The galley is vast compared to what I had at home. At first it feels overwhelming, but I force myself to move through it methodically, memorizing where each pot hangs, where each pan sits, where the knives are kept. The repetition calms me, gives my hands something to do while my mind claws for steadiness.
Breathing deep, I set out to prepare a breakfast fit for a lord.
Eggs. Bacon. Warm beans in a cast-iron pot, and a kettle of tea so hot it sends curls of steam ghosting toward the ceiling.
Not because he deserves kindness. Not because I want to please him.
If Luceran choked on the bacon, I would not shed a tear.
This is to keep him from deciding I am as disposable as the servants who came before me.
I plate the food with steady hands, steadier than I feel, then stand back and survey it with a tight, determined breath.
Let him complain. Let him scowl. Let him hurl the plate across the room.
At least today, he will not accuse me of providing anything cold, and maybe I will make it through another morning alive.
I lay out the dining table with a fresh white tablecloth and the finest silver I can find, each piece polished until it gleams. The plates are heavy porcelain, patterned in icy blues and golds, real Fae craftsmanship.
Somewhere above me, I hear movement. Floorboards shifting. A door closing.Luceran is awake.
A spike of panic pushes me into motion.
I hurry back to the galley, gather the food I have been keeping warm over the hearth, and arrange it on the table. It looks… good. Better than good. Impressive, even by human standards.
But something is missing.
As the footsteps upstairs grow louder, I whirl toward the hall of windows. The double doors leading to the rose garden stand slightly ajar, cold light spilling through the crack. Before I can second-guess myself, I rush through them.
The air outside bites instantly, but I push forward down the frosted rows. I curse under my breath when I realize I brought no shears. No knife. Nothing.
Fine. I will manage.
I grasp a stem and snap it off with my bare hands.
A sharp sting slices across my palm.
I hiss, biting back a cry as blood warms my skin, bright against the surrounding frost. Still, I hold tight to the rose. I shake off as much ice as I can, ignoring the pulsing pain in my hand, and sprint back toward the dining room.
He is not there yet.
Relief slams through me.
I snatch a small glass vase from a sideboard, fill it quickly, and place the single frost-kissed rose beside the food. It looks delicate. Simple. Beautiful.
A sudden drop in temperature sweeps through the hall.
Luceran is near.
The doors swing open with a force that rattles the silver. I drop my chin to my chest, heart pounding as I back away, shrinking into the nearest corner, hands tucked behind me to hide the blood still trickling from my palm.
His steps are heavy. Controlled. Icy air rolls ahead of him.
I keep my eyes fixed on the floor as Lord Luceran Frostwyn enters the room.
I do not dare look at his face, even though part of me is desperately curious. Does he look surprised? Displeased? Indifferent? I have no idea, and I do not want to know unless it means he is pleased, unless it means yesterday’s cruelty has been buried for both my sake and my father’s.
But he says nothing.
