Fey 02 - Changeling (30 page)

"But twould be in the kitchen."

"I was eating in the kitchen on the day of the Invasion."
 
His eyes had a faraway look.
 
"Actually in the pantry, just after dawn."

"Why?"
 

"Because," he said, and then he looked at her, really looked at her.
 
The faraway look left his eyes and she knew he wasn't going to say what he had originally planned to.
 
"Because sometimes I liked to hear kitchen gossip."

"There'd be none a that tonight.
 
Just whining.
 
The work n all."

"Yes," he said.
 
"The week has been hard for all of us."

Then she understood all he had been saying.
 
He lost his da.
 
His da.
 
The man who raised him.
 
And everywhere people were congratulating him, and making it easier for him to be King.
 
When she lost her da, she had cried for days.
 
She didn't have to have a ceremony or make decisions.
 

That Fey woman probably didn't understand.
 
Twas said they had no heart, those Fey.

"Ye poor thing," she said, taking his hand.
 
"Here I am prattlin on about silly things and yer havin a gloom night.
 
Come ta the kitchen.
 
Tis sure I am they'll make ye feel like one a us."

"And put me to work?"
 
His smile seemed real for the first time since she saw him.

"A little good scrubbing never hurt no one."
 
She dragged him with her, and he let her, catching up to her in two strides.
 
Her fingers were entwined with his, and he didn't let go.
 
His hands were soft except for a few calluses in the middle of his fingers. Certainly not the hands of a man who spent his days polishing silver.

Most days, only the household servants ate in the kitchens.
 
The rest ate in the servants' wing or near their own quarters.
 
For the past few nights, however, the cook had set up extra tables in the main section of the kitchen, near the stairs, and worked almost continuously to keep the staff fed.
 

The kitchen was Charissa's favorite room in the palace.
 
It was large, with a vented ceiling, and always smelled of food.
 
The hearth fire burned continuously and the stoves were often warm.
 
The last few nights, the kitchen had been an oven itself, especially in comparison with the Coronation Hall.

As they walked through the pantry into the kitchen, Nicholas dropped her hand.
 
They still entered side-by-side, a Queen and her consort, knight and maiden, King and wench.

She didn't like the last.
 
She wished it weren't true.
 
Maybe, on this night, it wouldn't be.

"Lor, tis his Highness," someone said, and everyone in the room bowed.

The cook on duty was one Charissa had not seen before, but the group of twenty people spread over the tables was her friends from Group Five.
 
Lis was with them.
 
She had her head bowed, but she was watching Charissa from the corner of her eyes.
 
Lis probably remembered the question Charissa had asked about chamber maids and Kings.

"Please," Nicholas said.
 
"Please go back to what you were doing.
 
I don't want to be King tonight."

Heads came back up, but no one ate.
 
They all seemed to be waiting, to see what Nicholas would do next.

"Tis hungry His Highness is," Charissa said.
 

"Let me just have what you're having."
 
Nicholas slipped into a chair, then pulled one out for Charissa.
 
He sat at a table with Lis, one of the window washers, and one of the scullery maids.
 
Charissa sat beside him.

The cook brought him a plate heaping with cheese, sausages, and freshly baked bread.
 
One of the chamberlains brought a glass of mead.
 

Nicholas grinned at the cook.
 
"You've always done this to me," he said.
 
"I said I wanted what everyone else was having.
 
That didn't mean all of their food.
 
Just the same portions."

For a moment, Charissa held her breath before she realized that he was joking.
 
The cook seemed to know it.
 
He smiled.

"I canna treat ye like that, Sire, and ye know it.
 
Ye been tryin this since ye was wee, and it dunna work."

Nicholas moved the food off his plate onto the plates of those around him.
 
"Maybe after tomorrow I'll order you to treat me like everyone else when I come into the kitchen to share a meal."

"Twould be hard ta do, Sire," the cook said.
 
"Still and I'd have ta be talking to the chef and all.
 
They'd be thinking I dinna respect ye."

"Well," Nicholas said.
 
"At least someone respects me."

Charissa frowned.
 
Everyone respected him.
 
At least, everyone she knew.
 
Although they did question his choice of a wife.
 
And they all knew about his son.
 
God's punishment for sleeping with a woman who was evil.

Nicholas's plate was nearly empty.
 
He had left one slice of bread, three slices of cheese and one piece of sausage.
 
The rest had gone to the others.
 
Charissa hadn't had sausage since she left home.
 
