Page 46 of Savage Obsession

I swivel and head for the source of the chatter, down a corridor leading off the hall. The door at the end is standing wide open, and the action seems to be beyond that. I march forward, my heart in my mouth, and step through the doorway.

I’m in the kitchen, clearly the main one serving the entire castle. It’s an enormous space, dominated by the massive oak table in the centre surrounded by a motley collection of chairs, stools, benches. It seems as though any and every form of movable seating has been dragged in here to accommodate as many bottoms as might be crammed in.

I suspect it’s near capacity right now. The kitchen is packed with people, a lot of them children of varying ages squashed together on the benches or perching on adult knees.

Ethan Savage is at the head of the table, a girl of about two years old on his lap. She’s still wearing pyjamas and looks to be half asleep. He cuddles her to his chest and helps himself from a huge plate of sandwiches in the middle of the table.

To his left are a teenage girl and three boys aged from perhaps twelve or thirteen down to about six. The all squabble over who has the most room on the bench, elbowing each other mercilessly.

“What ’ave I told ye lot? Ye can at least try tae act civilised at me breakfast table.” A middle-aged woman seeks to establish order from the vantage point of the huge kitchen range, brandishing a tea towel. “Who wants eggs?”

Shouts of “me, me” echo about the space. Plates are waved, and the woman bustles around the table ladling out scrambled eggs.

“Hush yer din,” the woman grumbles. “There’s plenty tae go around, ye ken.”

I think she’s speaking in English, but I can’t be certain. I do get the impression she imagines herself to be in charge here. But my gaze lands on Baz, his hip perched against one of the kitchen counters, munching on a slice of toast.

So much for finding my poor little dog.

He spots me and grins. “Fancy some toast?” He tilts his chin to indicate a plate of the stuff beside him on the worktop.

“What about…?” I mouth desperately.

He nods to a spot somewhere to the right of Ethan Savage, just as the Mafia boss chooses that moment to drop a slice of bacon to the floor. The surreptitious action is followed by a familiar slurp.

“Dinnae ye be chuckin’ all me finest bacon tae that mutt,” the woman with the tea towel grumbles. “D’ye think ’e might like a bit o’ sausage?”

The question seems to be directed at Baz, who shrugs. “From what I’ve seen, he’ll try anything.”

The woman makes a sound deep in her throat. “Does he ne’er stop eatin’? ’E’s already ’ad ’is own body weight i’ porridge while I was gettin’ the rest ready.”

“Can we keep him?” pipes up a voice from down the table. “I want a dog.”

“He already has a home. He’s just visiting for a day or two.” This from the stunningly beautiful woman seated to the left of Ethan Savage. “Now, eat up then go get your school things. The helicopter goes in ten minutes, and anyone not on it can do homeschooling with me. Today is algebra.”

A chorus of groans and egg-slurping ensues. I take the opportunity to sidle deeper into the kitchen and come up alongside Baz.

“What happened?” I whisper. “How did he…?”

“We must have forgotten to make sure he was with us when we went to bed. Mrs McRae found him in here when she came in this morning. She’s been feeding him porridge, apparently. And he’s sampled just about everything else.”

“Is he all right? I mean, has he been outside?”

“Briefly, to do his business. But he’s been good as gold, it seems. Straight back in and not so much a sniff of the air.”

I offer up a silent prayer of thanks. My knees are weak with relief. I genuinely believed my precious dog would be annihilated in an orgy of feathers, blood, and guts. As it is, he seems to have wormed his way into the family and has even made friends with Ethan. No small achievement, I suspect.

Absently, I help myself to a slice of toast and nibble on it.

The woman who calmed the children turns her attention to the boy seated opposite her. “Tomasz? Have you finished? Good. Now, go and get ready for school. Don’t forget to clean your teeth. Oh, and it’s football today so take your kit.”

Tomasz stuffs the remains of his egg into his mouth and bolts from the room, followed by three more boys and the teenage girl.

The woman levels her gaze on me. “Please, Mrs Bartosz, take a seat.” She gestures to the now vacated places at the table. “You, too, Mr Bartosz. Mrs McRae will bring you fresh plates.”

It’s only after we slide into the empty seats that I realise she spoke in Polish. I thank her in the same language.

“I am Cristina,” she explains. “Ethan’s wife. That bunch of heathens are our children and foster children. Tomasz, Jacob, Robbie, Natalija, and Andrej. And this is our niece, Roisin…” She smiles at the small girl dozing in Ethan’s lap. “And this is Sebastien.” She drops a kiss on the blond head of a toddler seated next to her, currently intent on smearing baked beans down his t-shirt.

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