Page 132 of Feathers in the Wind
Her hand instinctively went to her throat. “What is it?”
“It's our food supply, Mistress Felton,” Melchior said.
“What about it?”
“I think you need to come and see for yourself,”
With a sinking feeling, Deliverance followed her steward to the cellars below the residence, where the carefully hoarded food supplies had been stored. Her mind rushed over the possibilities. Had the rain flooded the cellar? Had rats got into the flour?
Melchior stopped at the heavy oak door and turned the key he carried. Deliverance stepped inside, allowing her eyes a moment or two to accustom to the gloomy light that came from several small window embrasures high in the wall. Even before she could make out the extent of the damage, her nose told her something was amiss. The smell of ale mixed with other food smells such as flour rose to meet her.
Melchior lit the lantern that sat on the ledge outside the room and holding it high, he stepped around her, illuminating a scene of devastation.
Deliverance gasped and reached for the door frame as the enormity of the destruction and what it meant for everyone within the castle sunk in.
Every flour sack had been cut open, spewing their contents on to the floor where the white powder mixed in a lake of ale from the broached casks. Tubs of apples had been upended and the cheeses hacked apart and thrown to the ground to mingle in a gelatinous mess.
“Melchior, what are we going to do?”
Melchior shook his head. “See what can be salvaged and clean up the mess,” he suggested, ever practical.
“You better fetch Captain Collyer. He needs to see this,” she said sinking on to the bottom step.
It took at least ten minutes before Luke clattered down the stairs. She had gone out of her way to avoid him for the last twenty-four hours but seeing him so close, the familiar skip of her heart, accompanied by an almost physical pain threatened to betray her.
Part of her just wanted to put her face in her hands and cry—and not for the ruined food.
* * *
Luke had been awake mostof the night, pondering on the most urgent repairs to the castle. He finally found a quiet moment in the library to close his eyes when Blakelocke had burst into the room without knocking. One look at the man’s face had told him something had gone wrong.
His first thought had been for Deliverance but to his relief, she sat on the bottom step of the cellar, her chin resting on her hands, her shoulders slumped. She didn't bother to look up or to speak, just waved a hand at the cellar.
Luke’s chest tightened as he took in the extent of the devastation. Someone had done a comprehensive job of destroying their food supplies.
He responded by blaspheming volubly and sank down on to the step beside her. “Is it all gone?” he asked at last.
“I don't know what can be salvaged.” She looked up at him. “Who could have done this?”
“Someone within these walls,” Luke said. “Someone who does not have our interests at heart.”
She blinked and said slowly, “You mean there is a traitor?”
“Yes,” he said, his mouth a grim, tight line. “Do we know when it happened?”
She shook her head. “I always check the door before going to bed. It was locked last night.”
“And this morning?”
She shook her head and looked up at Melchior. “Who found this?”
“I did, ma'am, when I came to dole out the day's rations. The door was locked.” Melchior shook his head. “I blame myself.”
Luke rose to his feet. “Don't be a fool, Blakelocke. This isn't your doing. Someone must have had access to a key. Who else, besides yourself, holds keys, Mistress Felton?”
If she noticed the deliberate use of her formal name, nothing in her face responded. She stood up and faced him.
“There are only two keys. I have one and Melchior the other.” She fumbled at the ring of keys she carried around her waist and held up the ancient key.
