An exasperated sound explodes from her.
Then, slowly, like she’s speaking to an idiot: “Yer nem?”
Oh. My name.
“Rose.”
She nods and tells me hers, but it’s just a mess of vowels. I assume she’s the head cook. That’s all I really need to know. She points at a dead chicken on the table and gives an order.
I just stand there, no clue what she’s asking.
Muffled chuckles.
Another sigh. She grabs the bird by the feet, plucks a few feathers, then shoves it at me.
“Oh! You want me to pluck it.” I snatch the chicken with a laugh, relieved.
She startles at my enthusiasm, but I can’t help it. I finally understand something. And I’ve plucked chickens all my life.
I flash her a broad smile as I start working.
After a beat, she gives me a perplexed smile in return. Perplexed, but genuine.
The day flies by like that—me scrambling to figure out what I’m supposed to be doing. I’d hoped to actually cook. Instead, kitchen duty is less sautéing and seasoning, more scalding, scrubbing, and scouring.
At midday, I get a quick break for bread and cheese. I sit on a low stool, wolfing it down like I’ve never eaten before. I focus on chewing, swallowing, on anything but what happened earlier, but it catches up to me anyway. Callum. Hamish. Blades swinging. That last awful moment before I turned away.
I shove another bite into my mouth, like that’ll help push the memory back down. It doesn’t. But I haven’t heard any alarms raised. That has to mean everything’s fine…right?
By evening, when a bowl of stew is shoved into my hands, I’m ready to collapse.
But the cook has other ideas. She thrusts a rag at me and shoos me into a small room where someone else is already scrubbing pots.
I perk up. Another girl, about my age.
A female friend would make all of this so much easier. My mind fills with images of us chatting, laughing, bonding.
I smile. “Hi, I’m Rose.”
Her smile in return is hesitant but not unfriendly. “Margie.”
I understood her. Pure, unfiltered delight rushes through me.
She’s shorter than me by several inches, but nothing about her looks fragile. She’s compact and solid, with aneatly braided rope of blond hair and a no-nonsense air. Chin up, shoulders back. A modern girl, if I ever saw one.
I like her already.
“So, Margie. How do we do this?”
Her smile fades. “Take a pot, scrape the leavings, wipe with ash, hand to me.”
I caught thetake a potpart. The bucket of scraps must bethe leavings. But…ash?
I frown, running my finger through the fine, gray-black dust. “This is ash? Shouldn’t we use, like, soap?”
Margie gapes. “Have you nae done scullery work afore?”
“Oh, all the time.” I wave it off. “Just…different where I’m from.”
