First Light (12 page)

I could hear her singing now, a bawdy song of the sea, the likes of which would have made a real lady blush. I turned to face the door again, determined to meet my fate head on, when I spied the previously unnoticed rungs of a crude ladder attached to the wall near the door. I craned my neck, looking up, following its ascent into some sort of dark attic. Snatching a peach from the table, I ran to the ladder and began climbing, clinging with all my might to the worn boards that went, rather haphazardly, up the rough wall.

There might be some unknown danger up there in the dark, and it was a sight higher than the barn rafter Father had insisted I climb, but I’d take my chances against those fears rather than facing the danger I heard outside, a few steps from the door.

The rungs seemed to go on forever, and they grew farther apart as I climbed. From below, the kitchen ceiling had appeared higher than usual, but it wasn’t until I finally pulled myself up into the attic and peered down that I realized how very high it was. There was no time to fret about it or how I would eventually get down, as I’d scarce tucked my skirts beneath me when the cook’s shadow fell across the doorway.

“An’ we’ll all have a frolic tonight—” Her singing stopped abruptly, mouth agape as she took in the enormous mess I’d made in her kitchen— peach pits and skins piled high on the table, juice running sticky to the floor, mixing with the crumbs from the burnt crusts I’d hastily removed.

Well, I was in a hurry,
I reasoned, feeling the tiniest bit guilty about the disorder I’d left behind.

“Mercy!” The baskets slipped from her hands and dropped to the floor.

I winced.
So much for the eggs.
If the woman had any presence of mind, she’d gather them quickly and save at least some in a pan to scramble. But it was obvious the eggs were forgotten.

“Heaven save me,” she muttered, taking another step into the room.

Carefully, quietly, I eased myself backward, raising one leg at a time, stretching out flat on my stomach— no easy feat on the rough, uneven wood— and turned my head so I might see more of the room, while not being seen myself. It was a good thing I was lying down because it was certain the dizzying view wouldn’t have left me standing for long.

The cook swiped her fingers across the worktable, collecting a handful of crumbs. With her mouth pinched together, her other hand lifted a piece of the burnt crust. “I’ll skin that girl alive for coming back in here. I’ll have her flayed. I’ll—” She broke off, lifting her head and sniffing.

I shrank back into the shadows, keeping my face well away from the opening, relying only on my ears now.

“Oh, my. He
does
have mercy,” was followed by the sound of a pan being taken from the oven and set on the table with a heavy thud. More sniffing. Then silence.

I dared to peek again and watched as the cook poked a spoon into the hot cobbler, lifted out a bite and brought it to her mouth. I braced myself, preparing for her shout, for I thought surely it would scald her tongue. But to my surprise, her lips closed over the
spoon, and a look of bliss crossed her face.

“I’m saved. I’m saved!” she shouted, flinging her hands out and laughing wildly.

“Saved from what, Maggie?” Another woman stood in the doorway with the boy I’d met earlier, clinging to her skirt.

“Fifty lashes, the pit— the
axe
.” Maggie’s eyes bulged, and she drew her finger across her throat in a dramatic fashion.

The other woman moved into the kitchen, stepping carefully around the puddle of egg oozing from the baskets on the floor. The boy followed, still clinging to her as his eyes darted around the room, searching, most likely, for me.

The woman I guessed to be his mother leaned over the table, her face near Maggie’s. “Yer drunk,” she accused. “Sun’s barely up, and you’re three sheets to the wind already.”

Maggie squared her shoulders and looked the other woman in the eyes. “If you thought you were to meet your Maker afore the clock struck noon, I imagine you’d indulge in a cup or two yourself.”

“Hmmf.” The woman lifted her chin and looked around the kitchen, a disapproving gleam in her eye. “If you did your work more efficiently— and
neatly
— Margaret, you wouldn’t always find yourself in fear of meeting your Maker.”

“It weren’t me that made this mess, Roseanne,” Maggie said defensively. “Though I praise the one who did. Must have been the angels themselves— or the fairies.” She snapped her fingers suddenly as a look of inspiration crossed her face. “No. Not them, either. It were the
elves
, that’s who.”

“It was a girl,” the boy said.

“Not Beth.” Maggie shook her head. “I’ve no doubt she could create such a fine mess, but a pig would sooner fly than that girl could make something tasty like this.” Maggie plunged the spoon into the cobbler once more then stuck a second, over-large bite in her mouth.

“Are you telling me you don’t know who’s made that and— you’re
eating
it?” Roseanne grabbed up a towel from the table and snatched the hot pan out of Maggie’s reach.

“I know exactly who made it,” Maggie said, reaching across the table to pull the pan back to her side. “I left this ‘ere kitchen an hour ago, with naught but Beth’s burnt buns to offer the king and his guests this morn. I knew I was done for, but I sent a plea to the heavens just the same.”

The woman scoffed. “As if
you’d
get an answer.”

“Oh, hush, Rose.” Maggie bent down, took a bucket from the floor and began dropping the discarded crusts into it. Over the rim she eyed the boy. “Isn’t as if you’ve got cause to be all high and mighty yourself.”

