“Oh, you don’t need—” Ayla started, but Sarella pulled her tight in a hug around the shoulders. She resisted a moment, then leaned against the maid, feeling guilty that Sarella was the one comforting her.
“I’m getting flour on you,” Sarella apologized.
“I don’t care,” Ayla said, as Sarella let go and Ayla straightened, blinking away the water in her eyes. “Thank you.”
“I hope that knight kills him,” Sarella whispered.
“Sarella!”
“What?” the maid shrugged and leaned against the counter. “I’m not saying I hope he wins his war. Just that, well,somethinggood comes out of this.”
Ayla pursed her lips and pulled her cloak tighter. She refused to allow herself to wish for the same thing. She didn’t want anyone dead. But a small part of her, a larger part than she wanted to admit, couldn’t help it.
Itwouldsolve at least one of her problems.
Nyven came back through the door, carrying a tough cut of meat with the new maidservant following sheepishly on his heels. As Ayla lifted the pastry to him with a nod of approval, he flashed her a grin. The cook set his burden on the far counter with a heavy thump and wiped his hands on his apron.
“I don’t see why you’re planning to feed them so much better than we normally get,” Ayla informed him.
“Yon knight said he wanted a proper feast. I’d as soon as keep my head on my shoulders,” Nyven informed her with good humor.
“I have to cutallof it?” Isalde asked quietly, staring reproachfully at the haunch of meat.
“Yes, and small pieces, mind,” Nyven told her. “No wider than your thumbnail. And mind what I told you about handling that knife carefully.”
“She shouldn’t have stayed,” Ayla told Sarella under her breath. “Her parents must be worrying themselves sick.”
Sarella shrugged as Nyven turned and gave her a look, one eyebrow arched.
“I think she was confused byusstaying,” Sarella whispered, and went back to working the dough.
“None of you should have stayed. You put yourselves in danger when you could have escaped. And what about your wife?” She took another bite of the pastry, the flaky dough breaking apart in her mouth.
Sarella shook her head as a bolt of pain passed over her face.
“I’ll bet we’re a good deal warmer than those outside the wall,” Nyven interrupted. He walked past them on his way tothe stock pot, pausing to poke at the dough Sarella was rolling out. She gave him an impatient look. He ignored it and nodded approvingly at the texture.
“Still,” Ayla muttered. She took another, bigger bite of the hot pastry. She knew they’d been heading out the door when Lord Niel said she was not allowed to leave. And nowshewas to be ransomed, while they… what? Would stay behind under a traitor’s command? Would they be punished for willingly staying to serve him, when she was the reason they’d stayed at all?
Ayla doubted Ditmar would listen if she told him they were all loyal. She did not even know if he'd let her get the words out.
“Begging your ladyship’s pardon: the politics at the top are a concern of the big folk, not us,” Nyven said, with a nonchalant air she didn’t quite believe, after his joke about keeping his head. If she didn’t know better she might think Nyven was just trying to keep the other servants calm. “Everybody eats. And nobody wants to piss off the folk making your food. Or you’ll get unsalted soup and burnt bread. We’ll be safe enough in the kitchen, I wager, no matter what oaths yon knight broke to the Queen.”
Unsalted soup, burnt bread… or poison,Ayla thought abruptly, as she licked a bit of almond paste off the side of her thumb. Ditmar wouldn’t punish any of them for staying if they got rid of the threat from the inside, would he? Well, he’d still punish Ayla, maybe, but that was a foregone conclusion; it was the others she worried about. And perhaps he'd be gentler on her if the knight was dead.
Could she really poison someone? She knew plenty of things in the castle were deadly, if need be. And Lord Nielhadwaged war on them. Even as peaceable as that war had been so far in Blackfell. The only person he’d killed was his own man.
“Lady Ayla?” Sarella asked. Her voice was soft, her brow knotted with worry. “You’ve got that look in your eye.”
“Sorry.” Ayla shook her head.
“Is there something you want us to do?” Sarella asked. “It’s your command, you know.”
The idea that she was in charge of anything was laughable. She didn’t even oversee the household; Ditmar had kept a steward for that, who was now outside the walls. Nyven looked quickly over his shoulder, soup-ladle in hand and alarm on his face.
“No,” Ayla said quickly, and the head cook’s expression softened, no longer frightened she was about to order him into unspeakable acts of war. “Keep your heads down and do nothing to anger him. Who knows what a traitor likethatis capable of.” Nyven, facing the other way, nodded.
Sarella’s head jerked up, her eyes wide and on the doorway behind Ayla.
