“Well, I suppose there are worse things than being aZoodle.” Zane said the word as if it physically pained him, and I hid my smile in his neck.
“You’re so easy, bro,” Koa sneered. “A handful of compliments and you roll over like a puppy.”
“I prefer ‘discerning appreciator of genuine feedback,’ ” Zane shot back as he pecked my forehead before returning to his chair.
“I prefer ‘predictable,’ ” Casimir scoffed, cutting his waffle with the care of a surgeon.
Then the dining room doors burst open with such force, they banged against the walls. The metallicthunkof a blade burying itself in the platter of waffles froze me mid-bite. A plump, older woman with steel-gray hair stormed in with her apron fluttering and eyes wild. I’d only glimpsed Mrs. Wentzel before in passing, but the kindly chef I’d seen from afar now looked like something from a horror movie.
“Prince Casimir!” Her voice climbed three octaves on the last syllable. “I can tolerate you reorganizing my spices by hue and realigning every can label toward magnetic north. I didn’t even complain when you arranged the silverware by metallurgic composition!” Her crooked index finger pointed to the handle of the knife now garnishing the waffles. “But to touch my Wüsthof Classic? That, sir, is an act of war!”
My eyes darted between Mrs. Wentzel’s flushed face and Casimir’s impassive one. My pulse sped up instinctively at the confrontation. Years with Arabesque had taught me to fear raised voices, but something about the way the brothers remained calm told me this wasn’t truly dangerous.
Still, I scooted my chair a little closer to Zane.
Casimir blinked at the accusation, not a hint of reaction on his face. The silence stretched before a faint scraping sound made us all turn. Koa sat hunched over his plate, butter knife rasping against his toast. His shoulders stiffened under four stares.
Mrs. Wentzel inhaled sharply enough to suck the tablecloth against the platter of bacon.
“YOU.”
The toast shattered in Koa’s hand.
“It was an accident!”
“That implies youdidn’tspend three hours grinding it down to a butter knife,” Zane snorted.
“Apologies, Mrs. Wentzel.” Koa muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “The rhythm centers me.”
“He means sharpening things is how he meditates,” Zane stage-whispered to me. “Like monks with sand gardens, but stabbier.”
“I don’t understand. What happened?” I asked. “What’s a versed toff?”
Mrs. Wentzel’s eyes snapped to me, then gestured toward the waffle stack.
“Thatis what’s left of my best meat cleaver!”
I couldn’t help it; a giggle bubbled up from my chest. I quickly covered my mouth, but Mrs. Wentzel had already heard.
“I promise it won’t happen again.” Koa somehow looked both contrite and proud of his handiwork.
“At least not to the same cleaver,” Zane laughed, then leaned across the table to whisper, “Last week, it was one of the landscaper’s garden trowels. It’s now a scalpel.”
“I’ll order a replacement before the day is out, Mrs. Wentzel.” Casimir’s tone was even and calm. “The finest quality, of course.”
She glared at them all for one more tense moment, her chest heaving with indignation. Then, as suddenly as a summer storm passing, she exhaled and smoothed back the wayward strands of her gray hair. When she turned to me, she wore a sweet smile that wrinkled the corner of her eyes.
“I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced, Lady Serafina.” Her voice was suddenly warm honey instead of crackling fire. “I’m Dotty Wentzel, head chef here at Evermere.” She glanced toward the kitchen. “Addison! Come in here, please.”
“Oh!” I perked up. “Your grandson?”
“Yes, he’s been helping me by bringing in the food platters.” She nodded, aglow with grandmotherly pride.
“I’ve been wanting to meet him, but I haven’t had much opportunity to visit the staff yet. My husbands take a lot of my time and energy.”
Zane sputtered mid-sip, spraying coffee onto his napkin. Koa turned his laugh into an unconvincing cough behind his napkin, shoulders shaking. Even Casimir’s lips twitched at one corner in the barest hint of a smirk.
“What?” I asked with a frown.
