The trick to sneaking through the palace was to look like you belonged. Princess Alina did not, in any technical sense of the word, belong in the servants’ corridors. She was too straight-backed, too finely dressed, far too careful about keeping her slippers clean, and most importantly she was the princess—but she moved with a determined purpose, chin set, hands laced in front of her as if daring anyone to question her right to be there. She’d learned early that a show of confidence was the surest cloak of all.
The winding corridors were a twisting maze beneath the open space of the palace above, the dark walls beaded with condensation and shadow. Alina could navigate them by scent alone: the earthy smell of root cellars, the brine of pickling rooms, and, strongest of all, the heady sweetness of fresh-baked bread and the yeasty tang of fermenting fruit. These were the smells that called to her, a siren song strong enough to pull her from the tyranny of etiquette and into the one place she could almost, almost, feel invisible, and yet, seen.
She slipped down the last flight of stairs, heartbeat quickening as the warmth of the kitchen reached her. The heat was an immediate, enveloping thing, flushing her cheeks and softening her edges, so different from the cold, marbled stillness of theroyal apartments. She paused at the kitchen door, peering around the edge, unwilling to step into the current of chaos until she’d mapped the room.
Marta Sweetbriar, the undisputed ruler of the Palace kitchens, was everywhere at once, her presence a counterpoint to the roaring hearths and the flying hands of her staff. She was scolding a soup boy for oversalting, tasting a sauce with a flourish, herding a flock of bakers with a single arched eyebrow. If Alina had not known better, she’d have sworn Marta had four arms and eyes in the back of her head. For a moment, the princess simply watched, drawn in by the rhythm, the ease, the bracing normalcy of it all.
She waited for Marta’s attention to land elsewhere, then darted through the doorway and pressed herself against the nearest shelving unit. The move was ill-planned; a sack of lentils balanced on the edge wobbled, threatened to collapse, and she caught it with a squeak barely stifled. A kitchen maid, barely older than Alina herself, spotted her, eyes going round.
"Your—” the girl started, but Alina shushed her with a finger to her lips. The maid grinned, then scampered off, no doubt thrilled to have a secret.
Alina edged her way along the wall, past the baking benches and the churning, fragrant mass of the kitchen’s activity. Two guards, stationed by the pantry, bent their heads together in low conversation, prompting Alina to skirt the far edge of the room. She ducked behind a rack of hanging herbs, sage and thyme lingering dry and sharp in the warm air and paused for barely half a second before making her move.
Marta spotted her at once. Of course she did. The kitchen mistress’s sharp eyes widened, then softened, the stern set of her jaw melting into a barely suppressed smile.
"Ah,” said Marta, loud enough for the nearest four cooks to hear. "Look what the wind’s blown in. And here I thought we had a ban on stray cats in the pantry!”
Alina bit back a grin, straightening to her full height. "I’m only here for the pie,” she said, keeping her voice pitched low. "I smelled apples from the third landing.”
Marta snorted, waving her over with flour-dusted fingers. "Well, you’ll get none standing in the corner like a bad secret. Come, before you attract more flies than honey.”
Marta guided Alina to the far end of the kitchen, where the warmth from the ovens was at its most intense and the noise dropped to a tolerable murmur. A narrow bench sat in the shadow of a brick oven, the air perfumed by whatever was browning inside. Marta dusted off the seat with her apron, then fished a fat, golden pastry triangle from a nearby tray, still steaming, and pressed it into Alina’s hands.
Alina hesitated only a moment before biting into it, the crust shattering and the apple filling burning her tongue. She made a face, but refused to let go, clinging to the pastry with both hands.
"You know I have to eat with the council in an hour,” she mumbled through the scalding bite.
Marta grinned, then plucked a stray bit of flour from Alina’s sleeve. "You’ll ruin your appetite and your dress,” she said, voice all mock severity. "If your mother sees you like this…"
Alina licked sugar from her lip, then looked up at Marta, eyes shining. "And what would Her Majesty say if she knew her daughter was filching pies instead of practicing her courtly bow?”
Without hesitation, she pinched her voice into a perfect, icy imitation of the Queen: "'A lady who cannot manage her appetite, Alina, will never manage a kingdom.'"
Marta’s composure broke; a snort of laughter erupting from her that was both scandalized and delighted. "You’re wicked,” she said, shaking her head. "Wicked and hopeless.”
"That’s how you like me,” Alina retorted, emboldened by the pie and the company. She chewed another mouthful, savoring the tartness, the warmth, the way her tongue stung and her eyes watered. In that moment, she felt almost normal. She wanted to stay there, in that corner, safe and hidden and free from expectation, for as long as the world allowed.
Marta must have seen it in her face, because her smile faded into something softer, sadness hovering at the corners. "Rough day, then?” she asked, keeping her tone neutral.
Alina nodded, suddenly reluctant to say more. She set the half-finished pastry on the bench, then wiped her hands on the napkin Marta provided.
"Rowan had me reciting trade policy for three hours,” she said finally, eyes dropping to her lap. "Father says I’m nearly ready for the ambassador’s dinner. But I don’t want to be ready. I want… I don’t know.”
Marta waited, wise enough not to fill the silence.
Alina tried again: "I want to be good at it, but I also hate it. I hate feeling like it’s all a test I can’t ever pass.”
Marta’s hand landed on her shoulder, light and reassuring. "You will pass,” she said. "And before you know it, you'll be the star of the show like a Sunday roast on the family table. Trust me.”
Alina looked up, managing a faint smile. "It’s always about food with you.”
Marta winked, then glanced over her shoulder. "Food is life. And right now, life says you’ve got five minutes before someone sends a search party down here. Finish your pie.”
Alina obeyed, cramming the rest into her mouth in two unladylike bites. She stood, brushing crumbs from her skirt, and let Marta fuss over her, straightening the set of her collar. It felt like being cared for, and Alina almost couldn’t stand how much she wanted it.
"Thank you,” she whispered.
Marta squeezed her hand, then steered her back toward the main door. "You’re always welcome, Princess,” she said, voice low. "Just don’t let them catch you. I’m too old for the stocks.”