Rose made a gasping noise at this, then grabbed the boy’s arm and turned toward the door.

Over his shoulder he called to Maggie, “It wasn’t Beth, but a different girl. A pretty one.”

I smiled at his compliment. He was the second male to say such about me in as many days. Perhaps pale hair, muddy eyes, and freckles were considered attractive in this part of Canelia.

“Well then,” Maggie said matter-of-factly, placing her hands on her hips. “I imagine elves can be girls as well as boys.” She took the second pan of cobbler from the oven. “And I don’t right care which they are, if they saved my hide with this fine breakfast.”

“Such nonsense I’ve never heard.” Rose marched the boy toward the door. “Mark my words, you’ll be sorry if you go serving food from who-knows-where to the royal families. Why, it might be poisoned. They might die!”

In response, Maggie plunged the spoon in the cobbler a third time and stuck it into her wide mouth. “Then at least they’ll die happy,” she mumbled, a not altogether unpleasant grin spreading across her face.

The rest of that day proved long and miserable. Tired though I was, there was no way to sleep comfortably on the floor of the attic where I hid. Hungry as I was, the peach I’d brought with me did little to satisfy my stomach. But I dared not come down.

The kitchen remained busy all day. People came and went, and Maggie told her tale of elves to as many who would listen. It seemed she had a certain cousin residing in Tallinyne— a shoemaker by profession— who had, some years ago, shared a story of his own about elves coming at night when he was asleep and making beautiful pairs of shoes for him to sell. His shop was saved from ruin, and his family from poverty, because of these blessed creatures. Maggie was determined it was the same elves who’d saved her from disgrace, punishment, and possible death this morning.

I wasn’t about to tell her otherwise.

But as I sat, uncomfortable, all day, a plan had formed in my mind. Why couldn’t I be an elf? Why could I not, in the middle of the night, sneak into the kitchen and bake bread for the following day? It seemed they’d liked the cobbler well enough, so it reasoned that the breads and muffins I was accustomed to baking would also be well-received. And if they were, after some time of secrecy, perhaps I would have the courage to show myself to the eccentric cook, and perhaps she would accept me as regular kitchen help.

The only difficulty I saw with this idea was that I could not go on indefinitely— or possibly even one more night— without sleep. If I was to play at being an elf, I would have to find a place to sleep during the day.
And
, I thought as my stomach growled yet again.
I’ll have to make certain I have bread enough for myself.

The sun had been down for hours when the final dish was washed, the table wiped, and the floor swept. The two maids who assisted Maggie with these tasks looked like wilted flowers when at last she excused them for the night. Looking around with a satisfied smile, Maggie untied her apron strings.

“Tomorrow they’ll see I was right,” she said as she left the kitchen, shutting the door behind her.

I listened as the key turned in the lock, but I did not come down for some time. All was dark now, save for the faintest glow from the embers of the fire. Night’s chill had reached the attic, driving away the warm air that had risen throughout the day. When all had been silent for several minutes, I made my way to the opening and swung one foot down. Trembling, I felt in the dark for the misplaced rungs staggered along the wall. The shadows made for a slow, treacherous descent, but at last my feet touched the bare floor.

With haste I ran to the water barrel. It took three dipper-fulls to satisfy my thirst, and then I turned my attention to finding something to eat. This was not so easily accomplished. The cobblers were long-since gone, and the supper scraps had been taken out to the hogs. I had to settle for another peach and some broken crackers from the bottom of a barrel. But anything was better than starving, and I felt grateful.

When my hunger was somewhat satisfied, I crept to the window, peering through the shutters in an attempt to see the moon. It was not yet overhead, and I knew it was too early to bake bread and have it warm for the morning meal. I crossed the kitchen once more and stood in front of the fireplace, holding my hands out to catch what little warmth still remained. With the poker, I reached in, stirring the embers. I added a single stick of wood then knelt, blowing gently, coaxing the fire back to life. It came— warm, cheerful, and reassuring.

I could do this. I could survive until I found Merry Anne or someone who might help me find Cecilia. With this pleasant thought in my mind, I lay on the floor near the fire, balling the sweater under my head as a pillow, and fell promptly asleep.

“I’ll never make it,” I muttered, glancing behind me at the sky beginning to pink. For the fourth time in the week that I’d been at the castle, I’d overslept, barely waking in time to make the most basic bread— let alone the fancier pastries I’d planned for the royal family’s breakfast.

I winced as the bucket I carried banged against my shin as I ran. Though I was a nimble runner, carrying two full buckets of fruit made even my movements awkward.

Before going to sleep last night, I’d prepared shells for apple tarts, though now I knew it would take a miracle— maybe my own set of elves— to pare and slice the apples, mix the filling, arrange the lattice crusts, and bake the tarts before Maggie arrived.

It will be fine,
I told myself, though I knew my days—
hours
— at “elf status” were surely numbered.
All this hiding and waiting is making me go mad. And trying to sleep by the hearth
…
Sheer misery
. It would almost be a relief to be caught.