Careful not to wake Chloe, she crawled out of the large bed and paced across the room several times before the answer came to her.
Tiptoeing to the wardrobe, she donned one of her simpler gowns, slipped her feet into well-worn half-boots, and after tucking the pendant inside her bodice, wrapped herself in her favorite brown shawl.
She only made three wrong turns before locating the kitchen.
Bustling with life, the busy room contained a perfect blend of sweet and savory aromas, smoke, steam, and clattering that was precisely what she needed to calm her senses.
“Can I help you, Miss?” A petite woman made up of nothing but muscles and bones, whose hair was tucked into a cap, appeared, hands on her hips.
“Are you Cook?” Priscilla asked.
Gray, Priscilla decided. Her hair would be silver and gray. The woman’s eyes were filled with untold wisdom and framed with deep creases.
“I am.” Pride built on years of service strengthened the woman’s voice.
And remembering her cook, her teacher, Priscilla found herself fighting tears. “I need—” She inhaled. “I need to… work. To help. What can I do?”
“Help, eh?” Cook tilted her head as though taking Priscilla’s measure. “Do you know how to knead dough?”
Priscilla shifted her gaze to the large worktable and clutched her fingers at the sight of a massive pale mound waiting to be worked. “I do.”
Would it feel stiff and tight or soft and pillowy? Or would it be something in-between?
Again, Cook seemed to study her. Even wearing a simple gown, Priscilla was obviously not one of the servants. The older woman pursed her lips and then gestured toward the table. “Show me then.”
Priscilla stepped forward and, after dusting her hand with some loose flour, reached for the dough.
There were no lies down here, no pretending.
As she turned it and then punched it down, she took its measure. The dough was heavy and tight—perfect for breaking down the chaos in Priscilla’s mind. She welcomed the burning in her muscles that came from folding and pushing. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine she was at Sky Manor. She could almost imagine her worries away.
Cook watched her for a few moments and then nodded. “Think good thoughts.”
Priscilla dipped her chin and paused just long enough to watch the woman march to the other side of the kitchen, scowling at the maid who was stirring something on the stove.
Good thoughts?
Over, fold, punch, push.
Priscilla couldn’t keep images from the night before from creeping in. That lock of nearly black hair that couldn’t decide which side of his face it belonged on, the tiny gold flecks she’d discovered in his eyes, the sensation of his mouth tasting hers…
And the way he’d touched her intimately, bringing her more pleasure than she’d thought was possible.
He hadn’t been at all uncomfortable afterward. He’d seemed…
Charmed.
By me.
“No regrets,” he’d said, kissing her on the forehead. And then he’d helped her off the wall, holding her until she found her legs, helping her tug her bodice up and smoothing the skirt down.
And when she was put back together, he’d taken her in his arms and stared at her, looking unusually smug for a man who’d given satisfaction without taking his own.
Who are you? Priscilla turned the dough and chanted the question silently.
Who are you? Fold. Who are you? Punch. Who are you? Turn.
And again.
