Chapter 15 #2
She exhaled, her nerves slowly settling.
She was just about to slip away, content to abandon any thought of gathering ‘evidence,’ when she realized the shouting had stopped.
From the kitchen came a burst of laughter.
The rhythm of work had resumed—the scrape of knives, the hum of voices, the faint hiss of steam.
Peeking around the corner, she saw the maid and the scullery boy crouched together, gathering the fallen potatoes and scattered herbs, both smiling now at some shared remark.
Well. Perhaps she would linger a moment longer after all. Maybe, if she asked nicely, the boy could be persuaded to part with a bundle of herbs. Or perhaps—
Movement beyond the kitchen window caught her eye, drawing her attention to the herb garden beyond. Her breath caught in her throat.
Prince Ryden stood among the raised beds, though he looked nothing like the polished courtier she’d grown accustomed to seeing.
His coat—or was that a riding jacket?—lay discarded on a nearby bench, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows in a fashion that would have horrified any proper valet.
Sunlight caught the lean lines of his forearms as he and an older man—presumably the herb master—lifted a large wooden planter box.
Their voices carried faintly through the open window, low masculine laughter over some shared observation about the weight of wet soil or the stubbornness of thyme.
The prince’s expression held none of its usual calculated charm.
Instead, he looked … happy. Genuinely, unselfconsciously happy, as though this moment in a kitchen garden, hands dirty and hair slightly mussed by the breeze, was precisely where he wished to be.
Something twisted in Aurelise’s chest—a sensation she firmly refused to examine.
Her fingers curled against the door frame.
She told herself she was merely surprised, that was all.
The heat rising in her cheeks was surely from the kitchen’s warmth, not from watching the flex of his arms as he shifted the planter or the way the morning light played across his profile when he turned to point at something in the garden bed.
Oh my STARS! Thimble’s delighted squeal pierced her thoughts. You’re watching the prince! You’re ADMIRING him! Look how pink she’s turning, Spark!
“I am not—” Aurelise hissed, horrified. “I was merely surprised to see—”
Surprised by his masculine forearms? Spark inquired with unusual wickedness. Surprised by the way he fills out that shirt? How very educational this reconnaissance has become.
“Surprised,” Aurelise insisted, her voice rising slightly in pitch, “to find him laboring in the gardens when he should be—”
“My lady?” a new voice interrupted, making Aurelise start guiltily. “Might I be of assistance?”
She turned to find one of the kitchen staff—a plump, pleasant-faced fae woman with flour dusting her apron—standing before her with a curious expression.
“Oh! I—forgive me,” Aurelise stammered, mortification washing through her. “I did not mean to intrude upon your domain.”
The woman’s eyebrows rose slightly, though her expression remained kind. “No intrusion at all, my lady, though it is rather unusual to find one of the Crown Court ladies in the kitchens. Is there something you require? I can have it sent to your chambers directly.”
“No, nothing like that,” Aurelise said quickly.
“I was merely exploring the palace. At home, you see, I sometimes … that is …” She hesitated, then decided honesty might serve her better than invention.
“At Rowanwood House, I sometimes visit the kitchens when social events become overwhelming. To … well, to escape,” she admitted.
“Our head cook occasionally allows me to assist with small tasks. I find it … soothing.”
The woman’s expression softened with understanding. “Ah, I see. Well, my lady, while we’re delighted by your interest, I’m afraid it wouldn’t be entirely proper for you to linger here. If anyone were to discover—”
“Marvella!” a deep voice called from deeper in the kitchen. A moment later, a portly man with an impressive mustache emerged, wiping his hands on his apron. “Who is our visitor? Ah! One of the young ladies from court, I see.”
“Yes, cook,” the woman—Marvella, apparently—replied with a small curtsy. “Lady Rowanwood was just expressing an interest in our work.”
“Oh, yes, I—good morning,” Aurelise said, flushing further. “My apologies for the intrusion. I only meant—at home, I sometimes help in our kitchens. Just small things, of course. I realize it’s rather … unusual.”
The head cook’s bushy eyebrows rose almost to his hairline.
“Indeed? How extraordinary.” He studied Aurelise for a moment, his expression cycling through surprise, curiosity, and what appeared to be carefully concealed amusement.
“Well, we can hardly turn away someone with a genuine appreciation for the culinary arts, can we? If you truly wish to observe our work, my lady, perhaps you might care to assist with the dream-tarts for this afternoon’s tea service? ”
Before she could think better of it, Aurelise found herself following him deeper into the kitchen, her companions trailing behind her with varying degrees of enthusiasm.
Thimble darted excitedly from station to station, asking rapid-fire questions about every dish in preparation, while Spark maintained a dignified hover near Aurelise’s shoulder, occasionally offering dry commentary on the kitchen’s organization.
The head cook, apparently amused by the novelty of having a Crown Court lady in his kitchen, assigned her to help with piping delicate honey-cream swirls onto tiny tarts. He regretted the decision almost immediately.
Within minutes, several of Aurelise’s tarts looked less like elegant confections and more like collapsing meringue towers.
One swirl resembled a startled snail; another listed alarmingly to the side as though attempting escape.
The cook gave a strangled noise and hurried to intercept her piping bag before further casualties occurred.
“My lady,” he said with admirable restraint, surveying the sugary devastation, “I do believe the tarts have suffered enough.”
Aurelise flushed scarlet, then began to laugh. “You might have warned me you were assigning me the most difficult task in the kitchen.”
“On the contrary,” he said dryly, already attempting to salvage the survivors, “I thought it one of the safer options.”
To prevent further tragedy, she was promptly reassigned to the decidedly less artistic task of whipping up fresh batches of honey-cream. It was safer for everyone involved, though considerably messier.
She left the kitchen an hour later with honey-cream still clinging stubbornly to her fingers, her thoughts torn between composing her next letter to R—she would have to mention the honey—and the memory of a prince in the herb garden, laughing in the sunlight, utterly unaware of her presence.