Series: Willow Winters
Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 72146 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72146 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
However, the activities of the night have left me ravenous. Breakfast is not optional, but neither do I want to call for a tray to be brought up. No matter what I say to the valet, they will tell Alice and Blanche to come to me, and any hope of privacy to think and plan will be lost.
No one has arrived when I leave my rooms. The only person I see as I make my way to the kitchen is one guard who is going off duty. He bows his head before me, but otherwise he does not question me.
Going to the kitchens like this reminds me of my childhood. When I was a young girl, I would often wake much earlier than my parents. I thought of it as time that didn’t exist, or existed only for me and the cooks. No one ever asked anything of me that early in the morning. There were no lessons or tutors, and no visitors until later, so I was relatively free to wander as I pleased.
I loved going to the kitchens the most. They were warm and already busy despite the early hour. I could have a slice of the first bread of the morning, perhaps with some jam on it, and I could follow the cook around, asking her a hundred questions and tasting the scraps of food she fed me. I remember sitting on her worktable—I must have been three or four—and watching her chop vegetables to go in the soup. It was the cook who taught me the first of my letters. She drew them in flour on the table and helped me until I could spell my name.
We have a new cook now, a quieter woman who I do not know as well, but she has always been welcoming. I let out a breath as I get closer to the kitchens. They are in a level of the castle that is mostly below the ground, though the kitchens themselves are open to a courtyard where the daily deliveries are made. The smell of bacon frying and freshly baked bread greets me, and I’m so grateful for the familiar scents and sounds of the day starting that tears well in my eyes. I can’t seem to stop the emotion. I’m drawn to both men. One who knows my body and offers me all of what I ask. I could have a life as a queen of my own making. And another who I could see a future with that would be cherished by more than just me.
I pause outside the great swinging door to blink them away. I do not want to cause alarm among the kitchen staff, or have any of them think they had done something to upset me.
I remember, as I wait for the tears to dry, that my mother used to visit the kitchens far more frequently than I ever did. I can still hear her laughing at the cook. Perhaps even apologizing. Why had she done that? I cannot remember her exact words, though now I badly wish I could. It would be my guess that she was apologizing for yet another ball running into its second day, making more work for the cook.
But I also remember that the cook never minded. She knew my mother well enough to know that she should order twice as many supplies, and I cannot recall a time when we did not have enough food to feed all the guests or enough wine for them to drink.
My mother loved having everything, and giving it away to anyone she considered a friend or anyone in need. I would love to be as beloved as my mother was. But I know truly, that would require me to marry and for the first time, I can see that happening and I could see myself happy.
With a deep breath, I rest my head against the stone wall and imagine my mother’s laughter.
I wish I could ask her about the situation I’ve found myself in, but I do not know if she would have any advice to give. Even she might be shocked and dismayed. She would still love me though. She would help me out of this mess, I’m sure.
I settle my emotions, and I listen for a moment to make sure that no one is about to come through the door, then push it open and go inside.
It is not the cook, or the kitchen staff, I find waiting for me.
It’s Prince Jasper, dressed for traveling, a basket set out on the table he leans against. I’m struck by how handsome he looks, and struck again by how he knew I was coming down to the kitchen, and yet again by his dress and the basket he—or the cook—has prepared.
“Good morning, Princess,” he says. “I have plans for us this morning. I would like to ride out in the carriage with you.”