“Oh, no thank you,” I replied, shaking my head. “I’m not hungry. I was actually hoping to find Lydia.”
“Lydia?” she repeated vaguely, already turning back to the pot. “Mmm, just a moment, my dear. This mustn’t bubble over—oh blast, where’s my cinnamon?”
I followed her as she bustled from one table to the next, checking a bowl of rising dough before plucking a jar from the shelf and sniffing it suspiciously.
Poe took to the rafters, watching her movements with a tilt of his head.
“Pardon me,” I said again, trying to keep my voice steady over the chaos of clattering jars and mutters about clove ratios. “I was wondering if you knew where Lydia is?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Flour,” she mumbled.
“Beg your pardon?”
“Oh, not you, dear,” she assured quickly. “I meant the flour’s gone clumpy. Damp in the pantry, it is. And I’ve told Tanner about the mice, but does he listen? Oh, no. Not with his ears full of horses, I say.”
I blinked. “Mrs. Griggs… Lydia?”
She gasped, turning back to me with a flustered expression and flour on her chin. “Oh heavens, Your Grace,forgive me! I do prattle on something awful. Lydia, yes. What was it you needed from her, if I may be so bold?”
“I… just wished to speak with her.”
“Ah,” she shrugged, stirring the pot again. “Yes, well. She usually starts the mornings with the stables, then sometimes helps His Lordship with his writing desk. Though what a man needs a maid for at his desk is beyond me. But this morning… no. Haven’t seen her.”
“Not at all?”
She tapped her ladle twice against the edge of the pot. “Not a toe, not a trace. And I’ve eyes like a fox, I do.” She chuckled, the sound low and wet. “Even this one.” She tapped her milky eye and winked with the good one.
Poe ruffled his feathers above, muttering something I couldn’t quite make out above the roar of boiling pots.
“Well,” I said, stepping back slowly, “thank you all the same, Mrs. Griggs.”
“Oh, my pleasure, dear. If you see Lydia, tell her the rose hip jam needs decanting. And tell her to bring me more eggs, the large ones, not those puny speckled things Tanner calls hen’s gifts.”
“I shall,” I promised, unsure if I had just been ordered by a servant.
Poe landed again on my shoulder just as I turned to leave, his beak brushing the edge of my hair.
I paused, my gaze straying to a shelf, half obscured by hanging herbs. A row of jars and tins sat neatly arrangedbelow the greenery. Tea leaves. Medicinal blends, dried powders, and elixirs.
I moved closer, watching Mrs. Griggs from the corner of my eye, but she paid me no mind. Label after label passed beneath my fingers as I read off the names quickly. Lavender, rose, mint, and even valerian, but none were labeled as Mrs. Ashby’s special blend.
I sighed, letting my hand drop. That’s when I saw it.
A small, unlabeled, glass jar on the counter beneath the shelf caught my eye. It was full of tea leaves mixed with several herbs I didn’t immediately recognize.
I lifted it, weighing it in my hand. The glass was cool and a faint bitter smell lingered under a floral sweetness.
I swallowed hard, glancing back at the cook, but she was still distracted. I tucked the jar against my palm and turned to leave—then collided with something warm, solid, and immoveable.
A pair of hands steadied me. I froze, blinking up into the familiar, unreadable expression of Sylum.
“There you are,” he beamed, though his gaze dropped immediately to the object in my hand. His eyes narrowed with suspicion, or something perilously near it.
“I’ve been looking for you.”
“Oh?” I breathed, hastily shifting the jar behind my back. “Well, here I am. What was it you needed?”
His gaze remained fixed on the hand I was trying very hard to hide. “I just wanted to make sure you were… feeling better this morning.”
