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I stirred my spoon around in my bowl of oatmeal mindlessly, watching as the creamy substance lapped over itself in the spiral created by my silverware. I had a plate of toast, a bowl of fresh fruits, and a glass of orange juice on both sides of my oatmeal but I hadn’t touched them since they were first set in front of me twenty minutes ago. Lisa, the maid I was quite fond of, was watching me worriedly from behind the kitchen counter. Her hands were neatly folded across the front of her uniform but her expression was grim.
“Miss,” She began, hurriedly approaching my side. “You’ve been doing this for the past twenty minutes.”
I lethargically looked up at her, mouth agape, as I continued stirring the oatmeal. “Doing what?”
She raised an eyebrow and pointed at the bowl. “You’re turning the oatmeal into a frothy liquid, Miss. Shall I get you another serving?”
I let out a sigh, pushing the bowl away from my reach and resting my back against the chair on which I was seated. “No thank you, Lisa. I’m just a little tired. I think this is all I’ll be having for breakfast.”
Lisa stopped me from getting up. “You haven’t eaten a thing, Miss.”
I shrugged. “I hardly feel hunger when I’m this tired.”
She shook his head urgently. “No, Miss. You cannot skip breakfast. You must at least eat some toast; have some carbohydrates or you’ll feel faint for the rest of the day.”
I let out a bratty breath of air as I turned back to my food. I shifted the plate of toast in front of me, picked up the lightly toasted bread, and took a small bite. Lisa was watching me with a warm smile, urging me to continue eating as she disappeared into the hallway. As soon as she was gone, I put the toast down and stared at the table in a transient state. I was obviously still fixated on yesterday evening, but I hadn’t spoken a word of it to anyone. Who would I tell, though? Lisa? Very funny.
I pushed the toast away and rested the side of my head against the cold granite surface of the table. It felt amazing against my burning skin. I think I had a fever, produced by the stress of yesterday’s events. I used to get stress-induced fevers all the time when I was child. I figured it would take an extremely traumatic event to cause their return. I was right. In addition to my increased body heat, I felt a developing headache pulsating against the temples of my forehead. I groaned at the prospect of dealing with the pain and rose to my feet, pushing back from the table. I felt bad not eating the food our chef had prepared, but I honestly had no appetite. Who knew when it would return?
I was making my way down the adjacent hallway in search of a maid when I found one. Rather, I bumped into Lisa. She was watching me suspiciously, obviously not convinced that I had finished the toast in all of five minutes. I noticed that she was carrying a plate with a slice of what appeared to be German chocolate cake drizzled with raspberry sauce.
When she noted my confused expression, she held the plate up in front of my face. I blinked a few times, utterly baffled.
“Courtesy of the chef,” She grinned, pushing the plate into my nose until I groaned and took it in my hands.
“What is this for? It’s nine in the morning.” I mumbled, glancing down at the chocolate desert in complete confusion.
Lisa was smiling gingerly. “The chef thought it would cheer your mood a bit.” At that, she spun on her heel and began trotting down the hallway.
