Edith narrowed her eyes. “Do not look at me so. I’ll not have you fainting in the rye and giving the men something else to be fools about.”
The kitchen had already come awake around them, all heat and shadow and purposeful hands. The hearth fires had been coaxed high, throwing gold light against soot-dark stone, copper pots, hanging herbs, and the faces of women who moved with the silent efficiency of people who knew morning was a beast best tackled by the horns. Loaves were wrapped in cloth. Wheels of cheese were cut into wedges. Jugs were filled with small beer, and a bucket of sweet well water stood ready because Amelia had apparently become the patron saint of making people drink water whether they liked it or not.
A boy no older than ten staggered beneath a basket until Edith barked at him to use both hands if he wished to keep both feet.
The smells were almost enough to make Amelia forget she was exhausted. There was hot bread, yeast, smoke, sharp cheese, onions sweating in a pan, and beneath it all the faint sweet-sour tang of small beer.
She missed coffee with a longing so specific it had become a separate organ in her body.
Wat darted past with two wooden cups dangling from his fingers and Alyson trailing him like a small determined duckling. The girl’s pale brown hair had been braided unevenly,her gown was too short at the wrists, and her solemn little face looked as if she had been entrusted with royal secrets instead of a basket of napkins.
“Mistress Amelia,” Alyson whispered, tugging at her sleeve.
Amelia bent. “Good morning.”
“Wat says we’re to carry water like proper workers.”
Wat skidded to a stop, thin legs and elbows everywhere. “I said I was a proper worker. She’s too little.”
Alyson’s chin came up. “I am not too little. I can carry a cup.”
“You spilled yesterday.”
“That was because you pushed me.”
“I did not.”
Amelia pressed her lips together because laughing would only encourage them.
“Both of you are going to be very important today.”
Wat straightened. Alyson’s eyes went round.
“But important workers listen the first time they are told something, don’t run through the fields, don’t get near the scythes, and don’t argue with the person handing them water.”
Wat opened his mouth.
Amelia looked at him.
He shut it.
Alyson smiled smugly at her brother.
“Also,” Amelia added, “important workers do not look smug.”
Alyson’s smile vanished so quickly Amelia nearly lost the battle with her own.
She watched the two of them dart toward the table, Wat all elbows and Alyson solemnly clutching her little cup as if it were a chalice from a cathedral treasury.
“Where are their parents?” she asked quietly.
Edith’s hands stilled for half a breath before she reached for another cloth.
“Gone. Their father was taken when the king’s men came through Lowmere, and their mother followed before the church bell had finished tolling. Fever, grief, smoke, fear. Take your pick, child. War kills with more than swords.”
Amelia’s stomach tightened. “And Thomas took them in?”
“Aye.” Edith’s voice softened, though only a little, as if tenderness were something she preferred to hide beneath plain words.
