.
Nyven’s firm hand kept the space tidy as could be, but there was always some project or other under way. Just now a ball of dough rested in a bowl on the central table, a wooden rolling-pin beside it. Steam roiled off a stock-pot, scenting the air with onion and bay leaf. Something buttery and nutty baked in the oven.
Nyven and Sarella stood with their backs to Ayla, having a conversation she couldn’t hear from the doorway. Unease churned in Ayla's stomach as she watched the quick shakeof Nyven’s balding head and the stiff lines of Sarella’s thin shoulders.
They didn’t notice she was there, standing like a wraith in the doorway, until Sarella turned with a bowl of cut mushrooms and yelped. The bowl dropped; Sarella dove and caught it without spilling anything.
“Thank goodness it’s just you. You startled me, lady,” Sarella said, as Nyven turned, knife in hand, then relaxed and went back to chopping. “How long have you been there?”
“Only a moment,” Ayla said apologetically. “What can I help with?”
“Nothing, nothing. Just relax,” Nyven ordered. Ayla stepped forward to perch herself on one of the stools around the central cooking table.
“I haven't cleaned there yet. You’ll get your dress mussed,” Sarella warned her, sitting the bowl of mushrooms on the same counter. At fourty-four, the lines on Sarella’s face were just starting to become noticeable.
Ayla shrugged. She doubted the knight, no matter how villainous his plans for the country, cared if she got flour or jam on her fine clothes. Or if she spent time in the kitchen. He’d set nobody to guard her.
“Is all well?” Ayla asked quietly, as Nyven passed Sarella a bowl of cut leeks. Sarella shrugged awkwardly and upended the bowl of dough onto the table in front of her.
“The only trouble so far, lady, is trying to feed and serve all yon soldiers with just three sets of hands,” Nyven informed her. “They’re hungry men, those ones.”
As if summoned by his words, the third cook who’d stayed behind struggled through the left-hand doorway. Isalde’s thin arms strained under the weight of a large haunch of meat from the cellar. She was new to the castle staff, and young, freshly fourteen, a girl who’d grown up in the town just outside.
“Not that one,” Nyven said quickly. “Honestly, girl—have your senses left you? We’re makingstew, not a roast.”
The girl panted at him, strands of hair fighting their way loose from her blonde braid, before she nodded and turned to stumble back down the steps. Shaking his head, Nyven cracked open one of the metal oven doors and peeked in. Satisfied, he swung it all the way wide and grabbed a wooden paddle. The head cook expertly pulled out a metal tray of folded pastries and set them on the counter. With his bare fingers he tossed one onto a plate, so fast it couldn’t burn him. Leaning across the table, he pushed it in front of Ayla.
“Tell me if that isn’t the best you’ve had, Lady,” he instructed.
“Nyven?” the younger maid’s call came, muffled, from down the pantry stair. “I can’t tell…”
With a cluck of his tongue, the cook trotted down to help her. Sarella shook her head with a thin smile.
“Sarella?” Ayla asked, as she tugged the plate closer to herself. The golden-brown pastry smelled heavenly.
“Lady?” Sarella’s eyes met hers for a moment before she went back to rolling the dough in front of her into a thin rectangle.
Ayla picked at a fleck of the pastry, nearly burning her fingers.
“Did Ditmar go into the lower pantry for anything yesterday?” she forced herself to ask.
“The pantry?” Sarella frowned. She swiped at a loose curl with the back of one hand, leaving a smudge of flour just below the mole in the middle of her cheek. “Of course not. Why would he—” her eyes widened. Her hands drifted off the rolling pin and settled on the wood counter to either side of the dough. “Don’t tell me he…?”
Ayla nodded. “Someone must have told him, then,” she whispered.
“None of my girls are that foolish,” Sarella said firmly. “And theyknowthat back-shelf is off-limits to them. I told them we keep things there for feast days, not regular meals.”
“Well, he found out somehow,” Ayla said grimly as Sarella chewed her lip. Ayla shredded off a corner of the pastry, blew on it to cool it, and carefully placed it in her mouth. The almond paste filling melted on her tongue. Nyven had outdone himself.
“I’ll figure it out,” the kitchen maid said fiercely. “Whoever it is…”
“No,” Ayla sighed. She fought the urge to rest her chin on her fist, and instead kept her posture straight. “There’s more to worry about, just now. And whoever told him is probably outside the walls anyhow.”
“Areyoualright, though?” Sarella asked quietly.
Ayla shrugged, and gave her a wavering smile, then a nod. She had no right to complain, when the servants had given up so much to stay with her. Nyven, a perpetual bachelor, had lived in the castle as head cook, but Sarella and the others had families in the surrounding town.
Sarella abandoned the dough and skirted the corner of the table.
