I pull on one of my favourite organising outfits – a burnt orange romper with wide-legged pants, and a slouchy pinstriped men’s jacket I wear with the sleeves rolled up. I swipe on some lipstick and mascara.
I want to make a good impression on my client. That’s all.
I grab the candelabra Reginald left for me and light the candles before padding down the crooked stairs, gripping the metal in one hand and pressing my other palm into the wall. Mirabelle winds around my feet, meowing loudly about how she’s a poor, starving orphan who hasn’t been given so much as a morsel of gruel.
I allow the cat to lead me downstairs, past the rooms we’re cleaning, past the dining room with its padlocked doors, to the kitchen – a large, rough-stone room near the rear of the house.
“Reginald?” I call out. “Anyone?”
Mirabelle leaps onto the kitchen table, bats off a mesh fly cover with her paw, and drags a wedge of roast beef from a plate. The table is laden with food: a platter of cold meats and slices of cheese, fresh fruit, hard-boiled eggs, a selection of jams and fresh honeycomb, a loaf of sourdough, and another basket ofdelicious pastries.
A note is taped to the top of the loaf.
Dear Ms Preston,
I figured you’d be up before Lord Valerian, so I’ve left out some breakfast things that you may enjoy. Please help yourself to anything you like in the larder or scullery. There is a coffee machine on the counter opposite, and tea in the containers beside the stove.
Lord Valerian is not to be disturbed until the evening, when he will be ready to begin your work. You may not see me today, as I have chores to do around the estate. Use the call bell if you need anything.
Yours,
Reginald
My stomach growls.
How long has Reginald been awake to get all of this done?
I have so many questions.
But first, coffee.
I feed Mirabelle another chunk of beef, shove a handful of fresh strawberries in my mouth, and set about making a giant cup of black coffee. Alaric may enjoy his medieval trappings, but I’m thankful that his coffee machine is modern and expensive and runs on glorious electricity and not steam power or five guinea pigs on a treadmill.
I sip my coffee as I circle the table, picking at all the delicious treats on offer.
I cut a slice of sourdough and slather it with honey, but realise too late that Reginald has forgotten to leave me a plate. I glance around the kitchen, wondering where they might keep the crockery. I slide open a couple of drawers, but they’re filled with what I suspect are the tools of a discerning sous chef.
At least, I hope that’s what they are. One cannot be certain of anything at Black Crag Castle.
I take a bite out of my bread as I wander through a doorway at the end of the kitchen into thelarder. I pull up short.
Odd.
I expected to see shelves stuffed with dry foods, baskets filled with produce and plaits of garlic drying from a ceiling rack. Instead, the scullery shelves are practically bare – only a handful of open boxes and a container of honeycomb in the corner provide any indication that food is stored here at all.
How does Reginald conjure a delicious breakfast spread when the cupboards are bare? I open a few drawers, still searching for a plate, but they’re all empty.
This huge kitchen is designed for a master chef, but there’s hardly any food. There has to be an explanation. Maybe it’s shopping day? Perhaps that’s one of the chores Reginald was referring to in his note.
On the back wall of the larder I spy a narrow door hidden in the wood panels.
Ah, I bet that’s the scullery for crockery and mugs and stuff. When I was in the Duke of Harrington’s summer house, he had a whole room for his scarf collection. Rich people have more rooms than sense.
I tug open the door and fumble on the wall for a light. I flick it on …
… and gasp.
Instead of the dark cupboard I expect, I’m standing in an impossibly long room with a high, vaulted ceiling. Rows of wine bottles nestle in wrought-iron frames along each wall.
