Chapter Twelve
Twelve
Apparently, taking a bath in a castle is a lot like being at a spa—if that spa was designed by a Gothic architect with a flair for drama and a questionable relationship with candles.
The tub is enormous, claw-footed and made of something that glints like moonstone.
Steam curls through the air like a lover’s sigh, and the oils poured into the water smell like citrus and spice.
For a few blissful moments, I soak in silence, letting the heat lull the ache from my muscles and blur the edges of the chaos still echoing in my mind.
I dress quickly afterward, tugging on the simple cotton dress Not-Elsie left folded over a nearby screen.
It’s soft and freshly laundered, and although it’s a maid’s uniform, it feels…
safe. I snag a croissant from the breakfast tray and duck into the hallway before Alder can come back and order me to stay where he can see me.
It’s not lost on me that I’m actively sneaking away from my boyfriend like a teen from their parents, but I would rather wait to have an honest conversation with myself about that when I’m back in the land of electricity and indoor plumbing.
The castle halls are an eerie blend of grand and grim.
All labyrinthine corridors, haunting echoes, and foreboding shadows.
It’s exactly the kind of place where the heroine would get swept off her feet by a darkly brooding hero with a secret—and, despite my best efforts, I know exactly which brooding hero my thoughts keep drifting back to.
“For heaven’s sake,” I scold myself and take a bite of croissant. “Being thought of as an investment property and an image softener isn’t sexy.”
But, being rescued, literally carried away from danger, and then kissed like the ending of a rom-com…
“Get it together, Gemma.”
I follow the scent of something warm and roasted through the maze of corridors and eventually find a spiral staircase, its stone steps worn from centuries of use. I descend, the temperature rising and the delicious smells intensifying with each step. At the bottom, I’m met with light.
The kitchen is unexpectedly cheerful, sunlight streaming through a row of wide windows that look out onto the castle grounds and endless ocean. It’s beautiful, almost surreal, like it doesn’t belong in the same world as the cold, oppressive halls I just left behind.
For a moment, I allow myself to sink into it, the warmth of the space wrapping around me like a soft blanket. This, right here, is part of a world I don’t mind falling into.
Copper pots hang from iron hooks, their surfaces catching the glow of a massive hearth at the center of the room. Steam drifts from various pots and kettles, the air filled with the rich scents of fresh bread, roasted meat, and something sweet that makes my mouth water.
Silver gears and steam-powered contraptions line the walls, their polished surfaces gleaming despite being frozen in place, as if waiting for some unseen signal to start again.
I pop the last bite of croissant into my mouth, savoring the buttery flakiness and wishing I’d grabbed at least one more.
As I brush the crumbs from my borrowed dress, a plump woman with wild blond curls and a smudged apron barrels past me with a pot balanced on her hip, shouting an order before I can so much as blink.
“Fetch that sack of onions from the corner and get peeling!”
“Oh, no, I don’t—” I stammer, shaking my head. “I don’t work here. I’m—”
“Too good to work in the kitchens, are you? Think peeling onions is beneath you?” She slams the pot down on the counter, snatches a knife, and starts chopping carrots.
“No, that’s not what I—” I try again, but the sharp thwack of the blade hitting the wooden board punctuates her conversation.
“Some of the finest women I know started out scrubbing pots and peeling onions. You think that work is beneath you? Find another castle. This one’ll chew you up and spit you out.”
“I don’t think I’m too good for anything,” I say quickly, holding up my hands in surrender. “I know I’m dressed like it, but I’m not here to work in the kitchens. I’m with…Lord Lockhart.”
Her eyes widen, and her tone shifts so fast it gives me whiplash. “Oh, my stars, you must forgive me.”
“Please, don’t apologize,” I say. “I completely understand. One of the attendants gave me this to wear while my dress is being washed. I—I don’t have any trunks, but I’m not—”
“No need for explanations. A woman’s work is a woman’s work, no matter how she finds it.” There’s a fierce protectiveness in her tone. “And don’t you let anyone tell you otherwise.”
It takes me a second to register her meaning, and when I do, my cheeks flush. Before I can correct her assumption, my stomach growls loudly enough to echo off the stone walls.
The cook lifts an eyebrow. “Hungry?”
“Starving.”
She chuckles, already turning back to the counter. “Well, lucky for you, I’ve got plenty. Sit yourself down. You look like you could use a good meal.”
She gestures toward a small scrubbed wooden table near the hearth, and I take a seat on one of the worn stools. A moment later, she places a loaf of crusty bread and a jar of golden honey in front of me.
“Eat,” she says, planting her hands on her hips. “And no complaining if I do end up putting you to work. These are my kitchens, and I can be a bit bossy. Might as well warn you now.”
Before I can respond, Not-Elsie appears at the bottom of the stairs, an empty breakfast tray in hand. “A bit bossy?” she snickers. “That’s putting it kindly.”
The cook rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue. I tear off a piece of bread and dip it into the honey. The first bite is like a revelation—warm, golden and floral. The sweetness blooms across my tongue, so pure it makes my eyes flutter shut.
“I must apologize for earlier. For Clara.” Not-Elsie dabs her brow with a linen cloth embroidered with faded red flowers. “I’m Sylvie, by the way. This is Bernice.”
