Two girls. Two secrets.
Only one can survive.
Years before Nelle Wychthorn plans her escape, Tabitha Catt may unearth something in a Horned God's lair that is the key to freedom.
Desperate to save her beloved aunt from a dark curse, Tabitha is out t...
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The kitchen was a mess of clashing noises. The rapid-fire sound of knives thunking against wooden chopping boards as vegetables were sliced and diced; the chiming sound of metal rattling as pasta and vegetables boiled in large pots on stove tops; the spitting and sizzling sound as vegetables and smaller pieces of meat hit frying pans coated with hot oil and foaming with butter. And above it all was the bellowing from Chef Markel, barking his orders, and his team quickly responding. The kitchen staff was busy prepping for the Servants' Dance and our evening meal. As usual, Chef sought a high level of professionalism, even for a casual affair for the servants.
As I headed for the racks of crockery and drawers of cutlery and utensils, my mouth began to water with the smell of spices and herbs and freshly baked loaves permeating the air. Huge haunches of meat roasted in the commercial-sized ovens, basted in pungent garlic and rosemary, lemon, and cumin, while wild deer and boar were slowly spit-roasted outside. Waves of heat rolled from ovens as bakers pulled out trays of twisted loaves of bread and small soft buns. And my stomach grumbled with hunger.
I lifted three large trays from the rack and placed them on the wooden countertop, away from the hive of industry, and selected a few plates and bowls. It was mid-morning and time for our break. Beckah and I chose to spend our break time with my aunt, who looked after the servants' younger children, and Beckah's older sister, Dolcie, who was one of my aunt's childminders.
Beckah carried a glass pitcher to the deep metal sink and filled it with water pouring from the aqua filter. While she made her way to the fridge for fresh orange juice, I took a tray into the enormous pantry and piled a plate high with the freshly baked mini-muffins. Poaching glass canisters filled with dry fruit and crackers, I arranged their contents in bowls and brought them all back to the countertop before scooping up the third tray and heading into the cooler. As chilly air goose-pricked my arms, I found an array of pre-sliced fruit and vegetables that the chef's team had left for me, as well as neatly cut sandwiches.
Back in the kitchen, I set up next to Beckah, who was bent in half, foraging in the cupboards below the counter for small plastic cups and a few normal-sized ones for the adults.
Right on time, Oswin pushed through the kitchen door and sauntered in, wiping his palms down his pants hooked with tiny leaves and grasses. Gardening gloves were tucked into his trouser pockets. "Morning," he greeted us cheerily as he rounded to the other side where Beckah plonked a couple of stacks of cups on her tray.
"You're looking better," I remarked, noting that though his nose was still a bit ruddy, and eyes a little red-rimmed, the healthy glow had returned to his complexion.
"Yes I am," he replied, not sounding as stuffy in the nose, as he did last night. "I took one of House Simonis's boosters last night. So much better," he sighed.
"Don't you drop your leaves and dirt and twigs in my kitchen!" Chef Markel bellowed.
Oswin froze mid-step, his back to Chef. Shit—he mouthed.