She placed hers on the bread and bit into it eagerly.

"Sides," the cook said.
 
"If I dinna feed you right, no one else'd get extra.
 
And the girl, she needs it."

Nicholas gazed at her fondly.
 
Charissa suddenly wished she hadn't taken such a big bite from her sandwich.
 
"No," he said. "She looks good just as she is."

She set the sandwich down and resisted the urge to wipe her mouth.
 
Her hands were shaking.
 
She clasped them and held them in her lap.
 
It was her time now.
 
That Fey woman had treated him wrong, had not shown him enough sympathy, had not helped him with the death of his father.
 
He had come looking for Charissa.
 
He needed her.

Lis kicked her under the table, and Charissa started.
 
She glanced at Lis who mouthed, "Thank him."

A heat built in Charissa's face.
 
"Thank ye, Highness," she said, although she wasn't certain if she felt grateful, honored or blessed.

The pastry chef came up from the pantry carrying empty trays.
 
He stopped when he saw Nicholas.
 
"Again, Sire?"

Nicholas shrugged.
 
"I have had a lot to think about."

Charissa watched them, not understanding.
 

"When me wife died," the pastry chef said, "I dinna sleep for half a year."

"The same happened to me mum," the cook said.
 
"She dinna sleep either and when she did, the dreams made her wake."

"Tis said Fey can grab a man by the face and make evil dreams," said one of the washer women.
 
Then she went ashen.
 
"Beg pardon, Sire.
 
I dinna mean harm."

Charissa felt her shoulders tense.
 
Now he would yell at her.
 
He would yell at them all.

"No harm taken," Nicholas said.
 
"My wife says that's true.
 
She says the Fey who can do that are called Dream Riders.
  
Sometimes the dreams they give are good, sometimes bad."

"Canna she help ye dream?" the cook asked.

"Of course she can," Nicholas said.
 
His grin had broadened to a leer.
 
"Just like your wife can."

The men in the room laughed.
 
Charissa didn't like the warmth in his voice when he spoke of that Fey woman.

"Sire," the pastry chef said.
 
"There's women present."

"Fortunately for us," Nicholas said.
 
He piled the cheese on his bread, and ate quickly.
 
Then he took his cup of mead and cradled it.
 
"Someone want the rest?
 
I can't eat any more."

After a moment, Lis took the sausage.
 
Charissa finished her own sandwich, listening to the banter continue around her.
 
The kitchen staff knew Nicholas, and knew him well.
 
When she had met him all those years ago, he had been in the kitchen with the remains of a meal before him.
 
He must have been coming to the kitchens for comfort and sustenance long before she ever had a conversation with him.

Charissa had just finished her sandwich when the chef glanced at the hourglass.
 
The sand had almost worked to the bottom.
 

"Ye'd all best be finishing.
 
Group Six is coming."

He didn't have to speak twice.
 
Chairs slid back, dishes got stacked, and the last of the mead finished.
 
Nicholas was the first to stand.

"I'd best be getting back myself," he said.
 
He thanked the kitchen staff, then he turned to Charissa and took her hand.
 
He bowed over it.
 
"Thank you for the dinner invitation.
 
I suspect this night will be the highlight of my week."

Her cheeks grew warmer.
 
Everyone was staring at her.
 
She almost pulled her hand away, but couldn't.
 
Nor after this public good-bye could she find time alone with him outside the kitchen.

"Yer too kind, Sire.
 
Tis me who should be thanking ye."

He let go of her hand, stood, and waved.
 
Then he disappeared through the pantry.
 
She couldn't follow him.
 
She didn't dare.
 
Besides, he had made it clear that he wanted to go alone.

"Wouldna wanna be him now," said the cook.

"Tis thankless.
 
And him always hopin ta be like the resta us." The pastry chef set his tray down on the counter near the ovens.
 
He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.

Charissa cradled the hand he touched with her other hand.
 
Her skin tingled.
 
"Why na?" she asked.
 
"He's King now."

"Tis na something he wanted."

"The boy liked fightin," someone else said.

"We'd be dead if'n na for him," said one of the women who tended the hearth. "He helped Cook and the others fight in here."

"In the kitchen?" Charissa had heard that Nicholas fought.
 
She always imagined it something glamorous, in the streets, perhaps, but not here.

"That woman, his wife, she near ta killed him right where ye are now," the cook said to Charissa.

"She near ta killed him?"

"Aye," the cook said.
 
"They met sword ta sword.
 
Even match, even then."