The Jack of Hearts (House of Cards Book 1)

Chapter 27 | Euchre's Fifty Third

Rosalyne watched the sun disappear beyond the mountains across the valley but her husband had still to return.

Now that the nausea from her panic had abated, hunger gnawed at her stomach. It had been two days since she last ate and three since she'd eaten anything with appetite.

Rosalyne was not good at being hungry.

There was nothing but tea in her rooms (she checked). The tea she managed to brew — burning herself twice — was not as good as Dys', though maybe it was just in her head.
The gnawing was such a mortal feeling — so entirely base. It was irritating, especially with no one but herself to take it out on.

She wrapped the mohair shawl tighter around her shoulders. The plum coloured fabric wasn't soft like her velvet wraps but was warm and covered her like a shroud, loose fringe brushing against the floor even when she stood.

Rosalyne had removed her paints and jewels and was beginning to regret not agreeing to let O'rian send up a servant to help her undress.

The heaps of skirts were nie impossible to manoeuvre in and the ties in the back impenetrable. After struggling for almost an hour, several curses, (and a few tears) Rosalyne managed to remove the boning and some of the underskirts, so she could at least entertain thoughts of sleeping.

Unable to brave the bed, she laid awake staring into the fire, listening to the growl of her stomach. Her arm stretched out, feeling the cold expanse of the cushions where Dys should be.

But Dys was alone, with no one to keep away the dark dreams and now, Rosalyne couldn't sleep either.

She realised with a droop in her stomach that her new husband would not likely take to having to chase servants out of her bed should he deign to visit it again.

Dys would have to sleep in the servants' quarters — alone.

With an exasperated groan, she marched out of her rooms, determined to find the kitchens.

So, wrapped up in her frustration and shawl, she didn't realise she had forgotten her slippers until her toes began to numb. But by then she was already several corridors down and had run out of patience for her own incompetence.

She flipped the tail of the shawl over her elbow and crept down another spiral staircase. The tail slipped as she ducked behind a pillar to avoid the sound of footsteps crossing her path, and it dragged behind her as she continued, making her way to the belly of the fort.

The smells led her way in the end — and the warmth. Even the stone lost the sharpness of chill this close to the stoves.

Rosalyne passed the doorway to the healer's, and then there they were, the kitchens.

They were an arsenal of iron pots and pans, with knives, spoons, and ladles enough to arm every staff member twice over.

Rosalyne paused at the largest mantle, banked for the night, and still warm. She toasted her fingers and toes before heading back to the pantries.

The first several store rooms held barrels of ale and cider, bags of meal, or boxes of roots and other vegetables Rosalyne wasn't quite desperate enough to eat raw.

She opened one door that led down into a black hole, a gust of icy wind making her slam it shut with a little too much haste.

She paused waiting for the sound of movement coming to investigate, but released a breath when none came.

She glanced around, straining her ears for any disturbance before continuing to rummage. Down the hall, she found a smaller kitchen with a wooden counter block in the centre of the room with several ovens lining the back wall.