Davina stood, smoothed her skirts, and picked up the ledger. It still looked daunting, but suddenly the weight of it felt less burdensome. Because she had purpose now, something she could do, something that mattered.
And perhaps, she thought quietly, as she followed Ailis toward the door, this would help her belong there, in that cold, unfamiliar place still echoing with grief.
“Thank ye, Ailis,” she said as they left the solar.
“Fer what, me lady?”
“Fer showing me where tae begin.”
Ailis smiled warmly, as though the simple words meant more than Davina knew. “Aye. That’s what I’m here fer.”
And together, they descended the winding stairs toward the heart of the keep. The moment Davina stepped into the kitchens, she was hit with a wave of heat, noise, and the rich scents of broth and baking bread. Women hurried between tables, pots bubbled over the fire, and a young boy darted past her with an armful of chopped wood.
Conversation faltered at her arrival.
Ailis leaned toward her. “They dinnae ken what tae make of ye yet, me lady. Give them a moment.”
Davina nodded, drawing in a steady breath, then stepped forward. “Good morning,” she said with as much warmth as she could muster.
Cook Morag, a round-cheeked woman with sharp eyes and flour-dusted hands, set down her ladle. “Morning, me lady.” Her voice was cautious. “What brings ye tae this chaos?”
Davina lifted the ledger. “I came tae understand our winter stores and tae see if there’s anything I can dae.”
A few eyebrows rose. Noblewomen typically asked for information. They didn’t usually offer to roll up their sleeves.
Morag folded her arms. “We’ve enough fer now, but after the funerals and the feast, our stores are running thin. We have enough till Yule. And the oaten flour’s lower than usual.”
Davina frowned at the shelves. “Because of the Sinclair blockades?”
“Aye.”
She bit her lip. “Could we stretch the flour by mixing in barley? Me mother used that trick in lean winters.”
Morag blinked. “Barley in oatcakes?”
“It changes the texture a little, but it fills more bellies,” Davina explained. “And if ye add a touch of honey, nay one will complain.”
There was a pause. Then Morag cracked the faintest smile. “We can try it.” She shouted over her shoulder. “Fiona! Bring the barley sacks down from the upper shelf!”
Fiona, a girl of maybe sixteen, hurried to obey, not even trying to hide her pink cheeks as she peeked at Davina. Work resumed, though with a new note of interest in the air.
Ailis nudged Davina. “Good start.”
Davina spent the next hour moving through the stores, talking with Morag about root vegetables that would keep through winter, suggesting ways to stretch the remaining cider, and personally helping to stack crates of apples.
She wiped her brow at one point with the back of her sleeve and caught several workers exchanging looks. They were not mocking. They were surprised. A small group of townsfolk entered the storeroom with baskets of late turnips and carrots. Upon seeing her, they bowed uncertainly.
Davina stepped forward. “Thank ye fer bringing these,” she said. “Winter will be easier fer everyone because of yer work.”
One older woman blinked at her. “Ye speak kindly, me lady.”
Davina’s heart gave a pang. “Then I hope ye’ll hear it often.”
The woman’s eyes softened. “Ye remind me of the old Lady Kincaid. She cared fer the people and helped when she could.”
A warm ache filled Davina’s chest. “That is me hope as well.”
By midmorning, Davina’s skirts were dusted with flour, her hands were stained with root vegetable dirt, and her hair was coming loose from its pins. But for she was starting to feel grounded.
