Page 29 of Her Cruel Empire
I pad down the hall in socked feet, keeping a distance so the maid won’t notice. She descends a narrow staircase tucked behind a heavy wooden door and slips through another into a warmer corridor filled with clattering sounds and the delicious scent of bread baking.
I push through just far enough to confirm my suspicions. This is the kitchen.
And it’s everything the rest of the castle isn’t. Lively. Loud. Human.
There’s a fire roaring in a wide stone hearth, copper pots hanging from ancient wooden beams, baskets overflowing with root vegetables, and a long, scarred table where half a dozen staff are prepping food or eating breakfast. Steam rises from multiple pots, and someone is kneading dough with rhythmic precision.
I hover in the doorway for a second, unsure. The warmth hits my face and draws me in as much as the delicious scents. But the moment they see me, everything stops.
Knives pause mid-chop. Conversation halts. Hands freeze over cutting boards.
Six pairs of eyes flick to me, then away just as fast.
I swallow hard. “Hi. I—sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was just…” I trail off, realizing how stupid I sound. “I was curious.”
No one answers.
The maid I followed is staring at me with wide-eyed trepidation. Two younger girls whisper to each other behind cupped hands. One older woman narrows her eyes at me—not cruelly, just suspicious. Like I’m something she’s not sure is safe to touch.
And then, from the back, a woman I hadn’t noticed speaks. Her tone is low and commanding, her words sharp and unfamiliar. I don’t understand the language, but everyone else seems to. The tension breaks. People return to their tasks, though I catch them sneaking glances at me.
The woman at the back—she’s the head cook, I think—nods toward a stool tucked against the long table. She jerks her chin.
Sit.
I obey.
She pours me a mug of something rich and dark and hands it over. I take a cautious sip and blink. It’s coffee, but it’s strong and sweet. Like molasses and lightning mixed together. It hits me like a jolt, and it’s exactly what I needed.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
She grunts and turns back to her work.
More people enter the room, and some leave, going about their duties. One of the younger girls slides a plate in front of me—fresh bread still warm from the oven, sliced tomato, something that looks like soft cheese. I dig in, the sounds of the room and the food settling over me like a blanket.
Afterward, I move to take my plate to the sink, but a boy—maybe seventeen—tries to take it from me. I shake my head and insist, gesturing toward the dish tub.
He stares. Then nods.
I wash. I dry. It feels good to do something normal, something useful. But for a moment, I feel a long, horrible pang as I miss home again. Miss my family.
I’m drying the last of the plates when I hear the rumble of an engine outside. Through the kitchen window, I catch a glimpse of someone on a dirt bike weaving between the trees, heading straight for the back door. The rider dismounts, pulls off a helmet, and shakes out a cascade of long black hair.
It’s a young woman, maybe eighteen or nineteen. Her green eyes are striking against her pale skin, and there are actual feathers and small twigs woven through her dark hair. She’s wearing a faded Taylor Swift t-shirt over ripped jeans, the combination of wildness and pop culture so unexpected it makes me smile.
She pushes through the back door carrying a leather satchel and something wrapped in brown paper that makes my stomach lurch when I realize it’s a freshly killed duck, complete with feathers. The kitchen staff barely glance up as she tosses both the duck and a handful of mail onto the table—clearly this is routine—but she spots me immediately.
“Hi,” I say uncertainly. “I’m Robin.”
Her eyes light up. “Hello! I am Mira. How are you today?”
The careful way she pronounces each word tells me she’s concentrating hard on getting it right. “I’m very well, thank you,” I reply.
She beams. “I am learning English,” she explains. “I will master it soon.”
The cook makes a dismissive scoff from across the room, muttering something under her breath that sounds decidedly unflattering. Mira’s head snaps around, and she fires back something rapid and sharp in their language, her chin lifted defiantly. The cook shakes her head and turns away, but Mira just turns back to me with a satisfied smirk.
“Everyone here, they want to stay the same,” she says, her voice carrying just loud enough for the cook to hear. “But I am not like them. I will get out, see the big wide world.” Her accent makes the words musical, but there’s steel underneath. “You are from America? What is it like?”