I brush crumbs from my fingers and offer a small wave. “Gemma. Nice to meet you.”
“Don’t mind Clara,” Sylvie adds with a shrug. “She’s nice enough—deep down.”
Bernice snorts and resumes chopping carrots. “Keep making excuses for Clara, and you’ll find yourself sent back across the water. That girl’s not worth the effort.”
“She’s harmless,” Sylvie says, plucking a slice of carrot from the cutting board.
Bernice inhales sharply, clearly ready to argue, but Sylvie leans in and kisses her cheek. “You know I’m right,” she teases, sliding into the chair across from me before the cook can swat her.
Bernice grumbles, shaking her head as she turns back to her work.
“Glad to see you survived the party yesterday.” Sylvie takes a bite off her stolen carrot slice. “Your dress is a bit… Well, let’s just say Althea is doing her best. But it might be a lost cause.”
“Yeah, thanks.” I set the bread down. “Last night was…a lot.”
“That’s putting it mildly.” Bernice drops a handful of chopped carrots into the pot with a splash.
“Lights going on and off, then coming back on again like they’d forgotten why they were made.
Not to mention all the gears and pipes firing up then going dead just as fast. I feared I would faint dead away,” she says, pressing her palm to her chest. “None of this has worked since my grandmother’s grandmother was a cook here in this very kitchen.
Then it all comes alive at once? Well.” She stirs the broth harder than necessary. “Suppose it’s none of my business.”
Sylvie leans forward slightly, lowering her voice as though the castle itself might be listening.
“Cups used to be the most advanced kingdom in the realm. Steam powered machines, running water, light—it was the envy of everyone. Although, before yesterday, I’d never actually met anyone who was alive to see it all come on at once like that. ”
Bernice’s wooden spoon clatters against the pot. “Sylvie,” she warns.
Sylvie doesn’t flinch. “Gemma was here. She saw it. She watched the machines turn on. She watched that woman—” Her voice falters. “We all know this kingdom isn’t running right.”
Bernice clears her throat, but her jaw tightens. “Doesn’t mean we go filling her head with stories. Some things are better left unsaid.”
“They’re not stories. And, Bernice, she’s from Pentacles,” Sylvie presses, leaning toward the cook as if to drive the point home. “It’s only a matter of time before magick is no longer outlawed in their kingdom. I’ve heard their new king himself wields it.”
“Sure he does.” Bernice crosses her arms. “And I’m a dragon.”
“You hoard enough copper pots to convince me,” Sylvie fires back, grinning.
Their laughter and banter fade into the background as my mind spirals. Magick outlawed? A king wielding it? It sounds like something out of Lord of the Rings, but it scratches at the edge of a truth too real to ignore.
I take another bite of bread, but the honey turns bitter as my thoughts jump to Wilder Ever After.
To the moment I pulled that card from the cake, its gilded edges catching the light like it knew I’d find it.
The delicate chain of events leading me here begins to snap into place, each link tightening in my chest.
Each ribbon in the cake leads to a charm…and a future.
The tarot card. The Lovers.
I stop chewing, the bread lodging in my throat as a chill crawls along my neck.
Maybe it was magick.
Absurd. Ridiculous. Impossible. But the thought digs its claws into me and refuses to let go. Haven’t I been surrounded by the impossible ever since?
The charm is magickal and always guides you to what’s meant to be.
I swallow hard, the piece of bread scraping its way down.
Holy shit.
That card was magick.
My pulse quickens, panic creeping in. I haven’t seen it since…since I was in the woods with…naked Alder.
Where is it?
I shoot to my feet and brush my hands over my borrowed dress like it holds the answers.
That card matters more than I let myself believe.
Damn it. Why did I let Alder distract me?
The wall sconces flicker and flare. One bulb explodes with a sharp pop, sending a spray of glass skittering across floor. Steam hisses from the polished silver pipes along the walls. The floor trembles, dishes rattling and clattering in the cupboards.
Bernice rushes to brace a stack of pots. Sylvie lunges for a basket of eggs but is too late. Shells crack against the stone, runny yolks trembling on the quaking floor. I rush forward just in time to catch a crystal bowl before it shatters.
The clanging and clicking grows louder as a mechanical whisk on the counter sputters to life. It whirs violently, its gears screeching as it plunges into the soup pot, sending a geyser of broth splattering across the counter, the floor, and Bernice’s apron.
“See?” Sylvie shouts, wrestling the rogue whisk from the pot. “There’s something more going on! You can’t keep pretending there isn’t.”
A silver mixing contraption explodes. Dishes rattle. Steam blasts from the walls. And just when it looks like something is going to catch fire, the door slams open with a dramatic crack.
All three of us yelp in surprise, our heads snapping toward the noise.
Alder stands there, tousled and grinning like he didn’t leave me hanging an hour ago.
Sometime while I was wandering the halls, he went back to our room and changed into a loose white tunic tucked into dark breeches that fit just right.
He’s rumpled and radiant, and his eyes are sparking like I’m the answer to a question he didn’t realize he’d been asking.
“Well,” he says, cocking his head, “looks like I arrived at exactly the right time.”