Page 9 of Scars and Crowns

Just . . . That if our eyes meet . . . He'll know. He'll somehow look beyond the weight, the dyed hair, the exhaustion etched beneath my eyes . . . and recognise the girl who once belonged here in ways she never really should have.

Because I miss her too.

The kitchen pulls me out of my thoughts before they can wander any further. Chaos greets me immediately. Copper pots hang from every available hook.

Three burners roar at once.

Someone is grinding fresh coriander nearby, filling the room with its sharp green scent while cumin crackles in hot oil somewhere behind me. Coffee brews in one corner. Orders fly across the room faster than anyone can answer them.

It should feel overwhelming.

Instead . . . It feels like relief.

Work keeps your hands occupied. Occupied hands leave very little room for memories. And today, memories are the last thing I need.

I settle beside the chopping counter and lose myself in onions, tomatoes, potatoes—anything that needs cutting.

Beside me, an older woman shifts over to make space. Flour dusts one sleeve of her blouse, and deep lines frame kind, tired eyes that have probably seen far more life than they'll ever speak about.

"New girl?" she asks warmly.

I nod. "You'll get used to the noise."

Before I can answer, Radha leans closer with a knowing smile. "It takes everyone a few days."

I smile back. "I was hoping you'd say that."

Something softens in Radha's expression. I've noticed that about her these past few days. She likes helping people. Not because she expects anything. Just because kindness seems to come naturally to her. It's a rare thing. We fall into easy conversation while our hands continue working.

She asks about Sara. Whether she's adjusting. Whether the quarters are comfortable enough. Whether she's eating properly.

Simple questions.

Ordinary questions.

Yet each one lands somewhere unexpectedly tender inside me. No one has asked about Sara without judgment in so long that I almost don't know how to answer.

I focus very hard on slicing onions.

If my eyes sting . . . Well. Onions do that. I'm halfway through another pile of vegetables when both kitchen doors swing open with a loud bang.

Conversation stops.

The head maid walks in. The permanent crease between her brows makes it look as though she's forgotten how to smile years ago. She carries a silver tray with practiced ease. A single porcelain cup rests on top, dark coffee sending thin ribbons of steam into the air.

Her eyes sweep across the kitchen. They stop on me. "You." My knife stills. "The new girl."

"Yes, ma'am."

She steps forward and holds out the tray. "Take this to the study."

My fingers close around the handles automatically. "Hukum doesn't like to be kept waiting."

The word knocks the breath clean out of me.

Hukum.

For one suspended second, every sound inside the kitchen disappears.