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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"Would you like butter?"
Do I want butter on my fucking scone?
I pinched the bridge of my nose and drew in a long, deep breath, which kind of made my irritation worse because all I was doing was inhaling all those glorious smells of freshly baked loaves of bread and pastries, onions and tomatoes frying with oregano, and omelets oozing with cheese. My stomach twisted painfully with hunger.
I dropped my hand away to brace it on my hip and gritted out between clenched teeth, "YES." I might have bitten the word out too harshly because the Purcell girl flinched and shrank back. Her thin brown eyes flared wide and grew more fearful.
The kitchen was a warm respite from the long bleak night and the task of carrying limp bodies that grew stiffer the longer it took to find them scattered all over the vast lawn. We'd finished carrying the last of the dead down the flight of stone steps beneath the Deniauds' mansion into the cool, dark holding cells as dawn approached. I was just as cold and hollow as those I'd worked quietly alongside, and a little worse off because I was hungry. And much worse right now, I was being served by the most timid and slow-moving girl because Tabitha refused to offer me food earlier.
The kitchen was a hive of industry, clashing sounds, and comforting smells. While the sous chef and the junior chefs called out to one another as they worked as a team, twisted loaves of bread were being pulled out of the big commercial ovens and eggs were cracked into buttery pans or pots of swirling water. The sound of a knife on wood was a rapid tempo to match the organized chaos as vegetables were diced, sliced, and julienned. The delicious smell of crisping potato rostis permeated the air, along with mushrooms bathed in frothing butter and rosemary.
The Chef barked out orders to his brigade who snapped immediately into action. He leaned back from the stove as fiery orange flames burst all around his frying pan after he doused it with olive oil that spat onto the burner. His knife-scarred hand wrapped around several rations of bacon and he tossed them into the pan. They sizzled and spat and sent a mouth-watering aroma into the hot room. My stomach growled in protest.
The Purcell girl and I were tucked around the corner from the main thoroughfare where men and women bustled about the stoves and preparation stations. The girl was taking fucking forever to go to the cool room and return with a slab of butter and it seemed like a century before she located a butter knife. It was like watching paint dry the way she slowly and warily moved around me. She kept shooting nervous glances over tense shoulders that were almost at ear level. And it wasn't just her, either. The whole brigade took turns to dart quick apprehensive looks my way.
Heat wafted in thin wisps as she split the hot scone in half. Her hand trembled as she slowly scraped butter onto her knife and then spread it across the scone.
Hurry. The. Hells. Up!
I was itching to grab the godsdamned butter knife from her and do it myself.
