The ivy and scalpel stared back, a silent accusation in crimson wax. The air grew thin, swallowed by the quiet pantry corridor. House Relladon. Her house. Her disgraced name stamped across a stone meant to break bone. She clamped her teeth together, forcing the frantic buzzing in her blood into a bright, hard knot. “Oh, dear! A bit of a mess, aren’t we?” Her voice rang out, ringing off the copper pans overhead. She nudged the brick and its damning ribbon into a dark hollow beneath the low cupboard. “No time to fret over a silly old rock when there’s supper to consider!” Kestian watched her, the heat of his palm still lingering against the small of her back. He offered no words, only a heavy gaze tracking every dart of her hands. Neva spun toward the shelves. “What we need, absolutely need, is something sweet. Something to chase off this draft!” She hauled down a stoneware bin from the pantry rack. “Almond flour! Master Kestian, you simply must have some of those almond galettes. A mouthful of honey and ground nuts always sets an afternoon to rights.” She didn’t wait for an answer, didn’t even glance his way. Her hands flew, pulling out bowls, sifting flour with aggressive precision. The rhythmic clatter of the pestle in the mortar masked the rattle of her breath. She hummed a brisk nursery tune, beating egg whites until they stiffened into peaks, refusing to let her mind touch the broken scalpel sealed beneath the floorboards. The smell of toasted meal and browned butter drifted through the washroom, cutting through the sulfur and brick dust from the broken window. Kestian, who had stayed silent beside the worktable, pushed off the wall and crossed to the bread oven. He rested an elbow on the warm bricks, tracking her ladles and scrapers. The hound padded over, pressing a damp muzzle into the master's knuckles. “Hungry, little shadow?” Kestian murmured. He scratched the terrier behind one folded ear, never taking his eyes from her flurry of spoons. Neva, still lost in her baking frenzy, finally paused to wipe a stray streak of flour from her cheek with the back of her hand. Her smile softened around the corners. “Almost set, Master Kestian. Just a few minutes on the hearth tiles. And you, little nuisance—” she pinched off a scrap of rolled dough from the cutting board “—no begging at the hearth.” She flicked the morsel. The dog caught it cleanly with a snap of teeth. Kestian stepped closer, his shoulder nearly brushing hers as butter sizzled against iron. “They smell… potent,” Kestian said, his voice low, a rare, almost teasing note in it. He reached out, brushing a smudge of white powder from her linen apron. The graze of his knuckles against her waist brought her up short, freezing her spoon mid-stir. The service door banged against the stop. Cressa Lorn filled the threshold, her pleated silk skirts rustling as she took in the dusting of white powder over the flags and the dog resting against Kestian’s boot. “What in the name of the Ancestors is going on here?” Cressa’s voice was a sharp, grating accusation. “Have you lost your senses, Kestian? This… *creature*… and this… *maid*… turning your kitchens into a common kennel and a bakery for urchins? The stench of common flour and dog fur is utterly offensive.” She took a disdainful step into the room, her elegant slipper aimed squarely at Barnaby. “Out of the way, you filthy cur!” Cressa drove the toe of her kidskin slipper straight toward the dog's ribs. The terrier skittered backward across the slate, toenails clicking in panic. Kestian stepped between them before the silk skirt settled, blocking the kick with the thick leather of his riding boot. His shoulders flared wide. “Cressa,” Kestian said, his voice dropping to a gravel scrape. “You will touch nothing in this room.” Cressa faltered, genuinely startled by his ferocity. “Kestian, darling, it’s just a stray mongrel! And this… this kitchen girl is clearly corrupting your household! I’m only trying to protect your reputation.” “My reputation is not for you to protect,” Kestian countered, his voice rising, gaining a dangerous edge. “Nor are my staff, or my guests. You have overstepped, Cressa. For the last time.” His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist with surprising force, his fingers like steel bands around her delicate arm. “You are no longer a guest in my home. Your privileges are revoked. You will be confined to the east wing until arrangements can be made for your immediate departure from Dastran Manor.” Cressa’s face drained of color. “You can’t! Kestian, you wouldn’t dare! I am Cressa Lorn! I came here to help you!” “You came to prey upon my vulnerability,” Kestian said, his gaze chilling her to the bone. “And you attacked something precious in my home. That, I will not tolerate.” He gave a sharp tug on her arm, pulling her towards the door. Two hulking manor guards, who seemed to materialize out of the shadows, stepped forward. One took Cressa’s other arm, the other stood by, ready. “Take her,” Kestian ordered, his voice echoing with finality. “Ensure she has no contact with any staff beyond the necessary attendants. And she is not to leave the east wing, under any circumstances, until her transport is ready.” As the guards began to lead a sputtering, furious Cressa away, she twisted her head back, her eyes burning into Neva. A venomous sneer twisted her lips. “Enjoy him while you can, little maid. Oryn Vespera is already inside the walls.”

The Scullery Sanctuary