“Perfect name for a cook,” I say, sitting down on a chair. The seeds are still spilled over the kitchen table, untouched.
Pepper lets out a strange little gulping chuckle. “I have a message for you,” she says, sounding a bit like a mouse caught in a giant trap.
“I’m not gonna shoot the messenger.” I wince at my poor attempt at a joke. I should just keep my mouth shut instead of trying to reassure a complete stranger. Why even try? Maybe because she looks a bit pathetic.
“The young master ordered you’ll get no food today.” She runs a hand over her messy bun, looking exceedingly uncomfortable. “On account that you misbehaved yesterday,” she adds, a bit quieter, her cheeks turning a ruddy shade of pink.
That bastard. What century does he think it is? You can’t just starve your staff.
“Do you mean Abas?” I ask.
“Yes, yes,” she nods a bit too vehemently. “And there’s a new task list on the table there.” She points not far from where I’m standing.
I grab the sheet of paper and skim it. Another day of yard work ahead of me. Just grand!
“Are you new here?” I ask Pepper when I’m done reading.
“No, Mister, uhm, I mean…” she trails off and then turns back to the range to mix whatever food she’s preparing. “I’ve worked here for many years. I cook all the meals.”
“For the young master?” I ask.
“No, for the staff. I prepare porridge once a week and bring the bread and cheese.”
She still looks mortified. I wonder if she’s ashamed of the slop she has to cook for us or for giving me the news that I’m not allowed food today.
I take a breath, feeling the weird urge to say something kind, but can’t for the life of me think of what that could be. She’s still standing there looking awkward and strangely ill-fitting. She’s too plump and rosy to be in this run-down kitchen.
“You’re not from these parts, are ya, Mist—I mean, Astaire,” she says, face blushing deeper at her blunder.
“No.”
“Oh, well, how wonderful to meet someone from a strange place. I mean, you come from afar, don’t ya? You look worldly. Like you’ve experienced much.” All the words come out without taking a single breath.
I take a moment to split each sentence into its own meaning before replying with a simple shrug. “Not really.”
“I’ve never been gone, ya know,” she says, turning back to the cooker. “Born in the village and never left. Beside here, I suppose. Can you imagine? It’s the furthest from home I’ve ever been. Oh dear, I must look frightfully simple.” She rubs her hands over her apron and faces me again. This time, her smile almost warms the room. “How rude of me, I never asked where you hail from!”
“Just the city.” I’m feeling a bit awkward standing in the middle of the kitchen, but something is keeping me from walking out of here without a word.
“The big city! I always wanted to go. Only heard about it in tales. The things you must have seen!” Her words spill out like the seeds on the table.
“I’m sure much less than what’s going on here,” I say.
Her eyes go wide, and the rush of words is cut off at the root.
“I mean, you must spend a lot of time with Bayard, right?” I ask. “And…”
At his mention, she clasps the spoon tightly, her knuckles turning white with the effort.
“Who do you work for, by the way?” I ask. “I’m a bit unsure who the boss i?—”
She cuts me off with, “The young Master, of course.” Her voice softens a bit, though it still sounds off.
“Oh, uhm…I assumed it was Bayard…” I let the sentence linger, trying to gauge her reaction. And just as I suspected, she tenses up again at his mention. Very curious.
I feel a tinge of guilt for going this far and upsetting her. How and why exactly, I don’t fully understand, but I feel bad nonetheless.
“I… Thank you for…” I start but then stop myself.
